if i look back, i am lost
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Sade Olutola
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@bebesobrielo
Sexy Escapades Vol 2
Author's Note: Happy Birthday to the sexiest man in all of WWE! ☝️. What perfect timing to finally post another installment of S.E then on his special day 😍. Happy reading you filthy freaks!.
Warning(s)-Slight smut, Daddy kink mention.
Credits: Gifs by @muffinsbasket, dividers by @uzmacchiato , Text photo from Pinterest.
Summary: When you tease Roman, he makes sure to get you back.
When you deny Roman of sex due to not being in the mood or having your period, your man goes into a bit of a frenzy. He gets real grumpy, sexually frustrated and makes it his mission to get back at you by being extra petty. He knows you want him just as much as he wants you but he also respects your decision especially when you're on your monthly but that won't stop him from getting back at you. Roman loves to tease you at home but he finds it more thrilling when he puts on a show for you at a live event with you sitting front row and center. He doesn't need to look at you to know that you're watching his every move.
Currently, from the time he made his entrance to the time he gets in that ring, your eyes are glued to him. When he takes a quick glimpse at you, he smiles to himself and decides to put his plan into action. After throwing his ones up to the sky, he smirks to himself and brings his other hand down to cup his thick cock through his pants as he lifts his right leg up to get inside the ring. You gasp in shock as soon as you saw that little motion he just did with his hand. It wasn't just a coincidence; no, no, no, he was deliberately teasing you. You guess you deserved it because even though it was that time of the month for you, you still managed to tease him earlier in the day by leading a heavy makeout session and riling him up to then reaching your hand inside his pants to rub his meaty cock until precum started to ooze out from the tip. As you now sit here watching Roman looking at you and sending a cheeky smirk your way, you can't help but feel flustered. You couldn't wait for your period to finish. You were hungry for your man, and you couldn't wait to jump on him as soon as you could. Your mouth watered just thinking about how sore your jaw would be after having him shove his cock inside your mouth repeatedly; you felt your pussy pulsate and your ass throb at the thought of both his tongue and fingers filling both holes until you felt completely stuffed. On top of that, you knew his delicious cock would ravage all of your holes until he completely wore you out.
"I can't wait to have you buried deep inside my holes, daddy," you found yourself muttering as you watched him own that ring like he always did.
WWE Themed Edition -RoLiv Champions
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I'm happy to finally thirst over a man who is not 10 years or more older than me 💀💀💀
@bebesobrielo literally me atp! 🤭.
@miss-kuki-nz I'm so happy for you 😝😝
Thirty-Five Days
Summary: A month-long sex cleanse leaves Jimmy desperate, tortured, emotional, and completely obsessed with you.
Jon hought the cleanse was a joke at first.
Thirty days.
No sex.
No touching.
No “accidents.”
No “just the tip.”
No late-night grinding against your ass while pretending he was asleep.
He’d laughed when you showed him the article over breakfast, but the laugh died the second he realized you were dead serious.
“Thirty days, baby? You tryna kill me,” he groaned, but eventually agreed with that cocky smirk.
By day two the man was a mess. Morning wood so brutal he’d wake up humping the mattress before catching himself. Lunch wood while eating the sandwich you made him. Dinner wood. Random wood every time you walked by in those little lounge shorts. His thick dick stayed half-hard in his sweatpants like it had a personal vendetta against the cleanse.
You actually believed he was holding up his end… until the day you forgot your work badge.
The house was quiet when you slipped back in—until you heard the low, filthy groans coming from the bedroom.
You pushed the door open.
Jonathan was sprawled on the edge of the bed, sweatpants shoved down to his knees, one big hand furiously stroking his fat, veiny cock. The head was swollen and shiny with pre-cum, slick sounds filling the room as he twisted his wrist on every upstroke. His abs were tight, thighs flexing, mouth open in a silent curse.
“Jonathan.”
He froze mid-pump, eyes flying open, cock still throbbing hard in his fist. “Baby—fuck, wait—”
“You lying ass.”
“I can explain—”
“You’re cheating on the cleanse with your own hand?”
He looked genuinely pained. “I was dying. You don’t understand how bad it hurts.”
You stared at his leaking dick, then at his guilty face. “We’re fixing this. Tomorrow.”
The next evening you made him strip. Jonathan stood there naked, already rock hard, that thick Uso cock curving up toward his abs, veins pulsing. You sat on the bed and held up the thick black silicone cock ring.
“No way,” he muttered, but his dick twitched hard at the sight.
“Yes way. Since you can’t behave, you’re wearing this for the rest of the cleanse… plus five extra days.”
