🅐🅡🅘

somewhere only we know

mirror

lessons in love

my all — part three

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↳ be kind. non-negotiable.

↳ drama free. i don't tolerate or allow any mess on this page.

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never be the same

runnin' in circles

nature vs nurture

say something

forever, for always, mine

the talk

acknowledge me

la isla bonita

let's get it on

except, because: i do not love you

late nights

mirror

somewhere only we know

it kills me

how will i know

all that i am

Current

His big hands roam down the length of your slick back, rough palms and coarse pads of his fingers digging into your skin. Palming the fleshy, meaty part of your ass followed by a slap that makes you hiss against his mouth. 

The motion of his lips on yours altered. He's smiling. Your eyes don't need to be open to see what you already know. That smug, arrogant one he gives most, if not all. Including yourself the first time you two met. Thinking back, it should have been a sign.

Many things should have been a sign. 

The rumble of his voice calls to you as he presses a kiss to the corner of your swollen lips, continued, heavy panting and moans slipping out every time he thrusts up inside of you. "You miss me, baby?"

Yes. 

Ignoring him only serves as a detriment. You gasp when he grips the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin. Your eyes flutter looking down at him, the motion of you grinding on top of his dick making you moan through pressed lips. 

"Daddy asked you a question."

The slap to your ass is all that's needed to get you to give him the satisfaction he's looking for. The reassurance his ego seems to need when it comes to you.

"Yes," you moan. Your hands are planted on his chest, keeping you as steady as you can as you ride him despite the burning in your thighs and budding cramps you've narrowly avoided since a few strokes of his dick after the last round was all he needed to be sprung back to life. He was hot, ready, and pulling you right back on top. It's his favorite position, it seems. 

With you, at least. 

"Missed you so much," you admit, unprovoked and without much thought but all feeling as he starts to sit up, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you, and once more, you're moaning into his mouth, hands tangled in hair that's been down, wild, and free ever since you accidentally yanked the hair tie out when you were riding his face and on the cusp of your second or third orgasm for the night. 

He makes a sound, hands back on your ass with a gentle squeeze. "I asked you to come with me," he reminds, lowly, against your lips. "Next time, I'm not askin'."

To be fair, the first "request" really didn't feel like one anyway, what with him essentially texting you what time to be at the airport. You're not sure you want to know what an actual demand looks like.

Knowing him though, it'll be something that you literally can't turn down. Even if you wanted to.

"Stop being quiet," he groans, returning his hands to your hips, speeding up your movements. "Actin' like you trying not to scream from how good I'm fucking you."

He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong. Hate that you don't have a smartass retort, even if it would be out of character for you, especially when it comes to sex. 

Once he gets you in whatever position he wants you in, you more or less become dumb and mute unless it's in reference to how he's rearranging your insides or eating you out until you have to physically push him away.

Insatiable.

The girls on TikTok weren't lying when they said older men are eaters. 

Roman is living proof of that. 

"We're—we're in a h—hotel, R—oh, fuck," your attempts to counter lust with logic are lost when he slaps your ass once more while lifting you higher, making the descent down on his big ass dick that much deeper and profound, tip of his thick dickhead brushing against that spot inside of you. 

"And?" He dismisses. "Hotel, my place, jet, it don't matter, this pussy still grip me the same way every damn time." The last three words are enunciated with a precision that matches the way he fucks up into you, harder and with increased vigor." 

"Shit, wait," you pant, hands dropping to his shoulders, squeezing. "Rom—wa—wait—I ca—"

"I don't wanna hear that shit." The dismissiveness continues as does the way he's fucking you, pain perfectly mixed with pleasure. "You said you missed me, right? So shut up and take this dick like you missed it." 

You almost cream right then and there, but the ante is upped when he switches positions once more and no longer are you sitting on his lap, dick dug all up in you. You're on your back for the umpteenth time tonight, knees adjacent to your ears, his big hands on the back of your thighs, keeping you still, stuck, and at the mercy of the relentless, unforgiving strokes that have tears streaming down your face and your hands grasping and gripping for anything that can anchor you.

Not that it makes a difference.

"Look at this mess you've made," he taunts, your eyes fluttering so much that it's possible to make out the sight of him above you. But you don't need to see him to already know his gaze is focused and transfixed on the sight of him drilling your shit. He's obsessed with watching how he moves in and out of you, so much so that if the position allowed, he'd make you watch, too. Similar to how he makes you watch when he goes down on you. "Been making this pretty pussy cream on me all night, and you still can't get enough, can you?" 

