author’s note: this might be the most taboo, wildest shit i've ever written. and it's actually the tamer version of my initial idea....there is no saving me atp, idk.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc
warnings: smut. vaginal penetration. multiple positions. age gap (17 years). strong themes of infidelity. taboo pairing. angst. themes regarding death, abandonment, and neglect. morally gray characters.
words: 5k
credit: title graphic and solid pink divider by me // photos from pinterest // black and white gif's from google // roman gif by @fabxpunk // mdni and sexual content banners by anitalenia
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I know I shouldn't be here. Know that I should have never even opened his text. Should have never unblocked him. Should have never sat still, feet planted in the ground as they made the final boarding announcement. It was my out. The perfect opportunity to try to untangle this massive web of lies, deception, and confusion that I've found myself drowning in the past few months.
All I had to do was board the plane. Get on the plane and allow it to carry me as far away from them, from him, as possible. A one way ticket to a fresh, new start. It made sense. It was the most logical thing to do. The right thing to do.
But I couldn't.
It felt like weights sat on top of my chest and feet, anchoring me to the ground, keeping me bound to the seat I sat in for over twenty-five minutes even after that last, final round of boarding. Pressure that remained and throbbed as I reversed the steps taken to heal. To walk away from all of the confounding, stressful, maddening pieces of a puzzle I thought I'd figured out before the game even began.
Truth be told, I'm not even sure what fucking game it even is anymore.
If it's a game at all.
My hands smooth up and down his chest, defined muscles firm against my soft palms. My head is back, ends of my hair—freed from the hair tie when my dark strands were wrapped around his big hand as he fucked my face— brushing the top of my ass. My heavy breasts pressed together and moving in tandem with each slow, sensual gyration of my hips. His stomach is wet and sticky from the trail of my essence that I dragged along his toned body when he easily slid me off his face and onto his erect dick that'd sprung back to life after he'd come all over my chest, and I, all over his face.
His recently dyed beard and pronounced lips reflecting with the remnants of my pussy as patches of his dried cum stick to my dark areolas.
Every so often, our eyes meet, and with every occurrence, that twisting in my stomach tightens. His fingers dig into my hips where he holds me steady as I rock against and on top of him. I do my best to keep my eyes shut—out of sight, out of mind—leaning into the carnal pleasure and bliss that stems from him being buried deep inside my slick wet.
I gasp when Roman's left hand lifts from my hip to the back of my head. My eyes opening just as he yanks on my hair, forcing me to bend down where I meet his mouth for a steamy, sensual kiss.
I hate the way I moan into him. How my movements still as I drown in the inevitability that is Roman Reigns.
He breaks our kiss, minty breath fanning my face as he nips on my bottom lip. "Did I tell you to stop?" My eyes flutter once more as he tightens his fist in my hair, voice gruff. "Keep riding me, sweetheart."
For someone who's never done well with people telling me what to do, the inner feminist in me mourns at the ease in which I obey. Easing back into the motion of grinding up and down, back and forth, and slow circles. All the while he thrusts his tongue back into my mouth, allowing me to taste myself as his hand squeezes at my breast.
Rough pad of his thumb grazing over my puckered nipples as I force myself to ignore the burning in my thighs and growing tension in my legs. I'm not sure how long he's had me on top, but I also know it's better for me to remain in charge vs him.
The minute he gets me on my back, side, or stomach, it's a wrap. Despite months of him beating my shit the fuck up, I still struggle with recovery. Still have to ignore the borderline painful throbbing between my legs and the tiny hiss that leaves my mouth every time he uses the rag to clean up the mess he's made of me.
A few days out from Main Eventing his 11th WrestleMania would make most think he'd be taking it easy, be focused on only traditional forms of training. But that's not Roman Reigns.
At least not who he is with me.
Not even my ex who seemed to want to fuck for breakfast, lunch, and dinner had as high a sex drive as the man almost 17 years my senior who, nine times out of ten, makes me tapout quicker than any man ever has.
It's fucking insane.
His hand locked in my hair finally releases to glide down my slick back, squeezing, slapping, and jiggling my ass before he starts to lazily guide me up and down. My own hands cage the side of his head as we continue to tongue each other down when he starts fucking up into me again.
"Mmmm, so good."
"Yeah?"
I nod with a ridiculous and embarrassing amount of vigor that's rivaled only by the pace in which he's fucking me. Or I'm fucking him. Us fucking each other.
But my valiant efforts must fall short because one minute we're grinding against each other, slick body to body, and the next, my cheek is pressed into the mattress, my round ass hoisted up in the air and my body nothing more than a rag doll from the intense, deep, back-to-back backshots he's giving me.
"F—f—-fuck, R—r—r—"
"What took you so long to get here?"
My brows cave together as my hands continue to fist at the sheets, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against my dripping cunt distracting to the point where I leave his strange, weirdly timed question unanswered.
Big mistake.
The sting from slapping my ass makes me jump, the impact strong enough to the point where I'm certain that with the lights on, you can clearly see the outline of his big ass hand print.
But Roman is equally caring as he can be cruel, leaning over and using that same hand to gently knead my ass as he continues to dig me out. "I asked you a question, Jaleila." My eyes shut once more as he pushes my hair to the side, warm lips grazing the back of my neck. "Been waiting for you…"
That twisting in my stomach intensifies once more. He shouldn't be saying things like that. He shouldn't have been waiting for me in the first place. If there was anyone he should have flown out early to keep him company over the next several days while he works heavily to promote Mania, it should be Shayna.
It should be his wife.
It should be his wife and kids.
Not me.
And yet…
That doesn't mean, however, I can't at least try to retain some of my dignity. Even as he grinds his pelvis against my ass, forever using that big ass dick of his to make me putty. "Wasn't—fuck—wasn't sure if I wanted to—to come."
His deep chuckle is nestled in between the consistent, loud sound of skin slapping skin. "You always come for me, Leila." I hate how I don't hate the way he autonomously decided to start using my nickname one day without permission or request. I especially hate how I've never corrected him on it, either. "Where else were you gonna go?"
Home. I was going to go home. The place I should have never left in the first place.
Would have saved myself a shit ton of stress.
And heartache.
Or heartbreak.
"Naw…" My hands glide down the bed, the crumpled, damp sheets soft against my palms but not nearly as soft as the sensation of his full lips along the shell of my ear. "Mine." He's practically sprawled on top of me at this rate, pace sporadic and rushed, indication of the burning desire to find his release. I can feel it in how he forces my head up and to the side just enough for him to kiss me once more. Can taste his need and desperation.
It's nothing more than a mirror of my own.
He finishes inside of me, ropes of cum dripping from my swollen, tender pussy. Smeared all over his cock, the bed, and sheets that need to be burned at this point. I shouldn't let him. Feel guilty about it as he leaves to grab a towel to at least clean up some of our mess. Mentally berate myself for not making him pull out, but then I remember.
It wouldn't have made a difference.
But as amazing as the sex is, as he feels, it doesn't stop the way my brain swirls with ideas and thoughts that betray.