You lubed it up and slowly worked it down his shaft. Jonathan hissed through his teeth as you pushed it over his heavy balls and snapped it snug at the base. The ring squeezed tight, forcing his cock even harder. The head flushed dark red almost instantly, veins standing out obscenely. A fat bead of pre-cum oozed from the slit and dripped down the underside.
“Shit… it’s tight as fuck,” he groaned, hips jerking forward involuntarily. His cock bobbed, angry and trapped, the ring biting just enough to keep him aching and swollen without relief.
“Good,” you said sweetly, giving his balls a light squeeze. “That’s the point.”
The next three weeks were pure, delicious torture for him.
Jonathan walked around the house in a constant state of desperate, ringed hardness. The cock ring kept him throbbing 24/7. He’d pin you against the counter, grinding that hot, heavy dick against your ass while whimpering in your ear, “Please, baby… just let me put it in raw for five seconds. I’ll cum so fast you won’t even feel it.”
You’d reach back, stroke his trapped length, and feel how painfully swollen he was under the ring. He’d moan like he was dying, pre-cum smearing all over your fingers and your clothes.
Nights were the worst. He slept naked so you could watch him suffer. He’d wake up multiple times, cock purple and straining against the silicone, balls drawn tight. One night you woke up to him slowly humping the mattress, the cock ring still locked on, desperate little thrusts that got him nowhere.
“Jonathan,” you warned.
He whined into the pillow. “I hate you… but I love you. This ring is evil.”
By day twenty-five he was feral. You came home to find him in the shower, forehead pressed to the tile, water running down his muscular back while his ringed cock stood straight out, leaking steadily. He wasn’t even touching it anymore—just standing there throbbing, broken.
You took pity… sort of. You dropped to your knees in the shower and sucked just the swollen head into your mouth, swirling your tongue while he cursed and shook. The cock ring kept him from cumming no matter how hard you sucked. He was a babbling, desperate mess by the time you pulled off with a wet pop.
“Month’s almost over, baby.”
On day thirty-five, the second the clock hit midnight, you pushed him onto his back and finally slid the cock ring off.
The relief made him growl like an animal. His cock sprang free—thicker, darker, and angrier than you’d ever seen it. Veins bulging, head glossy and leaking nonstop.
Jonathan didn’t even give you time to speak.
He flipped you onto all fours, yanked your hips up, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You cried out as he bottomed out, stretching you wide after a month of nothing.
“Fuck—finally,” he snarled, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He fucked you like a man possessed—deep, punishing strokes that made your eyes roll back. The wet slap of skin filled the room, his heavy balls smacking your clit with every thrust.
“You put a fucking ring on my dick for thirty-five days,” he growled, pounding you harder. “I’m gonna fill this pussy up until it’s dripping for days.”
He came the first time with a loud, broken moan, burying himself to the hilt and pumping you full of a month’s worth of saved-up cum. Thick ropes flooded you, so much it leaked out around his cock and ran down your thighs. But he didn’t pull out. He kept thrusting through it, fucking his own cum deeper into you, still rock hard.
He flipped you onto your back, threw your legs over his shoulders, and drove in again. Deeper. Harder. The overstimulation hit him fast after so long denied, but he couldn’t stop. His thrusts grew sloppy and frantic, eyes glassy as sweat dripped down his chest.
“Baby… I can’t—shit, it’s too sensitive,” he gasped, but his hips kept snapping forward.
You pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, sinking down onto his raw, oversensitive cock. You rode him slow and deep, grinding your clit against his pelvis while rhythmically squeezing around him. Jonathan’s hands flew to your waist, fingers digging in desperately as his head fell back against the pillows.
Tears immediately welled up in his eyes. His mouth fell open, breath hitching into broken sobs as you kept working your hips.
“F-fuck—baby, please,” he cried, voice cracking hard. Tears spilled down his temples, then his cheeks, faster and faster. “It’s too much… I can’t—oh shit, I’m losing it—” His big, muscular body started shaking uncontrollably beneath you, thighs quivering, abs clenching tight as another orgasm built against his will.
You didn’t slow down. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his heaving chest, and rode him harder, milking his overstimulated cock with your tight, wet heat.
Jonathan broke completely.
Loud, wrecked sobs tore from his throat as tears streamed freely down his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth open in a desperate, whimpering cry. “I’m cumming again—baby it hurts—hurts so fucking good but I can’t stop shaking—please—” His voice dissolved into raw, tear-soaked whimpers and gasps. Every roll of your hips forced another sob out of him, his cock pulsing violently inside you even as his body convulsed from the overwhelming sensitivity.