The squelching sound of your pussy being squeezed and stretched by his thick dick is all the answer needed. 

"Can't get enough of daddy fucking you like this, huh?" He continues as you're once reminded that his shit talking isn't just reserved for the diamond. That shit carries over to most areas of his life, especially in the bedroom. It's as filthy as it is talented. "Always needing me to get you right and remind you where it's at."

Your whimpers, his groans, and the sploshing sounds are a sensual symphony that serve as  background music for the latest round of this man making you come completely undone and lose all sense of self, sound, and mind. 

"That's why it's mine. Ain't it, baby?" A loud gasp escapes your swollen, still wet and sticky with your juices, lips when he leans his body over yours. His hair waterfalls around your face as his hand glides between your slick bodies, the coarse pad of his thumb hovering over your clit.

"Shit," you curse, reaching for his wrist, but he ignores the way you wrap your hand around it and continues to push both physically and otherwise. 

"This my pussy, Honey?" Your eyes clench shut at the same time your pussy pulses around him. It makes him groan and curse lowly, haughtiness slipping into a place of semi desperation. Like he needs to hear you say it. Hear you confirm it. "Say it's mine, Y/N." Your eyes open and lock onto his, each reflecting the same yet different things. "Tell me you're mine." 

Minutes later, you're gushing and squirting all over his cock, your body an autonomous entity that offers an answer your brain cannot allow your mouth admit.

March 8th, 2024

The banquet hall was bathed in an array of familiar, appropriate colors. Tables draped in white tablecloths with a long, rectangular overlay that lined the middle of said tables. Silver centerpieces with flowers, blue Hydrangeas, and the famous two-letter monogram etched on any piece of item that could be monogrammed.

The live band was in the midst of changing sets when you found a chance to break away. Noticed that he'd finally broken away. Making your way through the sea of people, some known, most unknown, was actually the easy part. A small smile, quiet 'hi' that was lost among the chatter of the large group, and you were one step closer to your destination.

Though anxiety started to build when you briefly lost sight of him, hence the way you ignored the discomfort of your christian louboutin heels. You haven't the slightest clue how your mom and sister wear these things all the time. The blisters that must await you upon removal are bound to be something ugly.

However, exiting the ballroom and turning to the left allotted you a brief view of the back of him as he turned the corner. Naturally, you moved in haste to keep up with him, his long legs allowed strides that ate up 2x the distance you could in half the time. Except, anxiety jumped to a completely different level when you opened your mouth to call his name and he turned once more. Not down the hall or even to look back at you but instead inside of a room that immediately made you still and pause when you got close enough to see what it was.

"Crap," you cursed.

The men's restroom.

Of course.

You stood there, confused and wondering just what in the hell you were going to do. Truth be told, the plan that you'd jotted down in the notes app on your phone wasn't doing you much good. Especially and primarily since the initial steps you'd identified last night when you grew tired of twisting and turning with sleep continuously evading you to the point that you redirected your focus to plotting and strategizing.

But for one or more reasons, most of your better options hadn't panned out the way you hoped. Either your dad was dragging you around to network and become better aquatinted with the organization you now worked for, primarily the players you'd be working with one on one more than anything. As was the case for most team content creators. It was appreciated, sure, but none of the players whose hands you shook were the ones you needed.

But the one you needed had spent majority of the night either briefly engaging with folks, by himself, with his manager, Paul, or Swerve, another player and Roman's longtime friend, going all the way back to college where the shortstop and pitcher first met.

Even more, Roman carried with him an air that felt like an invisible barrier. One that you just knew not to cross for fear of getting on his bad side. Roman Reigns has never been known for being the most social, at least, not for things like this. You were surprised that he even attended. These sort of events, even if a celebration for the upcoming season and intended to get everyone hype for said season, weren't his thing.

Towards the beginning of his career, sure. He did all the things. Attended all the events. Shook all the hands. Did everything that he needed to in order to cement where he stands now, as one of the best to ever walk onto the baseball diamond, his HOF induction all but guaranteed. His accolades are endless, and his ranking has been said to be up there with some of the greats like Derek, Jackie, and Babe. You don't disagree with that.

So while he's stopped playing the game outside of the ballpark, hasn't for the past few years, really, you get it.

He's earned the right to do so.