What if I stayed?
What if we could make it work?
What if—
Nothing but dead ends to the same outcome that was always determined from the moment I landed at Miami International with a smile on my face and malice in my heart. This was all so much easier from the outside looking in. Seemed so much simpler when I decided to accept the most unexpected offer from the least expected person.
I can still recall the moment I answered the phone, scowl on my face as I worked to fix dinner even though I wanted nothing more than to jump in bed and bury myself under the blankets until my irksome alarm reminded me that work isn't just a once a week thing. It's a 5x a week thing.
The way I almost hung up the phone when she said her name. I thought it was some sort of joke only to realize I'm not nearly important enough for anyone to want to prank me. I still don't know how she got my number. We hadn't spoken in years. She stopped sending Christmas cards before I even graduated high school. We were virtual strangers.
Perhaps it should have stayed that way. Perhaps I should have just cussed her out, told her to never contact me again, blocked her, and moved on with my life. I've spent so long without her that the "loss" would be nothing more than a continuation of the norm.
But I didn't.
I told her I'd think about it when she suggested I come spend some time with her so we could "bond" and "catch up." I almost threw up the minute it left her mouth, the delivery overtly sugary and deceptively sweet, a voice synonymous to nails on a chalkboard. Disingenuous. The type we use during the interview and drop when we land the job. A performance. It felt like she was auditioning for something.
For me.
And I couldn't understand why, just how I couldn't understand why I didn't immediately shut her down.
Why I twisted and turned in bed that night until I leaned over to hit the lamp on my nightstand. Grabbed my iPad with the cracked screen and bad camera to google what I hadn't in years. Nothing had changed outside of additional photos, videos, and a People Magazine article that made my jaw dropped and suddenly turned a boring, lazy scanning into an unexpected plot twist.
WWE Superstar Roman Reigns and wife call off divorce.
I read it from line to line, all the way down to the comments that led me to deep dive, discovering information that wasn't available when I'd last looked her up a few years prior. Learned that despite her perfectly curated Instagram page which boasted overtly edited photos of her and her equally perfect little family was nothing more than a facade.
That I was once again reminded things aren't always what they seem.
It was also in that moment I started to put together the pieces that would eventually become my master plan. The reason I called her the next morning and accepted the offer. Not to bond. Not to catch up. Not to connect.
But to kickstart the one and only opportunity to do what I'd never thought I'd be able to do.
To hurt her the way she hurt me.
To ruin and fuck with her mental the way she messed with mine.
My perfect "cousin" who spent her days doing hot yoga with her girlfriends, making cooking videos for her Instagram page that boasted half a million followers, and showcasing her beautiful children and handsome husband. It was all perfectly and intentionally curated to depict and convey the life she'd worked so hard to achieve, no matter who was hurt and discarded along the way.
I would know.
No one was hurt and cast aside like trash that served no purpose more than me. Because I didn't.
She did away with me.
She left.
It's been a recurring theme of my life.
Because Shayna has only ever cared about things and people so long as they're useful to her. If it or you don't benefit or fit into the cookie cutter life she's finessed for herself, then she dismisses and flicks you away like that pesky gnat that buzzes in your ear, driving you mad until you silence it for good.
And once you're silent, you no longer exist in her world.
Therein lies the privilege of it all. The people who hurt and traumatize go on and live their lives carefree without the scars, pain, and trauma left behind in the wake of their crimes.
They flourish while you drown.
And I've been grasping for life vests for as far back as I can remember.
"I got a busy day tomorrow so you'll have to keep yourself occupied until I'm done." His deep voice alerts me to the fact that he's now lying on the bed next to me, on his back, one hand behind his head as he scrolls on his phone with his left.
I'm still on my stomach, my own arms underneath the pillow that my left cheek is pressed into. I stare at him, the lighting of a city that never sleeps reflected off his side profile and phone in his hand illuminating his face and hazel specks in his eyes. I don't realize that I'm reaching out, stroking his beard, still damp and glistening from the evidence of our transgressions, until it's too late. "We're in the city of sin, aren't we?" His eyes temporarily flick over to me, a small smirk on his face. "I think I'll find something to do." A beat. "Or someone."
The corners of my mouth lift into a small smile as something dark flashes in his gaze.
"Jaleila…."
"Relax, big boy." I roll my eyes, body moving on its own accord as I close the uncomfortable gap between us. Head on his shoulder, arm across his stomach, my right leg hiked over his, the warmth of his now flaccid penis brushing against my inner thigh. I chuckle, kissing his shoulder. He tugs me into him, tapping the top of my ass and kissing my temple. My eyes shut, voice softening as the exhaustion from all our festivities starts to catch up to me. "You've ruined that for me with anyone else, I fear…."
He's ruined a lot of things for me, actually.
It's fucked up.
All of it.
This wasn't supposed to happen. None of it. I had the perfect plan. Simple but effective.
Come. Destroy. Leave.
In that order and with very specific objectives, but where we are now compared to where I thought I'd be couldn't be anymore different.
I shouldn't be laying up with this man. Not like this. The goal always was to fuck him, to see if those whispers and rumors on gossip forums about his "wandering eye" being one of the main reasons for Shayna filing for divorce were true.
They were.
And despite my knowing that he truly has no idea how sick, twisted all of this is and how much of a fucking pathological liar his wife is, it didn't change the fact that I almost hated him as much as I hate her. This man I'd never met prior to a few months ago but was the sole reason my life ended up on a trajectory that only led to hurt, rejection, and dysfunction.
From the clips I'd pulled up of him online, interviews of him pompous and cocky, I expected to have to work hard to swallow my pride and butter up an arrogant egomaniac. To set aside my own reservations to get shit done.
I was wrong.
For a man who plays a narcissist disgustingly well, I'm not sure I've ever met someone so kind. He has his moments, sure. I've seen them firsthand, but when the cameras all go away, and it's just him. Him and his kids, especially, he's a completely different person. Kind, thoughtful, charismatic, funny in that dad humor sort of way. It's hard to get a read on him at first because he's initially and naturally on the introverted side of the spectrum, the complete opposite of my extroverted soul. But once he gets to talking, there's no stopping him.
His family means everything to him, and I can see why his kids seem to adore him so much.
He's a good dad, and I believe once upon a time he was also a good husband. Perhaps fame and success changed him, too. In a different way it did his wife who seems almost obsessed with maintaining a "perfect" image.
Maybe it made him realize settling down so young before he truly had time to explore the playing field was a mistake. He's not the first, and he won't be the last.
Just like I probably won't be the last.
I only planned to fuck him once. That was all that was needed to guarantee a front row seat to view the horrified look on her face when I told her, in graphic detail, how I'd fucked her husband in their bed. The overwhelming satisfaction that would forever satisfy me at seeing her hurt. Seeing her pain and knowing that I caused it.
The ability to close up a stinging chapter of my life that could only be achieved by ruining hers.
I was wrong.
I was wrong about everything.