He came apart with a shattered, sobbing moan, hips jerking up weakly into you as dry, intense spasms ripped through him. Tears poured down his flushed face, chest heaving with harsh, broken cries while his whole frame trembled violently underneath you. The overstimulation had him crying hard—actual heavy tears, face wet, lips quivering, deep whimpers escaping with every aftershock.
When it finally subsided he was utterly destroyed: a boneless, sobbing, twitching mess beneath you. You gently lifted off his spent cock, cum gushing out as it slipped free. Jonathan just lay there panting harshly, tears still rolling down the sides of his face onto the pillow, body jerking with lingering aftershocks as soft, exhausted whimpers left him.
You brushed his soaked hair back, leaned down, and kissed the tears from his cheeks and temples, tasting the salt on your lips.
“Cleanse is over, baby.”
He let out a weak, watery, tear-choked laugh, voice completely hoarse. “Best… worst… month ever.” His hand shakily found yours, squeezing tight even as fresh tears slipped out from the intensity. “Never… never doing that shit again. Next time you even mention a cleanse, I’m tying you up instead.”
You smiled softly against his lips. “We’ll see, horn dog.”
Jon just pulled you down onto his chest, still sniffling and trembling from the overstimulation, already half-hard again against your thigh like the greedy man he was.
Caught in the Underground Part 4
Tama Tonga x OC
Warnings: 18+
Catch up here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Part 4
The silence of the estate didn’t settle in all at once; it fell like a heavy, suffocating blanket over the course of the first forty-eight hours.
When Cameron woke up the morning after her conversation with Loa, the west wing was empty. Loa had been discreetly moved, likely to a deeper, more secure safe house and the usual hum of syndicate enforcers patrolling the marble hallways had vanished.
By day three, the reality of her isolation truly set in. Tama had disappeared, taking his entire inner circle with him. He hadn't said goodbye. He hadn't left instructions. There was only Elena, the silent housekeeper who left meals on the kitchen island, and the unseen, ghost-like presence of the perimeter guards who ensured the heavy iron gates remained firmly locked.
For the first time since she was dragged out of that warehouse, Cameron had the run of the gilded cage.
At first, the absence was a relief. Her nervous system, frayed by constant adrenaline and the overwhelming, gravitational pull of Tama’s presence, finally had a moment to reset. She spent the first two days sleeping, showering in water hot enough to scrub the phantom feeling of blood from her skin, and wandering the vast, sunlit gardens in the center courtyard.
The sprawling house stopped feeling like a sanctuary and started feeling like a target. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow cast by the heavy curtains, made her pulse spike. Why had Tama left her here? Was he handling the Italians? Was he injured? Worse, had he abandoned her because she was too much of a liability?
By day six, the restless anxiety boiled over into reckless curiosity.
Cameron stopped pacing the neutral zones of the house. Dressed in her comfortable grey scrubs, she crossed the invisible boundary line into the east wing, Tama’s private territory. The air here was cooler, the artwork darker and more imposing.
She paused in front of double doors made of carved mahogany. The lock was electronic, but when she pushed the heavy brass handle, the door clicked open. He hadn't locked it. Or maybe, in his rush to leave, he had simply forgotten.
Cameron slipped inside, her breath catching in her throat.
It was Tama’s study. The room was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, smelling faintly of sandalwood, aged paper, and the distinct, crisp scent of the man himself. A massive oak desk sat in the center of the room, cluttered with shipping manifests, encrypted hard drives, and scattered blueprints.
But it wasn't the criminal empire on the desk that drew her eye. It was the wall behind it.
Instead of weapons or trophies, the wall was covered in intricate, hand-drawn charcoal sketches. They were brilliant, raw, and fiercely detailed. There were sketches of the ocean, of his brothers, of the intricate tattoos that covered the enforcers' arms.
And right in the center was a sketch on thick artist's paper.
Cameron walked slowly around the desk, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stared up at the drawing. It was a sketch of a woman’s hands, her hands, holding a surgical needle, perfectly capturing the delicate, steady tension of her fingers. In the corner of the paper, dated from just a few days ago, was a single word written in Tama’s sharp, aggressive handwriting: Cameron.
She reached out, her fingertips hovering inches from the charcoal. The man she thought was just a violent, unfeeling warlord had taken the time to sit and draw the hands that put him back together. The uncanny precision of the lines, each tendon, each knuckle, even the faint suggestion of the scar on her right ring finger, had been rendered with an intensity that bordered on reverence.
Suddenly, the heavy, unmistakable sound of a helicopter's rotors began to chop through the air outside, vibrating the glass of the study windows. They were back. Or someone was.
Panic, sharp and cold, flooded her veins. If Tama found her in his inner sanctum, standing over his desk and looking at his private confessions, the fragile shift in their dynamic could shatter.
She turned on her heel and bolted.