10x All Star. 5x World Series Champ. 2x World Series MVP. Sponsorships on top of sponsorships. Deals on deals. The face of the Yankees, more or less, since he signed on with the team when he was 21, Roman has done almost everything one can do in this field.

Him showing up and doing what he wants when he wants just makes sense to you.

But putting all of that together just made you realize how crazy the whole thing was. Not only was the plan unhinged, but the man you'd picked to help you fulfill such plan had to be the most out-of-reach, are you serious selection one could choose.

And yet, there you were.

Doubt crept in as you shook your head and finally found a semblance of sense. Standing outside the men's restroom waiting for a man you'd never even said two words to, let alone a man like Roman, was actually just one step away from 5150 criteria.

Insanity that you couldn't act on.

However, you decided a few seconds too late to back out of a situation you should have never created in the first damn place. Or rather, you made the mistake of walking forward, opting to get some air, instead of turning back around to return to the ballroom. Because the moment you took a step forward was the same moment he took a step out. Outside the bathroom.

In front of the door.

In front of you.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth dropped ever so slightly, words escaping you. To anyone with two good eyes, Roman Reigns was about as attractive as a man could get. Tall, built, deep, sexy ass voice that could make any woman risk it all, and a confidence—ehh, arrogance—that he could 100% back up. Like most familiar with him, you'd always had a bit of a crush. Admired the older man from afar but never allowed or utilized your father's position as the Yankees Head Coach to secure a meeting. Admiration from afar worked just fine.

But standing in front of him was a completely different experience. He was even bigger in person, finer, features sharper, shoulders wider, beard as sharp and clean as the crisp outfit that was nothing more than a dark brown shirt, black dress pants, and some leather shoes that looked like they cost more than your first year of college.

What a fucking man.

It was noticing the way his warm eyes settled on you with a hint of intrigue and a trace of irritation that shook you from the trance stemmed from standing in front of this fine ass man. One of the finest men you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you squeaked, eyes closing as you shook your head and managed a small smile. "I'm Y/N. I, uhh, I'm the team's new content—"

"Coach K's daughter, right?"

You should have known you were fucked when his referring to you as the relative of someone instead of acknowledging your position barely registered, a typical pet peeve, was something you didn't even address because you were too distracted by his sexy ass voice. Once more, like everything else with him, even better in person.

"The youngest," he clarified, and it snapped you from the trance that you'd somehow fallen in yet again. It was effective, however.

"Yeah," you confirmed what should have been obvious. Your two older sisters are also professional athletes, and you know for a fact he's crossed paths with both of them a few times over the years, and while you all inherited your mother's beauty, body wise, you couldn't have been more different. You being….the other daughter should have been something that didn't need to be stated. "It's—it's nice to meet you."

You offered your hand but immediately felt like the dumbest person in the world when he simply looked down at the gesture that seemed more like an insult than anything. He didn't move an inch, hence the way you all but awkwardly brought your hand back to your side, fingers messing with the soft material of your cocktail dress.

"I—"

"Look, I'm not up for filming any content tonight—"

"That's not what I'm here for," you interrupted, and it took even you by surprise. You didn't really consider yourself a passive person, but in a situation like that, standing in front of a man like that for the reasons you were, it felt uncharacteristic. Especially after his cold, rude refusal to accept what was objectively considered a normal gesture between people.

Once more, another sign you should have heeded to.

"Okay," he started, and you internally cringed. He no longer looked intrigued or even irritated. He was nothing more than a blank, uninterested canvas that made you feel even more unnerved than you already were. "So what do you—"

"I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. Well, just as in yesterday."

If his unchanged, indifferent expression wasn't an indicator of how uncaring he was, his monotone intonation certainly is. "Sorry to hear that."

He didn't sound sorry at all.

And you couldn't entirely blame him.

A part of you wished that you could borrow some of that indifference, cause Lord knew you were tired of crying and being hurt over the disclosure your longtime boyfriend shared with you the day prior.

Erik, the boy you'd been in love with since you were 15, who you'd been faithful to since officially becoming boyfriend and girlfriend during your freshman and his sophomore year of high school, who was your first in almost every most important way, had cheated on you. Disclosed that he'd hooked up with some girl he met at a club.

Well, you considered it a hook up. He, however, didn't.

"She just…she just gave me some head, Y/N. That's it."