Roman isn't an ugly man at all, so the attraction component of things was never a concern. I immediately thought him someone I'd fuck in a heartbeat just from the first photo I saw of him on Google a years back. What I didn't realize, however, is that physical and sexual attraction would end up being the least of things I've grown to feel about and towards this man.
I feel for him in a way I've never felt about anyone before. Desire his presence and attention in ways that scare me. I don't have to force. I just am. He's the easiest person I've ever had the pleasure of talking to, hence why pillow talk between us has been the norm since the first time we fucked.
And the sex….
Far too intimate for someone I hated with a fiery passion for so many years.
Almost as much as I hate her.
Or did.
Because she's yet another character who's undergone edits and revisions I didn't think were possible.
I'm 100% certain her being exactly as awful as I remember, believed her to be, would resulted in me not laying up on this man as he strokes my back and talks with me about his thoughts and concerns towards his career that's nearing its final run.
It would have fueled my dedication to sticking to the plan.
But she's not awful. Hasn't been. She's goal driven and image obsessed, but she also has asked genuine questions about me, spent time with me that's always felt wanted instead of forced. Cracked jokes and encouraged me to actually utilize my business degree and go for the jewelry business I've always wanted to open but never found the means or way to for XYZ reason.
Even hinted she'd invest.
That's not something a cold, heartless bitch would do.
Yet another example of me being confused and conflicted as fuck. For every not so great to horrible thing I know or believe about her, there's an antithesis. And for him, I can't seem to even find a fucking vice. Not one that'll stick.
He's a cheater?
Well, so are most men, and even so, what does that make me?
She's a liar? Again, pot meet kettle.
Both adjectives swarm around in my head as we go for round who knows what, this time with him on top, in between my legs. Missionary. That position that's supposed to be reserved for lovers, and in the physical sense, we are.
For him, at least. For me, it's physical and beyond. I love this man. I'm in love with this man, and I shouldn't be. I can't be.
It's not only wrong on a variety of levels, but it's a hopeless cause. A dead end to nothing and nowhere. He's married, and that's not changing. Shayna is never going to leave him. I still don't know what made her file for divorce only to change her mind, nor is it really any of my business, but if even after multiple affairs, filing, and dismissal, she's still not going anywhere….she never will.
And perhaps he was the one who fought for them to stay together. Unlikely. He wouldn't be fucking me like this, flying me out to spend the week in Vegas with him while she and the kids are back home, if he truly wanted to make his marriage work. They live as two strangers who stay together for the sake of image and family. Must believe that together is better for the kids.
I honestly haven't a fucking clue how I've allowed things to get this far. One minute I was plotting and scheming, the next I was smiling and laughing and loving. None of the latter being forced or disingenuous. I don't have to make anything be something it's not because it just is.
Organic and real.
What I feel for Roman is real. But it was all built upon a mountain of lies that began not with my arrival to Miami, but my arrival into the world.
Over 20 years ago
The day that I'll never forget and the one Shayna probably doesn't even remember. Or perhaps she does and just doesn't care.
My thoughts take on a darker, heavier turn as we lay in bed once more, hours later, the sound of his soft snoring in my ear as his arm anchors around my body, my back into his chest. He sleeps. I spiral.
The day where both titles and dynamics shifted. Where visits became more spread out until ending altogether. Phone calls that went unanswered. Hugs and kisses to my forehead never felt again. My questions always met with kind smiles and sweet words betrayed by the meaning of those words. I eventually stopped asking, stopped sitting on the sofa, looking out the window, waiting to see her pull up.
Later on, I would learn the hard way that Shayna met someone while away at college. Someone who she decided she wanted to do life with. That was a much better option than whoever my sperm donor was. That she saw as her chance to a better, different life.
One that didn't include me.
I accepted what I couldn't fully grasp but understood enough to be filled with an insurmountable amount of grief for such a young child. Grief that would become a recurring theme of my life.
That catapulted one Saturday morning when I woke up and wasn't immediately hit with the smell of my grandma's favorite pancakes but instead found her dead on the bathroom floor with a toothbrush in her mouth.
Brain aneurysm.
I was seven.
Shayna never even said a word to me at the funeral.
Fast forward four years later, living with my great grandma, the sweetest, kindest woman I'd ever met. Getting off the bus and walking into the house that was far too quiet around the time she was always watching reruns of her favorite judge shows.
A silence that made sense once I made my way to her room and found her still in the bed. Sleeping. Eternally.
Heart attack.
I was 11.
Shayna didn't even come to the funeral.
Sustainability, however, came in the form of the grandfather I never knew and only met because no one wanted me, and it was either he take custody of me or I'd become a ward of the state. Thus, his reluctant acceptance.
He was a tall, big, burly man with a gray goatee, bald head, and a cane he really should have used more often than he did. Lived out in the middle of nowhere and was the textbook definition of that old, cranky neighborhood all the kids were afraid of.
I wasn't.
No, I quickly learned that I inherited my sassy and bold personality not just from life that'd forced me to grow up much sooner than anyone should but the grandparent who would end up becoming my best friend and favorite person.
As much as we bickered and argued, he was always the person who supported me the most. Showed up at all my events. Even signed an AMA to leave the hospital shortly after a nasty fall to see me walk across the stage at my college graduation.
"I'm proud of you, kid." He whispered, holding me tight as I cried silently into his chest, soaking up the love and support.
Three months later, he passed away.
And two years later, I'm still not over it. Still haven't decided what to do with his land or the almost seven figure inheritance from his life insurance policy that he left me.
Only me.
For two years, I've been in a state of limbo. Living in a crappy apartment, working as a bottle girl, trying to figure out what the fuck to do with my life.
At twenty four, I felt absolutely lost.
So when I randomly received Shayna's call and offer, I saw it as a way to right the many wrongs that'd been done to me and then try to figure out what to do and where to go from there.
But I feel even more lost now than I did then.
Until I don't.
Because it's not until days later, as I'm standing in the midst of a roaring crowd filled with thunderous applause and three letter chants, and watching them, that I understand. I watch how he greets them. First his sons, then his daughter, and finally her. See the wholesome interaction that finally forces to accept what I've refused to for far too long.
That that's his family. It's Shayna's family. That is the family that she chose. Lyla, kind and empathetic, the daughter that they'd conceived while they were still in college. The one she chose to acknowledge.
And keep.
Their twin sons, River and Rowan, almost ten and the sweetest, funniest set of kids I'v ever met.
That was the family.
Not me.
And certainly not the child in my stomach they could never find out about.
Regardless of how it all came to be, the manipulation and strings pulled that resulted in Shayna getting her happy ending, that's exactly what she'd found.
I couldn't ruin that. I can't. No matter how much my chest hurts and eyes water when he casts a quick glance to me before turning to climb back in the ring to celebrate his win. A quick look away and sniffle right as I see the boys lift their fingers to the sky to acknowledge him.
It's then that I know exactly what I need to do.
What I should have done a long time ago.
I have to leave.