She didn't run like a frightened captive; she ran with the desperate speed of someone who had just discovered they were standing on a landmine. She navigated the dark, mahogany-lined corridors of the east wing, her feet silent against the Persian rugs. She crossed the neutral zone of the grand foyer just as the heavy front doors began to unlatch.
Cameron slipped through the doors of her suite mere seconds before the foyer erupted with the chaotic, heavy sounds of men, boots, and shouted orders.
Outside her sanctuary, the estate was alive again. The silence of the past week was violently ripped away, replaced by the heavy thud of footsteps and the deep, urgent cadence of Tongan and English being barked down the halls.
Ten minutes later Tama stood in her doorway.
He looked like he had spent the last seven days walking through hell. The tailored, expensive suits he favored were gone, replaced by tactical cargo pants and a black shirt that was torn at the shoulder, revealing bruised, dirt-streaked skin. He smelled of fuel, stale sweat, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of gunsmoke. His dark hair was pulled back into a messy, savage knot, and a fresh cut split his left eyebrow.
He was the warlord incarnate. A terrifying, brutal sight.
But when his heavy, exhausted gaze landed on her, the chaotic energy radiating off him stopped dead. The men moving behind him in the hallway seemed to vanish.
He took a step into her room, the doors hissing shut behind him, sealing them in. "You're still here," he rumbled. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth menace, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion.
"Where else would I go, Tama?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, though she held her ground. "You left me in a locked fortress."
He stalked past her with the restless, coiled energy of a predator still riding the adrenaline pulse of the hunt. She didn’t flinch as he passed, but she didn’t move either, unwilling to cede a single inch of the space he’d forced her to occupy for so long. He circled the room with the deliberate menace of an animal checking for threats, but the way he paused, catching his reflection in the antique mirror, made her realize he was looking for something else, maybe a splintered version of himself, maybe a sign that he was still, against his own instincts, alive.
Only after this survey did he speak, his voice scabbed over with violence and raw, unfiltered fatigue. “I had to pull the Italians out by the roots,” he said, the words scraping the air between them. “They thought they could touch my family. They thought they could test my borders.” His eyes found hers, and she saw the wild, reckless pain burning underneath the mask of control. “I made sure they understand what happens when they try to take what’s mine.”
It would have been easy to recoil from him, he looked every inch the monster she’d been warned about, splattered with someone else’s blood, his knuckles raw and swollen, a dark bruise already blossoming across the side of his jaw. But there was something else underneath, a tremor in his hands, a minute tension in the way he held his massive body as if, for all his strength, he could crumple at any moment.
He reached for the decanter on the sideboard, splashing two fingers of expensive whiskey into a glass and downing it in one furious motion before pouring another. He didn’t offer her a drink. He didn’t bother to mask the way his hand trembled when he set the glass down, either. The silence stretched, doubled, until the whole room seemed to fill up with unspoken words and unprocessed trauma.
She watched as he sank into the nearest chair, his head tipped back, a line of sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. There was a violence even in his exhaustion; he slumped the way a gun is dropped on a table, still loaded, still dangerous. For a moment he looked less like a monster and more like someone’s lost child, trying to remember how to breathe in a suddenly unfamiliar world.
And it was this version of him, fractured, spent, splattered with the wreckage of his decisions, that pierced her armor. Training and terror warred in her; he was her captor, her patient, her only bargaining chip, a man who could have her killed with a word and yet expected her to care for him, to keep him alive. They were both, in their own ways, hostages to the same unbreakable narrative.
“Let me see your hand,” Cameron said. Her voice was even, but she couldn’t stop the tremor in her fingers as she knelt in front of him, taking his bruised fist in her own. She rotated it gently, inspecting the torn skin and already forming scabs, the split across the knuckle that would probably need three stitches at least. She glanced up at him, searching for any flicker of pain, but his eyes had gone flat and unreadable.
“I thought you were gonna run,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that might have been humor, or maybe just the aftershock of violence.
She shrugged, masking nerves with the rote efficiency of someone who had been forced to perform under fire. She crossed to her bed and, with practiced economy, retrieved the medical kit she’d stashed in the nightstand. She suspected Tama had known about it all along; he missed nothing in this house, least of all the tiny, desperate contingencies a captive might arrange.
He watched her, his knuckles resting on his knee, the blood already drying, oxidizing to a blackish brown at the folds of his fingers. She perched on the ottoman in front of him, legs folded beneath her, and snapped open the kit with a pop that echoed in the charged silence. Without looking up, she said, “Where would I go?” She uncapped the alcohol, the sharp solvent smell instantly flooding the space between them. “I have no job or apartment to go back to. You made sure of that.”