You so badly wanted that to be the case. It would have dulled the sting of unexpected betrayal. You knew that long distance would be a challenge. Knew it the moment he signed his deal with the Dodgers, but you'd accounted for complications regarding aligning schedules, maintaining communication, and keeping the love thriving and strong.

Not infidelity.

And it fucking hurt.

Because Erik was the first and only boy you'd dated, it also meant that that was your first heartbreak.

A part of you struggled with feeling like you were overreacting, but another louder part of you knew that you weren't. The idea of cheating on Erik never ever crossed your mind. You loved and cared too much about and for him to hurt him like that.

Too bad he didn't feel the same.

So the apathy displayed by the man in front of you evoked a sort of jealousy within. If only it evoked the ability to shut up and silence the unsolicited backstory.

If only it stopped you from digging the hole deeper.

"Yeah, he—he cheated on me, and—and we'd been together since high school. Middle school, really—"

"Don't take this the wrong way, mama." And just like that, recounting the last decade or so of your life was insignificant in the face of Roman Reigns calling you mama. A shock that deepened as he continued to throw unexpected curveballs. His gaze slowly roamed over your figure, and you prayed he couldn't tell how your thighs instantly clamped together the moment he paused at your chest. "But even with how pretty you are, I'm about five seconds from walking away because I have no ide—"

"I want you to sleep with me." It came out in a desperate rush, like you knew if you didn't say it right then and there, you never would. Looking back, that probably would have been for the best. "I mean—" You closed your eyes. "I want—I want to sleep with you. Like—like sex."

And as you forced your eyes open, you witnessed, for the first time since you cornered this man outside the goddamn bathroom, an expression that wasn't one of irritation and indifference.

He smiled.

He fucking smiled.

Amusement imbued in his smooth, baritone voice. "You want to what?"

You took a deep breath, doing your best to remember the brief lines of fragmented dialogue you'd penned down in your notes.

A deep swallow preceded warmth blooming throughout your chest and up the tips of your ears. "I know—I know your reputation when it…when it comes to women."

His lips curved into a smug smirk, interest piqued once more. "And just what is that?"

You took a pause. So far, Roman was confirming everything that you'd heard about him regarding his alleged big appetite for women.

And sex.

"That you don't do relationships," you answered. "You just…you just do women." It was a horrible way to frame promiscuity, but an accurate assessment, it seemed, when he didn't correct you. "And that—that's what I want. I—I—" You started to struggle, the intense way he was focused on you, how he kept bouncing his eyes from your mouth to your chest, to your stomach, distracting as fuck. He was throwing you all off a game you barely knew the rules of. "I just—I've never—I've never had a one night stand, but—but everyone says that the best way to get over someone is—"

"To get under someone else?" He finished for you, and it was impossible to ignore the way his eyes dipped to your chest once more. Maybe your sister was right. The red dress was definitely the right call. "I don't know too much about under." The shift in his tone, lighter and less stoic than before, snagged your attention. But it was the way his lips slid into a small, smug grin—and what he said next—that had your throat suddenly dry, parched, and dehydrated. The exact opposite of what you were starting to feel between your legs. "Titties jumping while you bounce on it has always been a personal fave of mine."

Oh my God.

But the torture was only just beginning.

"Coach's pretty little daughter wants me to blow her back out to help her get over her cheating ex—" He said more to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets as he nodded slowly before meeting your eyes again. "You know that's a disaster waiting to happen, right?"

For a reminder of why said proposal was a terrible idea, he didn't sound opposed at all. Far from it.

"It'll only be one time," you bargained. As if that whole crazy idea of yours was nothing more than a sales pitch, and maybe….maybe it was. "And—and I'll leave as soon as we're done—"

He shook his head and roamed his gaze over your body for the umpteenth time and licked his lips. You could have came right there on the spot. "You come to my room, you're not leaving till morning, sweetheart."

Oh.

You started to point out why, while that might have been a dream come true for most women, for you, that probably wasn't going to be the case. But then you realized that telling him might make him reconsider, if he was even seriously considering at all. Though the fact that he hadn't walked away as well as the way he looked like he was already counting all the different ways he wanted to bend you over had you thinking he was most definitely considering.

If he hadn't already decided on an answer.

Hence you deciding to just keep your mouth shut.

You'd just….you'd tell him when you got there. Ask…ask him to….to go slow.

Be….gentle.

If he even knows what that means.

