#roman reigns

May 19th, 2026

“Oooh yes, fuck this pussy, daddy.” 

The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.

Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.

A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that. 

Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.

“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”

“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”

“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”

No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.

You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.

For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick. 

He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.

You know him.

“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”

“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.

“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”

Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.

Just like you are right now.

“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.” 

“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”

His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.

You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you. 

You’re more or less the same.

“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”

The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.

Life is just easier when he’s around. 

Until it’s not.

“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.

It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.

It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.

But no one ever said you were smart.

“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“

“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”

You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”

His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”

“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”

Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”

His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”

Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.

If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.

Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”

It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises. 

“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”

The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now. 

“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”

He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.

It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too. 

“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”

It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it. 

There’s no turning back.

You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.

“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”

It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason. 

“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”

“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”

“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”

Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.” 

At least, that’s what you like to believe. 

“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”

There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.

Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.

And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl. 

It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want. 

Again, the fucking back and forth. 

Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.

My

“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”

Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.

Hence why you want your own child.

A child with Roman. 

But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”

His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling. 

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.

You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.

An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.

Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man. 

And then some. 

12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.

You were married. 

Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.

Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.

He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.

And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.

Two storms on a collision course for disaster.

Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate. 

He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.

Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him. 

It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

Silent tears streaming down your face. 

It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.

“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”

His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”

“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.” 

Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth. 

An intentional last day.

Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday. 

That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you. 

Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.

It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror. 

That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess. 

Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.

Felt that way, at least.

Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.

That you’d get help.

Real help.

Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.

He protected you from that. 

He’s protected you from a lot. 

Including yourself.

Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep. 

So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted. 

The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.

But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same. 

“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”

You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him. 

“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”

Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”

He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”

For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”

His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”

“I know that, Roman.” 

You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”

“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it. 

His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?” 

You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy. 

“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”

He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”

As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this? 

You grow quiet. “Yes.” 

Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?” 

And there it is.

You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.

Just like his question has pricked into your heart.

A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate. 

“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?” 

“Y/N—”

But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.

“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”

He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.” 

“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”

It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens. 

“That’s different,” he says, lowly. 

You cross your arms. “Is it?” 

“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.” 

Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.

“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”

“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.” 

And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps. 

But Roman isn’t most men.

Not in the slightest.

He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”

Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too. 

You don’t wanna test it.

Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”

You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.

Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children. 

That has to mean something.

As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.

But.

But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?