It was not an accusation, not quite. But the words hung between them, an invisible line neither seemed willing to erase. She reached for his hand, still huge and inert, each finger a battered, swollen digit, the nail beds caked with someone else’s blood. She cradled it with surprising gentleness, even as her heart jackhammered in her chest.
He tensed at her touch, that predator’s flinch, but didn’t pull away. She pressed the alcohol pad into the deep groove above his knuckle. He exhaled, a hiss of pain escaping his teeth, and she watched the line of his jaw tighten. Stubborn bastard, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she said, “You’re lucky your bone’s not chipped. This one’s gonna scar.”
He looked at her then, really looked, as if trying to memorize the precise arrangement of her features under the light. “Scars don’t bother me,” he said. His free hand hovered for a moment, then dropped back to his thigh. “I told my men to expect you to run. Told them you’d make it to the tree line before they even got the doors open.”
She snorted, surprising herself with the sound. “I thought about it. But it’s not like I have a plan, or a map, or a car.”
There was something coiled behind those eyes, something ugly and raw and almost feral, but it was softened, at least in this moment, by the exhaustion that radiated from every line of his body. “I kinda wanted you to at least try,” he said, almost an afterthought, almost an apology. The words landed between them like a challenge or a dare, but his voice was so quiet she almost pretended she hadn’t heard it. He was talking to the shadows, to the ghosts of all the other people he’d lost, but the words still found their mark.
She didn’t answer, not right away. She reached for the butterfly bandages, tearing open the sterile pack with her teeth, and set to work with a focus that was half muscle memory and half self-preservation. There was no point in asking why he wanted her to run. Maybe it was a test. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe he wanted to see if she still had enough hope left in her to risk dying on the perimeter fence just to spite him. But she also knew that if she had actually made it to the tree line, if she had gotten as far as the road, he would have been waiting for her at the end. There were no doors in this house that didn’t open onto his domain.
Tama’s hand flexed in hers, involuntary, a twitch of pain as she pressed the adhesive to the gash. She felt the heat of him, the thudding pulse that ran up his arm and into her palm, the tension that sang in his shoulders as he forced himself to sit still for her. He was used to being patched up, clearly; his knuckles bore a topography of old scars, some stitched with surgical precision, others ragged with the memory of urgent, field-done repairs. She wondered who had tended him before; some underling, some brother, maybe even a mother who’d given up long ago and felt a strange, unwelcome pang of empathy.
“You want me to run, but you’d never really let me, go” she said finally, her tone almost theoretical. “Is that the trick? You like watching people try?”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, and he shrugged. “I like to know what someone’s made of. Everybody runs, eventually.”
She wanted to hate him, to recoil from the casual brutality, but there was also something deeply, pitifully human in the admission. She could see the shape of his loneliness, the way it had hollowed him out, left him desperate to be proven right about the world’s betrayals. In that moment she was reminded, with a clarity that made her stomach turn, that monsters were made, not born.
She caught herself slowing down, dragging out the ritual of care as if it could insulate them from what came next. Her hands began to tremble, not from fear, but from the bone-deep exhaustion of pretending not to care. She wondered if he noticed, if the tremor registered as vulnerability or as another form of defiance.
Finally, she finished wrapping his hand, layering the gauze with a perfectionist’s neatness. She pressed the final strip of medical tape down and let herself look at him, letting the effort of humility show on her face. “You’ll need to ice it. I can stitch the cut, but you’ll lose some range of motion for a couple days.”
He didn’t move, didn’t try to close the space between them, but the weight of his relief was almost enough to tip her off the ottoman. It struck her then, with the force of a second trauma, how much he needed her, and how much she had come to need, if not him, then the terrible, relentless gravity of his world.
“You don’t trust anyone else,” she said, meaning it as a statement, not a question.
He shook his head once. “No one else’s hands but yours.”
The admission knocked something loose in her, something she’d been holding at arm’s length since the night in the warehouse. She reached for the suture kit, and, with the steadiness she could only access in moments like this, threaded the needle and began to work.
For a long time, neither spoke. She could feel his eyes on her as she stitched, the sting of every puncture mirrored in the twitch of his jaw, but he never looked away. She finished the last suture, trimmed the thread, and sat back on her heels.
“Tama…” Cameron started, her voice cracking open the precarious silence between them. He raised his head, barely, a flicker of attention carving a line through the mask he wore. She stilled her trembling hands and picked at a loose thread on the gauze, buying herself another second in which not to speak.
He watched her, a predator’s patience holding the room taut, and the words she’d been swallowing for days. He was never the type to ask the obvious questions, so when he replied softly, “What?” it was not an invitation but an imperative.