"I won't tell anyone," you continued to offer up as many incentives as you could conjure. The desire coming from a place unknown but something that had your stomach in all sorts of knots. "I mean….obviously. I—I wouldn't want to lose my job."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

His response came swift and sharp. A detour from the brief stretch of lighthearted flirting that you two had fallen into. The gleam in his eyes matched the serious tone of his voice as he crossed his arms.

You forced yourself to not pay attention to how the stretched material around his big ass arms seemed like it was seconds away from ripping. God, he's huge. "I mean, I—I appreciate that, but I don't think—" You took a deep breath. "You're the team's star player, and yeah, my dad is the coach, but I haven't even been here—"

"Y/N," he interrupted. "I'm Roman Reigns, sweetheart." A beat. "If I say you stay, then you stay."

Oh.

There was a commanding undertone to his voice that had you struggling with thoughts that were far too inappropriate for the setting you were in but every bit what you were starting to think was going to be a reality sooner rather than later.

"Y/N."

You flinched, realizing only then that he'd stepped closer. So close that you could now make out the light freckles speckled across his T-Zone and the few strings of gray in his dark hair that you thought were mostly limited to his beard.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked once more as you tried to ignore not only how close he was but how good he smelled. God, what was wrong with you? You hadn't even been this flustered with Erik before you disclosed your crush and you two became a couple.

"You always this jumpy and chatty?" He asked, that humor returned and reflected in his eyes. Another realization made as the fluorescent lighting of the hall highlighted subtle specks of gold in honey brown. "That's alright. I like to hear you tell me how good it feels when I'm in it."

At that, your eyes widened once more. You'd heard he was….straightforward, but this felt like something entirely different. It made you feel different in a way that was uncomfortable, especially with the way the throbbing between your thighs seemed to only intensify with each passing second.

"Go find your dad." His unexpected change in tone and subjects, thankfully, drew your focus and created a successful interruption to your body's autonomous, growing need for him. For…more. "Tell him you're not feeling and that you're leaving."

You frowned, the confusion deepened. "W—what?"

A small gasp escaped your lips when he leaned over and his arm slid around your body. Your hand naturally planted on his firm chest as his traveled down your back and slid over the curve of your ass.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" He whispered in your ear, and it took everything in you to not moan when he ghosted his lips over the side of your face. Especially when you turned your head and unintentionally made it so your faces—lips—were mere centimeters away from one another. Those same soft looking lips lifted up once more in a small smile. "So let's fuck."

Current 

The silence that follows the final round is one that both suffocates and relieves. It breeds a sort of metaphorical asphyxiation that allots you the drive needed to pull yourself out of the destroyed bed. Sheets ruined, pillows flattened, and a headboard that no doubt left a dent in the wall behind it. 

The room tells the story you never could.

All the while you work to gather your items, ignoring the throbbing between your thighs and making a mental note to pop an ibuprofen as soon as you get back to your room. Even after all this time, taking him in all the ways you have, it seems like your body can never seem to adjust for more than a few hours. Your pussy always sore the next day, as if toying and torturing you with a reminder you have to use pills to swallow away and silence. 

Truth that can't be denied no matter how much you want to. 

"Lemme guess." You stand up, ruined dress in hand, the already thin straps that were fighting for dear life holding up your big breasts nothing but hanging, tattered remains. You'll have to steal one of his shirts or something because what once was one of your favorite dresses is no more than a makeshift skirt at this point. It only makes sense. Most things that Roman Reigns touches outside of that diamond end up nothing more than a contribution to the destruction that follows him wherever he goes.

Including you.

He waits until you turn to face him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, boxers tugged on—when did he do that?—looking more deity than man. Your eyes travel the length of his broad shoulders, and if you looked close enough, you'd see the small indents of your nails that dug into his taut skin as he pounded you out. 

"You're not staying."

You swallow, reaching to tuck a tendril behind your hair. One of many reasons you'd shifted more towards embracing your natural kink and curls? The exhaustion and frustration at having a $200, three hour visit at the salon ruined by one night of no self-control or restrain. It wasn't worth it. From a monetary nor temporal standpoint. 

"You know I can't." 

While you work the dress-turned-skirt over your thick, chubby legs, utilizing said dressing as an excuse to break eye contact, his eyes remain fixed on you. "Can't or won't?"

Fuck.

"How long you gon' pretend to love that boy?"

Having turned around to head over to the bathroom and attempt to do whatever you can with your appearance, nothing stops you in your tracks faster than a question that hits you harder than any hardball he could ever throw. 