There is no other option. The web of lies I've cast are far too great to walk back. There is no fixing what I've done. The truth will only hurt, only destroy, only ruin.
My feelings towards Shayna are still confusing and mixed, but there's no denying the love I've developed for the kids.
For Roman.
And for them, because of them, I can't.
I might have come out here a destroyer, but I hope to leave as a peace offering. It's the best outcome that can be found in any of this.
My sins are too great and unforgivable.
But even though Shayna started this, I can finish it. I can break the cycle.
I have to.
Not to mention…I'd only be bringing this child into another generation of dysfunction, thus doing the very same thing that I've hated Shayna for all these years.
It's a heartbreaking, devastating revelation, too. To see how even without her presence and role in my life, for majority of it at least, I'm nothing more than a reflection of her.
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
author’s note: so, this takes place after the 'nobody said it was easy' oneshot and another, 'runnin' in circles,' that i haven't posted yet. so if you're somewhat confused regarding some of what ally is referring to. that's expected.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc
warnings: none, really.
word count: 2.7k
song inspo: ❝the scientist❞ by coldplay
credit: photos from pinterest. lace divider by @cursed-carmine and floral divider by @zclhs
masterlist + join my taglist
“This is a bad idea.”
Alamea has said as such throughout the whole process. From the moment she saw through a random perusing on her Instagram that Smackdown was just a city over to the way she ran it by the group chat with her mom and sisters, receiving mixed reviews. Her mother, however, being in total agreement.
Go figure.
Ally has known since that pivotal discussion in the kitchen where her mom stands on this whole coparenting thing. The same view then is the same view she has now, and Ally knows she won't be shifting from her stance anytime soon. Because while Alamea can flow and be moved easily sometimes, Taylor Dixon certainly cannot.
But, it’s the sweet sound of her baby boy cooing in his sleep in his carrier that reminds her why she’s doing this in the first place. That reminds her it’s not about her or her feelings. Not even about she and Roman.
It’s about their son.
What’s best for him, and regardless of how she feels about Roman some days—most days—it doesn’t change the fact that her baby boy smiles the brightest when he’s with his dad. And, if she’s being even more honest with herself, it’s one of the few times she sees Roman genuinely and truly happy.
Kinda like….like he was with her at one point.
Still is.
That is a far too confusing thing she refuses to tackle now.
Or…..ever, maybe.
She hasn’t really spoken to him much over the past two weeks. Since he popped up at her front door and especially after the events that followed. After she folded in a way, in the moment, never felt so right and afterwards, never felt so wrong.
He’s tried to speak with her about it. The morning after. As he was leaving. Even a text that she left on read, completely changing the subject a few hours later with a question regarding Gabriel.
That was the last time he’s attempted to bring it up, and she prays it stays that way.
She already told him how it would go.
“It’s just one night.” She lifts her hands to his face, his finally shifting to her waist, material of her shirt scrunched up and through his fingers. “And, it doesn’t mean anything.”
And, she meant it.
It can’t mean anything.
“Thank you.” Alamea offers a small smile to Thomas, the security officer with graying hair, deep bags around his eyes but the kindest spirit of anyone she’s ever come across. At 6’2, he’s a gentle giant whom she’s seen and had many conversations with during her time working with WWE. One of many she’s missed.
He offers her a mirroring grin, sharing, “it’s good to see you again, Ms. Dixon.”
“Still won’t call me Alamea, huh?” She chuckles, adjusting her backpack, careful not to rock too much, hoping and praying Gabriel will stay sleep a little longer. He’s always the grumpiest baby when his sleep is disturbed.
Gets it from his dad.
Thomas eyes gleam with something equally kind as him. “I think you know the answer to that.” His gaze then drops to the obvious elephant between them, a bit of floundering forming in her stomach.
Alamea has always been a private person, and the existence of her son, let alone who his father is, has been no exception. It’s been at the top of her priority list, but she also would guess that a man who probably has daughters her age would never lower himself or risk a decades long career to share such gossip.
It’s why she reaches and carefully pulls back the blanket covering Gabriel’s sleeping face, offering only, “it’s around his nap time.”
Thomas eyes grow with a warmth that’s equivalent to his smile. “He’s beautiful.” Her heart swells with something also warm at his next statement. “Looks like the both of you.”
If not for the fact that him knowing makes sense, she might have a different sort of reaction. But, it tracks. The time she spent with the Bloodline, with Roman to now being escorted outside his private locker room, baby in hand. If the facts didn’t paint the picture for the older man, experience certainly did.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, covering her baby boy, as Thomas offers a final, “let me know when you’re ready to leave. I’ll be sure to have a security detail for you two.”
“I appreciate that.” And, she does, though something tells her once Roman sees that they’re there…he’ll already be on it.
A final nod is all that’s offered when she lifts her hand to knock on the door but at the last minute decides against it.
Everyone else may knock, but not her.
It’s why she turns the knob and is hit with an almost instant blast from the past.
Like almost every city they visited, his locker room is decorated and designed almost the same as all the rest of them. Dark black leather seating. Low lighting. Table full of food and drinks. His favorites. His black leather bag he almost always travels with on the floor near the largest sofa.
“I asked not to be fucking bothered.”
Roman’s deep voice is heard before she lays eyes on him as he enters from the back. Naturally, his entire disposition changes the moment he sees who has “bothered” him.
For reasons she will not disclose, she opts to not focus on how good he looks. Even in just wearing his usual merch shirt, black cargo pants, and expensive Nikes. A double take at the sneakers remind and make her feel even better about deciding to put a pair on baby boy. To ensure his entire outfit is courtesy of his father. One of the many outfits and more that Roman has had sent to the house for Gabriel or personally delivered during one of his visits.
If there’s one thing he’s done so far, it’s spoil the hell out of her son.
She’s just about on a first name basis with the UPS, USPS, and FedEx drivers at this point.
Roman’s scowl drops, replaced with something soft and surprised. “Ally…”
And, just like that, she has to catch herself. Some part of her is bothered by how he continues to call her by her nickname. Another part can’t bear the thought of asking him to call her anything else.
“You—you were so close, I—I don’t know. I just….” She lifts up the carrier slightly, not missing the way his expression softens even more focusing on what and who he knows lies underneath the blanket. “I figured I’d bring him to you…for once.”
There is no better or more accurate word than appreciation for what flashes in his brown eyes. The way he swallows and starts inching towards her, stopping and asking almost tentatively. “Can I…”
Nodding quietly, she lifts the carrier, no delay in which Roman closes the distance and carefully takes it from her. “He’s sleeping, but something tells me he won’t be cranky if you wake him up.”
She’d almost bet on it.
Alamea moves to sit on the sofa, placing her backpack down on the floor near Roman’s as he sits on the opposite side of said sofa, keeping the space between them respectable. He lowers the carrier onto the floor, hesitating once more, as if apprehensive, before lifting the blanket and revealing the little man of the hour.