She shook her head, mouth twisting in equal parts shame and defiance. “Never mind,” she said, but it was plain she wanted him to press.
His voice was a blade when it came, low and serrated. “Say it.”
She hesitated, eyes darting from his ruined hand to the wall behind him, to the locked window, and back to the furrowed line between his brows. There was a safety in silence, but it had never done her much good before, and the weight of what she knew would only grow heavier if she didn’t exorcise it now.
“It’s not really my place,” she demurred, the phrase a shield she knew he’d tear from her fingers.
He leaned forward, arms on his knees, the musculature of his forearms taut and deliberate, as though he could will the truth from her by proximity alone. “Cameron, say it.” Her name was a threat and a plea.
She pressed her lips together, searching his face for some sign that he could survive what she was about to hand him. In another life, another context, she might have been gentle, might have let it slip in a moment of drunken confession or whispered over the phone. But nothing about this man, or this place, lent itself to gentle.
Finally, her voice cut the air cleanly. “I think you have a leak,” she said. And then, because she had to make it even more explicit, “A rat.”
The words landed like a gunshot. His posture didn’t change, but the air in the room contracted, became dense with the gravity of betrayal. For an instant, she feared not just for herself but for the invisible man, whoever he was, whose existence she had just condemned.
Tama’s face didn’t register surprise, but it was the practiced blankness of a man who’d had surprise engineered out of him by necessity. The admission, the accusation, rat, settled in the space between them, radioactive. For several seconds, he let it hang, as if the gravity alone might crush it into something less volatile. Then, with a delicacy completely at odds with the moment, he said, “And what makes you say that?”
There was no sarcasm, no disbelief, only a clinical curiosity that let her know he was taking her seriously. She could feel his attention sharpening, tracking every microexpression, every tremor in her voice. She considered her options, then decided that if she was already in the blast radius, she might as well keep walking toward the epicenter.
“Just a conversation I had with your brother. About Isabella.”
He said nothing, but she could practically hear the machinery in his head grinding, triangulating possibilities, replaying every conversation over the past month for clues. He didn’t ask which brother; he didn’t need to. She watched his pulse start to hammer beneath the skin of his neck, and for the first time since she’d met him, he looked unsure.
For a long beat, he just stared at her, searching for the deeper play, the angle she must be working.
She waited, her own heart stuttering indelicately, wondering if he’d believe her or if he’d decide she was the leak instead. Everything about this exchange felt like tiptoeing through a minefield blindfolded, but it was too late to retreat. The truth, once spoken, was a kind of toxin; it demanded a vector, a direction, or it would simply kill everything in its path.
Tama exhaled, a single, controlled breath. “You get all that from a five-minute talk with Loa?”
“People are usually overly honest when they’re doped up on pain killers.”
He leaned back, head tipped so he could see the ceiling, and for a moment, she thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if trying to physically erase the headache forming behind his eyes. “That’s great,” he said, finally. “That’s really…fucking great.” He sounded almost impressed, or as close as his voice ever came to that register. “You did the right thing telling me,” he said, the words so uncharacteristically gentle they might have been a warning.
"Not here," Tama murmured as he stood; the invisible, suffocating gravity of his presence shifting. "I need a shower. You need to get out of those scrubs."
Cameron blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden pivot. "What?"
"Get dressed," he commanded, the edge in his voice returning, though it was softened by fatigue. "Meet me in the formal dining room in an hour. We’re having dinner."
Before she could protest, or remind him that she was his prisoner, not his date, Tama turned and walked out of the suite.
When she finally descended the grand staircase and navigated the quiet, dimly lit halls to the formal dining room, she found the heavy mahogany doors already open.
The room was cavernous, dominated by a long, polished oak table that could easily seat twenty. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows against the walls.
Tama was already there.
He was standing by a crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid into a heavy glass. The tactical gear and the dirt were gone. He was dressed in a crisp black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his heavily tattooed forearms, and tailored trousers. His dark hair was down for once. The only remnants of the man who had walked into her room an hour ago were the dark, bruising circles under his eyes and the angry, red split through his left eyebrow.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps. His eyes swept over her, taking in the dress, the hair, and the defiant lift of her chin. He didn't smile, but a dark, terrifying heat flared in his gaze. He took a sip of his drink, his throat working in a slow swallow.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair immediately to his right at the head of the table. He wasn't putting her at the opposite end of the long table; he was keeping her within arm's reach.
Cameron walked over, the click of her heels echoing in the quiet room. She didn't wait for him to pull her chair out; she sat down herself, keeping her posture rigid.
A moment later, silent staff appeared from a side door, placing plates of seared steak, roasted vegetables, and a glass of deep red wine in front of her before vanishing just as quickly.