You turn around, ignoring the way your chest thumps when he stands up. 

"I do." 

It kills you how you're fully aware of the fact that your answer is nothing more than a poor attempt at convincing yourself more than it is an honest, truthful answer. Disgusts you in many ways, and you pray it's subterfuge known only to you.

But if Roman Reigns is nothing else, he's astute as fuck. 

"Bullshit," he curses. "But let's say you do. Let's say you do love him. You love him but love my dick—"

"Don't talk about him like that," you attempt to defend, but like most things when it comes to the man who's slowly making his way towards you, it crashes spectacularly. You're not sure if it's the age difference, the power dynamic, your naturally docile personality, his inherently dominant one, or a mixture of all of it thrown together in a pile of mess, but regardless of the cause, Roman has always had a way of making you question things.

Even yourself. 

Your eyes shut as his arm swings around your body, pulling you flush against him. Soft melting with hard. "I don't like liars, sweetheart." He murmurs, trailing his finger down your cheek. "Even if they are as pretty as you."

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes closed when he dips his head to your neck and inhales deeply. Your breath caught and voice whispered. "What—I don't know what you want from me."

Some days, you do. Others, you don't. Right about now, you're not even sure what you want for yourself. 

And he knows it.

"I think you know the answer to that, love."

The room grows silent once more. 

He's not wrong.

But he's not right, either.

When Katy Perry released Hot n' Cold back in the day, and you used to sneak and use your sisters' iPod touches to listen to said song that was deemed inappropriate because of the sole curse word, you had no idea it would end up being the perfect song to describe Roman Reigns.

He burns hot just as easily he runs cold. That charming, alluring smile can, in a matter of seconds, morph into a deep scowl or sneer right before he shuts down entirely, and his face reads just what he gives.

Nothing.

And the many faces and sides of Roman are what you lean on and choose to focus on rather than the alternative that leads to the road of recognition and acknowledgment. 

You shake your head, heat starting to bloom up the back of your neck. The room suddenly much warmer than you remember, even in the midst of your sexual tryst that started the moment he pulled you into his room and had you up against the wall, mouth slammed onto yours, fingers already working to rid you of your clothes. 

"I—I have—" Stammering accompanies you turning around to locate the rest of your items. "I have to g—"

Your eyes immediately shut in preparation for what you know  you cannot avoid nor evade.

He breathes your name as you breathe in deeply, the scent of him. His cologne still lingering on his skin despite the exertion over the past few hours. A scent that instantly reminds you of the shirts and hoodie stored in the back of your closet. His. The ones that carry that same scent, hence why one of said shirts have been your sleep attire a few times over the past few months.

If not more than a few.

Your lips gradually part as he drops his hands to your hips and pulls you into him. "Stay with me, Honey."

If it wasn't the tone of his deep voice—beseeching and sincere—it's the usage of what was once a NSFW nickname, now so much more. Sometimes you wish the first utterance and first explanation that made you blush when you heard it was what came to mind. It'd be immensely preferred over the butterflies that flutter in your stomach now whenever he calls you that.

The butterflies that have your resolve already starting to crumble.

"Roman…"

"Don't leave," he continues. A slow, shaky breath seeping past your lips when he drops his head to your neck. His beard tickling your clavicle and top of his head brushing against your chin as your breathing grows heavy when he starts planting soft kisses across your shoulder and chest. Lifting your shaking hands, the thought and intention is to lightly push him away, but it's when his own hand lifts to palm and gently squeeze your breast that you falter. 

Hesitation immediately noticed and taken advantage of, especially and primarily when your hand somehow lifts to the back of his head, his dark tresses spilling over and through your fingers. But it's when he drags his mouth back up to yours to kiss you, and the taste of you, still damp on his lips and beard, further depletes your resolve and causes you to slip into the danger zone. 

You moan. 

Moan into his mouth, and it's in that very moment, you already know how this is going to play out. Roman hikes you up onto his waist and carries you back over to the bed where he lays you down, never once interrupting the way your lips can't seem to get enough of one another. Disruption stemming from your end when you gasp into his mouth after he starts playing with your titties. 

"Stay with me. Please." The same sentiment and request continuously expressed as he once against starts to pepper your body with kisses, working his way downward until he's tugging that dress right back off. Opening your eyes, you turn your head just in time to see how it's hastily tossed to the side. But it's Roman's hands shifting to the back of your legs and pushing them up once more that redirects your focus. Except the last thing you see is the glazed, hungry gleam in his eyes before all that's left is the top of his head as he finds his pleasure once more in between your thighs.