She almost wishes she had grabbed her phone to capture the moment Roman not only lays eyes on Gabriel but the way his jaw shifts and a tiny gasp escapes his mouth seeing his son dressed in one of his merch shirts, the one with the infamous ‘Acknowledge Me’ written in red and black, matching pants and a pair of Nike sneakers, not that dissimilar from the ones his father is currently wearing.
“He had to dress the part,” she shares in quiet voice, unsurprised when Roman doesn’t look at her, just continues to stare in awe at his son.
Love.
Nothing but love.
And, as if picking up on the presence of his other favorite person, Gabriel begins to stir from his sleep, with that same pout as his daddy when his eyes gradually blink open to awareness.
Roman smiles, fingers moving to undo the buckles. “Hey, buddy….”
If Gabriel’s vision wasn’t clear enough to make out the man before him, his ears complete the job. Their son staring in confusion only to break into the biggest smile as Roman carefully lifts him up, Ally’s heart swelling for the 18th time today seeing Roman hold him up, Gabriel doing the infant scrunch.
“Told you,” she chuckles, Roman finally looking over at her as he cradles the baby in his strong arms. Shifting so her legs are under her, she leans over and circles her finger over his stomach. “Not cranky at all….”
Far from it. Baby boy can’t stop staring at his daddy, pouty lips pressing together as he reaches to fist Roman’s shirt. “I missed you, Gabe.”
All the while she’s never seen the man beside her filled with so much joy and gratitude.
And, he expresses as such.
“Thank you, Ally.”
Another layer of vulnerability is pulled back. Roman is a prideful man. His ego and hubris bigger than the entire stadium. And then some. But, there’s nothing arrogant or condescending about the way he’s looking at her or the tone of his voice. In the way he quickly refocuses his all back on the tiny baby in his arms, his son.
Their son.
She offers a quiet, “you’re welcome.” Ally runs her tongue over her bottom lip and bends over to grab her phone from her backpack.
“You know the twins are here.”
She stills, fingers gradually gripping around the phone in hand. Something in her stomach flips as she sits back up. “Oh?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, switching Gabriel so he’s sitting on his dad’s lap, continuing to pull at Roman’s shirt that he eventually gets near his mouth. “Yeah.”
She waits for him to ask, already knowing that it’s coming, but he doesn’t. Not right away.
“I know,” he starts, Ally watching the way he keeps his hand behind Gabe’s back. “I know how you feel about him meeting my fam—”
“Then why are you asking?”
The minute it leaves her mouth is the same minute that she instantly regrets it. “I’m—” She closes her eyes, hand to her temple. “I’m sorry. I just—” Alamea blows out a heavy breath, doing her best to regulate her emotions, unsure what exactly has her chest beating so fast all of a sudden. They’ve had this conversation before, and every time, it’s the same outcome.
No.
She’s made it clear from day one that when it comes to Gabriel and Roman’s family, she doesn’t want her son around them. Some days, she barely wants Roman around him, but it’s something she’s working on.
Trying to, at least.
Ally thought that bringing Gabriel to Roman could be a start of something, and that was hard enough, but now he’s pushing in a way that irritates her. Trying to dictate in the way he always has. Roman isn’t used to being told no. Isn’t used to not getting his way and calling the shots. The past year has helped to humble him in many ways, but it’s still there. The thing that made everything fall apart.
Including them.
But, the conversation she had with her mom comes back to mind, quelling Ally’s growing frustration and readiness to take Gabriel and leave. Helps her to recognize the irrationality in that plan. She’s never had any issues with Jimmy and Jey. They were like brothers to her, and when she walked away from Roman, from WWE, she’d ultimately decided to walk away from them as well. Thought that cutting ties altogether was the best route.
She still believes that.
However…she also can’t negate the fact that the twins never did anything to her. Not nearly as much as the man across from her. And, it’s not even about her or even Roman. It’s about Gabriel. This is a one time thing. She doesn’t plan to make it a habit to pack up her baby and carry him all across the country and world to follow his daddy like she used to when it was just the two of them.
Sometimes, she wonder if she made a mistake when she took him to Roman after Clash in Paris.
If….if it set a precedent.
Not anymore than you sleep—
“It’s fine,” she answers. Offering a response is far better than being confronted with ugly truths by her inner conscious. “They…they can meet him.”
Roman’s expression is every bit the surprise, Gabriel staring up, mouth full of his daddy’s shirt that he’s drooling over. But, Roman’s gaze remains on her. “Really?”
She nods, shifting on the sofa. “Yeah, it’s….it’s fine.”
It’s not, but it’s also not the end of the world, and there’s a difference between the twins meeting Gabriel backstage at a show vs her flying out to Florida so he can meet the rest of Roman’s big ass family.
Ally isn’t ready for that.
She’s not sure she ever will be.
“Thank you,” he offers, and once more, there’s sincerity that’s rare for the man who is an emotional enigma most of the time.
Except when it comes to you.
Gabriel coos loudly, as if voicing his excitement at his mother’s agreement. It briefly drags Roman’s gaze back downward. “Why you gotta mess up my shirt like that, huh?”
She smiles softly, pushing her braids behind her ear. “That’s his latest thing.” She shakes her head, reaching over and attempting to pry the shirt from him only to be met with Gabriel starting to whine. “I swear, if I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s starting to teethe.”
“Isn’t it still a little early for that?”
“Technically,” she answers, thinking back to a conversation with his pediatrician. “But, every baby is different, and some have teeth start to come in as early as three months.” For her sake and the sake of her titties, Ally prays that’s not the case, because the minute Gabe bites her, she’ll be sticking to pumping and pumping only.
“Can you—”
Phone in between her legs, Ally reaches to take Gabriel from Roman only for her baby boy to start whining the minute he’s removed from his daddy’s lap. She gasps with faux offense at the rejection as Roman chuckles and lifts Gabe up, easily evoking a set of infantile giggles.
“Traitor.” She playfully sticks her tongue out to her son who suddenly doesn’t seem to care about her existence whatsoever. “Mama will remember that when you’re ready to be nursed.” It’s watching the two interact, father and son wholly immersed in each other, that an offer comes to mind. Where, she hasn’t a clue. Just knows that she surprises even herself when it comes out. “I guess we should stay for the show.”
Alamea wishes she’d been recording because the way two sets of eyes land on her, as if the three month-old, once again, is fully aware of what’s being said. Or, rather, what’s been offered.
Initially, her plan was to stick around for a little bit but certainly not the entirety of the show. Except, sitting there, in the moment, she can’t seem to settle on a reason to not at least wait until the end. If Roman is opening, that gives them, gives him, the rest of the evening to spend with Gabriel. And, if he’s closing, it still gives them a bulk of time together.
It just….it makes sense.
And, it might just be the only thing that does make sense, because the way Roman’s gaze lingers on her, interrupted only by Gabriel wigging excitedly has her diverting her gaze to the wall across from them.