Tama took his seat, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight, a telltale sign that whatever he had done to the Italians had cost him physically, too. He picked up his knife and fork, cutting into his steak with precise, lethal movements.
“Eat,” Tama commanded, the timbre of his voice gentle in a way that suggested violence was only temporarily at bay. He did not raise his eyes from the plate in front of him, the tip of his steak knife gliding, surgical, through the meat. Cameron’s hand hovered over her own utensils for a moment before she remembered herself. She grasped the fork as if it might, in a different context, be a weapon. The knife was heavier than she expected, and the tines of her fork trembled almost imperceptibly as she cut a bite of food. The first mouthful tasted of salt and rendered fat and the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food.
She ate, because he had told her to, and because she could feel his attention grazing her even when he did not look at her. The air between them was weighted, and she suspected that the calories were a kind of shield against what was about to come.
Tama’s own appetite was a slow, meticulous thing, and his movements were measured, almost meditative. He chewed as if it were a ritual, a discipline he imposed upon himself, and Cameron wondered how many other forms of self-restraint he had mastered. She swallowed another bite, and another, letting the rhythm settle her nerves. Outside, wind battered the windows; inside, the only sound was the scrape and click of cutlery against porcelain.
It was not until her plate was half cleared that Tama spoke again. His voice had dropped, the edge of a razor drawing closer, and when he asked, “Who,” it was almost a whisper, a threat disguised as a question. “Tell me who you think it is.”
Cameron stopped mid-bite, the steak going dry and tasteless in her mouth. She set her fork down with deliberate care, aware that every movement was being catalogued, archived for later use. She looked at him and wondered if he could see the suspicion on her face before she spoke it aloud.
“You want me to tell you who the rat is in your organization?” she asked, feigning incredulity, but her tone was a hair too brittle for it to be mistaken for anything but fear. She tried to imagine herself as someone else, someone braver, and failed.
Tama set his knife down and finally turned to face her. The full force of his focus hit her like a slap. “You have an idea,” he remarked, enunciating each word as if it had its own gravity. “Or at least a suspicion. You wouldn’t have said anything if you didn’t.”
She hesitated, unsure if voicing her theory would be the final act of loyalty or the first stone in her own execution. The rules of his world were not written anywhere, but she had learned enough to know that information was both currency and liability. If she was wrong, she would lose everything; if she was right, she might lose even more.
She felt the heat from the fire at her back, the pulse of it rising up her spine. He watched her from across the table, his hands folded now, the tattoos on his arms stark in the low light.
He said nothing further, only waited, and the waiting was worse than any threat.
Cameron picked up her wine and took a careful sip, letting the bitterness coat her tongue. She put the glass down and met his eyes, the sound of her heartbeat so loud she wondered if he could hear it too.
She could not look away from him. “If I give you a name, and I’m wrong, what happens?” she asked.
He shrugged, a gesture both indifferent and terrifying. “If you’re right, it saves my life. If you’re wrong, it’s just another night.”
Just another night. As if the stakes were nothing, as if people didn’t disappear every week because of mistakes like this.
She stared at the table, at the deep grain of the wood, at the reflection of the fire in her glass. For a moment, she considered lying. But it was pointless; the truth had always been the one thing Tama respected, even when it scorched.
He waited, the silence between them swelling until she felt she would break under its pressure.
“But you said you already took care of the Italians… so maybe I was wrong.”
Cameron let the sentence hang, suspended between them. Tama’s expression was unreadable, but some infinitesimal fraction of tension bled into the lines around his mouth. He took a drag from his bourbon, considered her for a moment, then placed his fork down with a deliberate clink against the plate.
“I took care of Isabella and her crew,” he said, voice low and cool. “There are people much higher up than her.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. The simple admission rearranged Cameron’s mental trajectory entirely; she could feel the shape of the threat expanding, ballooning to fill a space she hadn’t even considered. She wondered how many layers the organization had, how far up the chain the rot went. The name Isabella was heavy enough, but the idea of something or someone above her, untouchable, unseen, was more terrifying than she’d anticipated.
“Who?” she asked, before she could second-guess herself. The question was out, bare and reckless.
Tama arched an eyebrow, the only sign he’d registered her challenge. “If I knew,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
It wasn’t a lie, at least not in the way most lies worked. She sensed the undertow in his words, he knew more than he was admitting, but something about the hierarchy, the mechanics of their world, forced him to withhold. Maybe he didn’t want her to know, or maybe he needed her to figure it out on her own. It was hard to say with Tama; every answer was a lure, a test, or a warning.
The fire behind her spat and snapped, throwing wild light over Tama’s face. “So Isabella was just the messenger,” Cameron said, testing the boundaries of this new information, “or the distraction.”