You curse lowly, head thrown back while he sucks your tender, throbbing clit. His thick fingers keeping your pussy lips spread as he explores the length of you. Precise, controlled, pleasurable laps, licks, and sucking of your most sensitive areas making you writhe on the bed for the umpteenth time tonight.

You sit up just enough to reach for his head as he ensures your placement remains exactly where it is. Exactly where he wants you. But desire and blind pleasure are often times unintentionally contagious, because one minute your intention is to steer him as he eats you eagerly, and the next, you're pulling. Manage to tug enough on his hair to pry his mouth from your pussy. Your wet, sticky juices smeared all over the bottom half of his face. It transfers onto your own when you smash your lips back onto his, naturally laying back on the bed. Hands pushing down on his boxers, an act he gladly assists you with. The last of his clothing joins the last of yours as you feel him against your stomach. Heavy, warm, hard, and throbbing. The pulsing sensation evoking another round of moans, heightening your need and lowering your logic.

It's all Id at this point, and nothing more.

You realize as such when he reaches his arm across, near the nightstand where the almost empty box of condoms sits in wait. The fact that it's the same box from the first night you two slept together, and that it still has condoms despite the X number of times he's been inside of you is something you intentionally choose to ignore.

Not like it makes a difference now anyway.

You cup his face and shake your head, meeting his prurient gaze that you'd bet your life matches that of your own.

Your voice whispered and pained, "I just wanna feel you."  

But it's the way he looks at you, not with lust, not with the carnal hunger that's appeared in his warm eyes most times when you forgo protection, allow him to fuck you raw, it's something else. Something unnerving and far too intimate for whatever…..this is supposed to be. Especially when instead of making your body nothing short of a ragdoll as he fucks you hard and without mercy, making you cry from how good it feels. His movements are slow and deep, his hips moving in tandem with yours. His hands pinning yours above your head as you makeout with one another, tongues entangled in that familiar dance. His mouth trailing down the length of your neck, eventually freeing your wrists as your hands rake up and down his back, pulling him close and near. 

His head buried in the crook of your neck, holding you just as closely as you're holding him. One hand hooked on the back of your thigh, the other gently holding onto your hip. The filthy, haughty sex talk replaced with his deep panting and other words and phrases of affirmation that he feeds into your ear.

Ones that make your eyes shut and that feeling that only seems to grow stronger the longer this goes on extrapolate and reach another level. And even when it's all over, when he makes you come for the 5th or 6th time tonight, your pussy tender, swollen, with his cum still leaking out from when he finished inside of you, that feeling remains. Feels rooted and locked in like the way he's got his big arm swung over you, keeping you against him, his soft snores in your ear as you stare at the wall in the dark, quiet room. 

A part of you wants to try to leave. Knows that you should. But even if Roman wasn't such a light sleeper and would no doubt object at you leaving out in the middle of the night by yourself, you're not entirely sure if that would be the reason you'd stay.

Not because of his interference but your lack of wanting.

Of wanting to leave.

Sure, maybe some part of you does, but the larger, louder part wants you to stay exactly where you are.

With him.

And that terrifies you.

This has all gotten so out of hand. Every time you try to say that this time is the last time, you end up being made out to be a bigger liar than you were before the meritless oath was made. It's so out of character. All of it. This isn't who you are. You're not a cheater. Yes, Erik's cheating is, in a way, what started all of this, but the moment you decided to give him another chance was also the moment you should have kept your one night stand with Roman just that.

One night only.

Because now it's turned into countless nights. Even more, sexual trysts in the sheets have become, in the strangest of ways, the least of the things that connect you to the man beside you. Perhaps it'd be easier to walk away if it was just the sex. If Roman was still that older, whorish man who had a single purpose. This man so far removed from what you go for—from Erik—that it seemed almost inconceivable you'd even had the gall to initially approach him.

But you did, and that one decision has almost entirely changed the trajectory of your life. 

Because Roman Reigns is no longer this….entity. He's a person. He's just Roman, and Roman, despite his public image, is a quiet, almost introverted man who has a low tolerance for most and a no bullshit policy for all. He's as charismatic as he can be an asshole. But peel back the layers of an arrogant playboy, and you'll see that there's more to him than meets the eye.

So much more.

Most of which—if not all—you've seen and learned firsthand over the past few months.