It’s why she has to shove away those confusing emotions and feelings that keep her up at night, that make her twist and turn in bed when she’s wrecked by so many conflicting, confusing sentiments.
a/n: idk. this has religious connotations, so i'm not quite sure how many people would be interested. just a tester to see if anyone outside of arisylum will be interested. if not, no worries. i totally get it. the churchgirl!oc isn't everyone's cup of tea. i'll just keep it as an exclusive fic for them.
words: 1.2k
no tags. it's literally just an excerpt.
warnings: roman. he is his own warning.
The smile was ripped from his face at the sound of two quiet, steady knocks on the ajar door. Roman cut his eyes towards his cousin. Top lip curled upward, he jutted his chin towards said door. Jey rolled his shoulders and lifted off the sofa. The unspoken, understood task was infiltrated, however, by the entrance of an unwanted and uninvited guest.
Roman’s jaw ticked.
He fucking hates interruptions.
Except, his fingers digging into the worn leather of the bishop’s outdated, uncomfortable ass chair was the extent of his movement as his glare slipped into something else.
It’s hard to say what snagged his attention first. It could have been the indenture of her waist, cinched and hugged by the white shirt that fit perfectly around her midsection and flowed out and downward over the waistband of her dark jeans. Jeans that fit like a second skin and clung to wide hips that resembled an upside down heart. Perfectly full on both sides. The kind he could anchor his fingers into and use as reins while the weight of his heavy balls slapped into the meat of her ass. Gapless, thick thighs that kissed and rubbed together when she stepped into the office. Movement that redirected Roman’s gaze upward. He glided his thick, pink tongue over his bottom lip. The definition of the shirt continued around her chest area, showcasing big breast he knew would fit perfectly in his hands—soft under his coarse, calloused palms as he kneaded them like dough. His thumb flickering over pebbled nipples, his tongue greedily traveling the defined valley of her chest.
Or, maybe he’d hone his focus on her lips. Full, flesh colored with a flushed pink tint, cupid’s bow partially obscured by the shadow of her nose. A perfect line from the top, sliding down the bridge, and landing at the tip that widened when she smiled.
Pearly white teeth the perfect contrast to the hue of her complexion, warm, smooth, and pigmented like jarred honey. Her eyes swirls of mahogany and cognac dancing around dark pupils. Arched, dark, full, eyebrows that extended past the edge of her eyes and boasted short, dark hairs that were neatly defined. Similar to the hair on her head, slicked back into a long ponytail that lounged over her left shoulder.
Maybe it was all of it.
All of her that had Roman no longer irritated but instead shoving away bloody, sadistic thoughts and urges. Murderous impulses slapped onto the counter and slid across the glass in exchange for the intrigue and curiosity dropped into his palm without him even being in the market for such things.
And lust.
But, that shit stopped being a guest feature a long time ago when in the vicinity of a fine ass woman. More of a leading role than anything.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. Her voice light and smooth like her skin that shined and glistened under the sun beaming through the adjacent glass stained window, flowed through the room like a tributary brook racing to reach the riverbend. “I didn’t know you had—”
“I’m busy.” Bishop’s interruption temporarily refocused the Tribal Chief. “I’ll talk to you la—”
But, Roman was having none of it. “And who is this?”
There was a tremendous amount of effort exerted by Roman to withhold his smile at the way the Bishop’s eyes widened.
The fear in the old man’s gaze.
It gifted Roman the same thrill felt when in the ring, his fists pummeling and decimating whoever was idiotic enough to think one could go against a God and live to tell the story.
A story that his Bloodline have always—and will always—dictate from beginning to end.
“She’s nobody.”
“Daddy.”
The light, melodic laughter accompanied a quick, subtle glance between Roman and his cousins.
Oh.
A quick chuckle snuck past closed lips, Roman once more retaining the smug smirk, as he instead opted for a sly wink to the Bishop.
This just got so much better.
“I’m Abigail,” she introduced. A small wave and look around the room with an added, “but everyone calls me Abby.”
“Abby,” Roman repeated. Accentuated and elongated, he said it aloud once and to himself twice. The name rolled off his tongue with the ease of a trained, experienced linguistic veteran as if acquiring a new, previously undiscovered word. He committed it to memory. “Bishop.” Roman addressed the man, but his eyes remained glued onto the girl who held his gaze with a innocent naivety he’d already calculated three different ways he could use to his advantage. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Full lips stretched into a cheshire smile. “A beautiful one at that.”
The pink tint of her lips traveled to her cheeks, her head dropping as Roman allowed his smirk to finally escape the cage of self-control.
This is going to be too fucking easy.
“I’m Jimmy,” Roman’s cousin introduced, standing and breaking their silence post the arrival of Abby. He gestured to Jey who stood and lingered near the plum leather sofa, arms still crossed. “This my brother, Jey.”
Her smiled widened, Roman noticing the deep dimples of her rounded cheeks. “It’s so nice to meet you. Welcome.” Jimmy offered reciprocation. Jey remained quiet, as she turned her focus back onto Roman who still sat quiet in her father's chair. “And you?”
“Abigail.”
Roman ignored the clergyman and stood. He had to cast aside the desire to grab the paperweight on his desk and bash in the side of his head until crimson blood splattered and dripped off Roman's panting body, the weapon of choice, and the features of the old man's aged face disfigured beyond recognition.
That shit could come later.
Roman rolled his neck and shoulders, eyes flickering up to see the unspoken pleading in the older man who hadn’t shifted from where he stood on the opposite side of the office.
Please.
The desperation made Roman’s chest bloom and flutter with indecent satisfaction.
He turned the corner of the desk, not missing the way his cousins’s straightened. With each step taken, the energy shifted, parted and made way. His presence always commanded. Always dominated. Always filled. Some men occupy with size and stature alone. Roman’s stature and size occupied the physical essence of space, but his existence alone is what ruled.
What conquered.
He stopped when he stood directly in front of her. Her smile greeted him, but the scent of her perfume—fresh and fruity—halted him. It was different. He was used to the heavy, usually overwhelming aroma of spice and oud from his ex’s. Unnecessary layers applied to pulse points that palpitated into him, invaded his senses, and made his nostrils burn. Slender fingers wrapped around and stroking his erect dick, eventually replaced by swollen lips, the only consolation offered in the face of odoriferous discomfort.
It was different.
She was different. That much was obvious from the moment she stepped in the room, but it became abundantly evident when he saw the tiny gasp leave her mouth as he approached her. The slight falter in her smile, the deepening of the red in her cheeks, the elevation and descent of the soft lump in the middle of her neck.
Just like that, Roman knew he’d added yet another chapter to the book.
“Roman,” he introduced and offered his hand. Hypothesis upgraded into a theory when she accepted his faux offer of pleasantry. He cloaked his hand over hers, much smaller than his own. Just as soft as he imagined, caustic molding with pliable, the view of her petite fingers obscured by his own, longer, thicker, harsher. Caged and caught like a lamb seeking sanctuary from the slaughter only to land in the clutches of the butcher himself. “Roman Reigns.”
author’s note: this started off as just some freaky shit i wrote in anticipation of bucket head clocking in yesterday.