“In this business,” Tama replied, “there’s always a bigger fish. Isabella was ambitious, but she was never the endgame. Someone wanted to see how far she’d get before I noticed.”
Cameron chewed over the implication that Tama’s enemies had fed him a false flag, engineered an internal mutiny just to see how he’d respond. The thought made her stomach flip. “That’s psychotic,” she said.
He smiled then, just a flicker of teeth, gone as quickly as it appeared. “That’s power.”
She shook her head, feeling the futility of the whole exercise, but also an odd burst of resolve. If there really were bigger players, she needed to see the board as he did. “What do you need from me?” she asked, her voice steady despite everything.
Tama regarded her for a long moment. “Loyalty,” he said finally. “And your eyes and ears, when mine are elsewhere”
Tama’s gaze didn’t falter. He wasn’t pleading, wasn’t even insisting. He simply expected her to understand what was required, to measure her own fate and make a choice. There was no room at this table for hesitation; she either accepted the terms, or she became a liability to be managed.
The weight of his request pressed down on her chest, a living thing, coiling tighter with every breath. She thought of the others who had sat at this table before her, who had made the same calculation and come up short. She wondered if their ghosts lingered here, watching her, urging her to be either smarter or luckier than they had been.
She lifted her eyes, met his across the span of candlelight and shadow, and nodded. It was barely a movement, but it was enough. Tama’s lips curved into something that might have been approval, or maybe just satisfaction that the game would continue a little longer.
“Now, tell me who you think the rat is?”
Cameron measured the effect it would have on Tama, on herself, on the invisible ripple it would send through his entire world. She forced herself not to look away, not to blink, not to betray anything but the truth.
“I think it’s Loa.”
To be continued...
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Roman Reigns Vows To Be A Full Time Champion
WrestleMania Post-Show - April 19th, 2026
tag list: @miss-kuki-nz @spiicii @romanreignsbae @rollinsland @lovelikebuttahbaybee @dpriestxripleysgirl @xnightmarexpunkx @trippinsorrows @mari3st4r ⋆˙⟡
lordd 🤤
@bebesobrielo, he just couldn't help but smile at me 🤭
@miss-kuki-nz Sneaky boy isn't he 😂
The Usos' snickers ad 😊. They're such goofballs 🤭.
Exactly… both of those spears were AWFUL!!
Sexy Escapades
Roman Reigns x reader.
Author's Note: After I created the GIF up above, I got inspired to write a sexy scenario based on it. Happy OTC/Wrestlemania Day 2☝️.
Warning(s)-Slight smut, brief mentions of oral sex, brief mention of female recieving.
Credits: Dividers by @uzmacchiato, text photo from Pinterest.
Summary: Roman teases you during a live show, leaving you hot and bothered.
When you tell him that you're not at the show, but he can clearly sense your presence even from a distance. His eyes search the crowd for you, knowing that you're somewhere in amongst the audience. His heart flutters as soon as he spots you, a slight smirk forming on his lips and a hint of mischief shining in his eyes. Even in an arena full of wrestling fans, he can and will always find his favorite woman one way or another. Once Roman's eyes are on you, he finds it difficult to look away. He also tries his best to behave himself, but sometimes he just can't help it. You're too irresistible not to tease, and he loves seeing you squirm in your seat whenever he chooses to be a sexy menace. He knows exactly how to get you hot and bothered, yearning for his touch, wanting nothing more than for him to get out of the ring, jump the barricade, and rush over towards you so he can claim you right then and there. His tongue action is undefeated, which is how he gets started with teasing you. He loves to lick his lips in any given circumstances because they go dry very easily. But when his attention is on you while he's in the ring, it's different. He'll keep eye contact with you and deliberately stick his tongue out to lick his lips in a painfully slow motion, allowing you to take in just how sexy his tongue is and what that tongue will do to you later on. You swallow hard and adjust your seating position, as you can feel your pussy throbbing with excitement. Yeah, she needs Daddy's tongue to give her some much-needed attention. To feel his tongue kitty licking your moist folds, lapping up your juices, and burying himself deeper inside you, never missing a beat with devouring your pussy until he has made you cry more times than you can even count, leaving your body convulsing from aftershocks of the intense orgasm that he has given you. Your legs clamp together, and you have to force yourself not to place your hand in between your thighs in order to touch your clothed pussy. The ache is starting; you can feel your panties getting damp just thinking about that magical tongue of Roman's. His hands forcing your legs to stay open, his face buried between them. Fuck, you need him so bad that it hurts. You need this segment to be over already so that you can be sitting on your favorite throne, aka his face, as his tongue and mouth make sweet love to your needy pussy.