Loyal. Caring. Considerate. Generous. Selfless. Roman, the man, is someone who does any and everything he can for his family. Everything he does is for them, and he'd said as such one night during the many pillow talks you two engaged in. Growing up in such a large family and losing his father when he was only thirteen in a robbery gone wrong created a sort of pressure for and on him. Some from within. Some external.

With his father's murder and him being the only male in the house, he was forced into a role no young boy should have to take on.

He was the man of the house and carried that burden with him all the way into adulthood. He's a provider. Did odd jobs around the neighborhood to earn some extra cash that he gave to his mom until he was old enough to get a "real" job that he held for all four years of high school, even while still being on the baseball team. Decided to leave college just one year short of graduating as almost any and everyone around him at that time kept reiterating how he was a "sure pick" for the draft. That there was no question he'd get drafted. He was too damn good not to. Racked up a number of accolades that'd drawn the attention of the MLB before he even finished his freshman year. 

They were right.

He ended up being the number one pick in the draft, and while most of the world believes he chose to not finish school because he just wanted to kickstart his career, education be damned, you know that couldn't be father from the truth.

Not finishing college, is, as he'd shared with you that night as you sat next to him on the porch of his mom's home, is one of his biggest regrets. It was part of the reason he was so career driven and focused, only cared about being the best and succeeding, even if it cost him personally. Because he carried the weight of needing to support and take care of his family.

Just as his father would have. 

You wonder if he knows how proud his dad would be of him. Wonder if he'd believe it. Believe you. 

As confident he is in most areas of his life, peeling back the layers has also revealed certain vulnerabilities you'd have never guessed the man next to you struggles with. Again, humanization of the man behind the brand. 

The same man you've seen in such a different light over the months, and perhaps it's that man that's kept you where you are. Like a boomerang that only knows how to return because anything else just isn't an option. Goes against the nature and order of things. 

And as you turn over in bed and study his sleep face, reach to trace the outline of his features, glimpses flash through your head like a slideshow in a presentation intended to educate. 

To defend and prove a point.

The curve of his smile, and not the one he flashes for photos and even when he has to turn on the charm, but the one you noticed he uses when talking with Swerve, with you, and especially and predominately, when he's with his family. The laugh that's somehow both quiet and a cackle that's almost always accompanied by him placing his hand over his chest or stomach. The hilarious reaction driven facial expressions that emote more than anything the public has seen, especially, again, when he's with his family.

And then you hear it.

As if standing in the yard again.

The sound of his nieces and nephews laughing, yelling, and shouting out all sorts of commands as Roman runs around with them. His niece on his back, his nephew with a mitt in one hand and ball in another. You see the way takes his time, explaining and instructing, offering both guidance and support. The way he holds his niece who lays her head on his shoulder and whispers in his ear things that make him smile and wink as he tickles her stomach.

The way he held his latest niece. Not even six months, little legs kicking and loud babbles coming from her mouth as if she was communicating with him. 

The way he look—

You stop and close your eyes. Shift so that you're laying on your back. 

Too much.

Too close.

A shaky, uneven exhale escapes your mouth when you manage to open your eyes, met with a blurred view of the ceiling. Tears managing to roll down your cheeks as you swallow the lump in your throat.

This has to stop.

You can't keep doing this.

To Erik. 

To Roman.

To yourself.

To—

Again, a forced stop. Your mind protecting you from what you still haven't allowed yourself to fully process.

It's all too much. 

Erik. Erik. Erik is the one. 

The one who gave you your first kiss.

He gave you your first orgasm.

The only who's always made you laugh.

He makes you smile.

The one who you always wanted to be around.

He's the one who you can't not be around. 

The one who checks all the boxes.

He's created and checked boxes you didn't know were boxes. 

The one who's always just wanted to make you happy.

He does make you happy. 

The one you love.

He's the one you're in—

And once again, you manage to silence that voice in the back of your head. Strip from her that voice that's far too loud and far too jarring.

Roman…Roman was a chapter, but he was never meant to be the final chapter. 

Erik holds that spot. The safe one. 

Roman is far from safe. The epitome of risk and unstable. There's no foundation with him. Nothing that's solid and foolproof, anyway. 

Erik is. 

The book started with him, and it has to end with him.

If only you could stop the way your heart hurts and mind wanders, the desire to turn the page and see if there's a secret epilogue. Or a sequel that follows. 

A different sort of ending. 

If only.