#jokesonme
warnings: smut. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. unhealthy relationships. strong themes of infidelity. it's all so messy tbh.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc
word count: 6.7k+
credit: photos from pinterest. gif from google.
Heaven swore up and down that the last time was just that—the last time. That she would never feel the softness of the 400 thread count sheets under her nude body, head reclined back into the soft pillows, fluttering gaze focused on the coffered ceiling, trimmed around each side, hazy under the dimmed yellow lighting.
Said that it was the last time she’d moan his name.
That was a lie.
Because the very thing she promised herself would never happen again is exactly what’s happening.
Her almond acrylics, painted a vibrant blue that contrasts with her deep melanin and matches with that of her young daughter, dig into the sheets the same way he digs into her. Legs up on his shoulders, a look down the length of her body, over the rolls of her stomach grant her the view that has her pussy clenching around him.
In and out, he drives into her with focused, deep strokes. His fat, long member glistening white from the combination of their juices. Disappearing and reappearing, each entrance making her pussy emit a loud, crude squelching sound that’s matched only by her moans that echo throughout the tour bus.
A tour bus she’s allowed the man above to defile her in one too many times.
“Fuck, Hev,” his groaned curse above makes her redirect her gaze upwards, eyes partially shut, head back, bliss painted all over his handsome face. “Feels better every fucking time.”
She abhors the way his words make her pulse around him once more. There should have never been a first time, let alone multiple after times.
“Play with your pussy for me, baby.”
His borderline growled command is met with almost unavoidable obedience. The way her hand snakes down to her enlarged pearl, the first and slightest flicker making her hiss quietly, stomach caving.
Each caress and stroke along with the way he fucks into her upping the ante. The increased weight as he leans over, reaching and fucking her deeper, making her moan his name louder, waves and echoes that slam into every inch of the bus.
Much like any of the other times he’s managed to ease his way inside of her, they switch positions right as she feels she’s about to reach the mountain top.
Once under him, she’s now on top, bouncing on his dick, his hands planted on her hips as he fucks up into her.
“Look how good you take this dick,” he groans, fingers digging into her ass, left hand smoothing up her body, squeezing her breast, thumb and index finger pinching her nipple. “You ain’t been fucked right since the last time, huh?”
She has to ignore him, a task that’s a lot easier said than done given how fucking gone she is. Headboard slapping agains the wall the same way his heavy balls slap against her ass with each thrust he meets her for.
“He could never handle you,” he continues, her hands on his chest to steady her. “Never deserved you in the first fucking place.”
“N—neither do y—you.” Where her response comes from, she hasn’t the slightest clue. She typically ignores when he does this, pokes the bear, peels back layers that should remain untouched. Makes her face just one of the many uncomfortable truths about this whole thing.
But over 15 years of knowing the man underneath her should have taught her that if it’s one thing Roman Reigns always does, it’s have the last word.
She whimpers when he grinds his dick inside her, making her gasp and scratch at his chest. “Then why are you riding my dick right now and not his?”
It’s the question she keeps asking herself every time it happens, especially in the massive waves of guilt that follow each sin.
She says nothing.
An unacceptable response.
“Say my name, Heaven.”
The darkening of his voice is accompanied by his hand moving up to her neck. Her eyes shut, but even without the aid of her vision, she can still feel and see the way his eyes burn into her.
A slap to her ass followed by reiteration. “Say it.”
She almost slips up, almost feeds the need of either his ego or his something else, but she remains strong, even as he slams up into her, essentially overtaking any control she previously had by being on top.
Except, once more a reminder that Roman has never done well with not getting his way.
Another switch of positions, Heaven once again on her back, Roman’s big hands restraining her wrists above her head. His mouth is on her as she tightens her thick thighs around his waist, ankles locked at the top of his firm ass.
He groans into their kiss—slow, sloppy, spit swapping—forehead against hers. “Say it.”
And the final request, pained and desperate, is where her resolve starts to crumble. It starts with the way she tugs against his unforgiving restraint, not to be released, but to feel. To be able to run her hands along every sharp, taut, defined ridge of muscle, and dark ink wrapped around smooth skin. To push back his silky hair that rainfalls around her face, enclosing her in, almost symbolizing the way way nothing and no one exists outside of them.
“Roman.”
Dangerous, risky, forbidden. All of the terms still apply but none of them matter, because the minute he loosens his grip and she palms his face, smashing her lips onto his, continuing to whisper and repeat his name like a secret prayer that can only bring about salvation…it’s the only thing she cares about.
“I can’t let go of you, Hev,” he breathes, continuing to thrust in and out of her, their bodies moving as one. In perfect sync, as if designed that way and for that one, sole purpose. “I’ve tried. I can’t.”
She clenches her eyes shut, unwilling to let the tears fall. Crying from the bliss and pleasure the sex between them brings is one thing but crying over what lies so much deeper than just the physical….Heaven can’t bring herself to do that. Won’t allow herself to do it, because then she has to finally acknowledge a truth she’s starting to think might have always existed.
Something she—and maybe him—tried to deny.
But, something that’s burning to emerge to the surface.
She yelps when he drags his hands to the back of her thighs, tugging her even closer, despite it not being humanly possible for her to be—or feel—any closer to him than what's felt right now.
“Why should he get you?” The increased rhythm and intensity of his hips slamming into her are juxtaposed to the borderline growl of his rhetorical question. “Mine. You should have always been mine.”
Heaven hates the way she clings closer at his words.
But, long-term vulnerability has never been one of Roman’s gifts in life. At least, not in the romantic aspect. Give an inch, then retreat back ten yards or more. That’s been him as long as she’s known him, that they’ve known each other, that their families have known each other and become intertwined in a way that makes this whole act of betrayal that much more sickening.
The expressions of adoration and emotionality are swapped out as he flips her once more, on her hands and knees, fist full of her hair, snapping his hips almost erratically with enough force to make the bed rock and creak over and over again.
“Look at you,” he groans. “Pussy dripping and making a fucking mess all over me.” She moans and gasps when he brings his mouth to side of her face, licking upwards on her temple. “Bet he never got you this fucking wet.”
Heaven isn’t sure what she hates more. The fact that he’s right or the use of ‘got.’ Past tense. Like, he knows she can’t remember the last time she was intimate with her husband. Months, for sure.
Or, perhaps there was a moment or two in between then that never stuck, because Jey has never really fucked her in the way Roman does. Has.
Maybe when they were younger. Two young teens with hopes and aspirations that sometimes exceeded reality. Lost in one another. And, maybe even that was dented and embedded with flaws she never recognized. Jey was her first everything. First boyfriend. First love. First time. Maybe it was all of the inaugural aspects of their relationship that blinded her to the faults that seem to only increase with each passing year.
Or, maybe Heaven just wants to find something to try to help her justify her behavior.
A waste of time.
There’s no justification for a married woman falling in bed with a man who is also married. Especially when said man is the cousin of one’s husband and the husband of her cousin. More of a sister than anything.
A label and title that should be stripped away, because what kind of sister does this?
“You’re close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He continues, the burning in her elbows, coiling in her stomach and throbbing of her pussy all the telltale signs she knows that he knows very well by now. “Can feel it in the way she gripping me. Fuuccck,” he curses. One look over her shoulder reveals he too is close. All the tell tales on full display. Head tilted back once more, the bite on his full bottom lip, the flush of his cheeks and the increasing sloppiness of his fucking.
They’re both near the edge.
“Where do you want me, Angel?” She grips the sheets and groans quietly, feeling his palm move over the apple of his ass. “Tell daddy where you want his cum.”
Damn him.
Once more, an equal amount of frustration as is passion and lust, the latter overpowering the former.
“In—inside me.”
She knows better than to push him this second time. Knows to give him an answer. The only answer she can, or maybe, the only answer she wants to provide.
It didn’t start out this way, her repulsive request for the grand finale. For most women, it’s anything but. For her, it’s all a part of the packaged deal she can’t seem to dismantle and break apart.
“Heaven.”
A final moan of her name, the feel of his final, deep, hard strokes until she can’t feel anything more than the rush that soars through her entire body. The collapse onto the mattress, the feel of him jerking, still embedded deep within her fat pussy. His weight her as he holds and falls on top of her, kisses peppered along her shoulder and the side of her face. Quiet words of praise as he grinds his dick into her ass, intent on stuffing and filling her to the brim with his cum.
Just as she’d requested.
There’s an audible pop sound as he tugs himself from her used, swollen walls, their conjoined juices dripping from his gradually softening cock. The sheets that hold all of their dirty secrets absorb the quiet whimper at the feel of his dickhead swiping up and down her folds, two of his thick fingers plunged inside of her, pushing it in deeper.
Laying claim to what was never his to begin with.
Not that it’s stopped him—or them—before.
She lays there, waiting for him to bring the towel so they can clean up some of the mess made. The right thing to do is to barricade herself in the bathroom on his bus and wash up as best as possible. For a variety of reasons. One of them being she’s almost certain that they’re nearing the end of the show, which means he’ll need to be out there.
But, that doesn’t happen. What instead happens is what typically occurs following….this.
Roman returns, having cleaned up himself well enough, drags one towel over her cunt, ass, and inside of her thighs. Lifts up her lower body just enough to lay down another towel to absorb what the first did not. And then the sound of the bed creaking as he joins her, on his back looking up at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair.
She lays there, on her stomach, naked, exposed, and used in the filthiest ways by a man who wears a wedding band on his left hand placed there by not her.
Similar to the ring on her left hand.
“You ever think about it?”
His words shattering the silence are vague yet the opening for another Pandora’s box she knows she shouldn’t open. Should leave it alone.
If only it was that easy.
“Think about what?”
Heaven watches the motion of his Adam’s apple. “If things were different.” She frowns, as he looks over at her. “If we did things differently.”
There are several different things he could be referring to, but for some reason, whatever reason, what comes to mind is the first time.
Not when emotions, passion, and attraction reached a high a few years ago. That was the first time she broke her marital vows, but it wasn’t the first time the line was crossed, period.
It’d happened before that. When she and the man staring back at her kickstarted what would be a confusing, complicated, messy years long thing. They were both in college, both attending Georgia Tech, Jey in Texas, and Camryn, her cousin and Roman’s girlfriend, now wife, back in Florida. Attending a local university so she’d have more help taking care of their young son, Nathan. Teen parents who were doing the best they could, all things considered.
Heaven was always close with the family. Meeting them through her cousin who she stayed with every summer since the age of six. Only a few months apart, Camryn and Heaven, both only children, bonded instantly and became the closest of friends. Sisters.
Roman’s family lived in the same neighborhood as Camryn. The Usos were less than five minute away. Heaven quickly formed a bond with the boys as well. Had an instant crush on all of them from the initial meeting, though something about Jey always lulled her in his direction. It wasn’t until their early teens, however, that he expressed having feelings for her as well, the confession resulting in them becoming a couple. She loved him. Loved him something deep, which was why she was riddled with agony and unforgiving guilt when she woke up one morning, naked and hungover, Roman right beside her in a similair state.
To this day, she’s not sure how it happened. But, it had, and they both expressed shared regret along with mutual agreement that it was best to not tell their respective partners. A night wiped from the books, never to be spoken of again.
But, some things cannot be erased, leaving behind a potentially permanent reminder.
It led to one of the hardest, important decisions Heaven has ever made in her life. It made the most sense though. Roman was only 21 and already had one child, Nathan, still a toddler at the time. She was 19 and had barely started life, not to mention all the other reasons it just couldn’t happen.
The right decision was made. She knows this. But, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t wonder from time to time.
What if.
Roman might not be the best husband, but he’s one hell of a father, and it’s reflected in the close relationship he has with his son. 23 and a tight end for the San Francisco 49ers. First round draft pick.
It’s something she’s always admired about him. How he never fails to prioritize his family. Maybe not his wife, but Heaven knows better than most how rocky that’s been for them. Not even that, however, has prevented and gotten in the way of him always showing up for his firstborn. No matter what.
Sometimes….sometimes she wonders about that, too.
If…if things would be slightly or completely different if he knew. How his and Nathan’s life would have turned out, how their relationship would be if Camryn revealed the truth. A truth Heaven’s cousin has only shared with her and no one else. A secret Heaven will die with, because at the end of the day, biological or not, a revelation would only do more harm than good.
And, she’s caused enough harm to their family already.
To her own husband.
Truth be told, she’d thought that her long distance relationship with Jey wouldn’t last. Especially for such young kids. But, it had. They made it work. Not without ebbs and flows, especially once Jey flunked out of college and didn’t really know what he was doing with his life. Similair to Roman whose NFL hopes and dreams were dashed, leaving him doing what he could and whatever he had to do to provide for Camryn and his son.
Roman has always been a provider, and she’s always respected him immensely for it.
Jey is the same.
In some ways.
But….not in a way she would have liked.
She was definitely the breadwinner at various points in their relationship. Flunking out of school led to her husband spiraling and only finding solace at the bottom of a bottle. There were affairs. He never admitted it, but she knew. Still, she stayed. She stuck by him because she loved him. Because she believed in him.
Believed in them.
Wanted to believe that it would all work out in the end, even if she set aside and sacrificed her own aspirations in following in both her parents footsteps and becoming a lawyer. Watching and supporting her cousin get to where she is now as one of the top real estate agents in the state of Florida.
It never bothered Heaven though. She’d always been the type to be genuinely happy for those she loves. Holding onto hope for her own happy ending. Of one day going to law school.
Starting a family.
But, things don’t always turn out the way we plan.
She’s not sure when exactly it started, but as Jey found his peace and redemption in wrestling, started to make a name for himself alongside Roman who completely rebranded and changed the game forever, something was lost along the way.
Jey stopped coming home as much. Stayed on the road for weeks at a time. Stopped inviting her on said road for occasional visits. Presented with an irritability she couldn’t understand when she asked what were, to her, innocent questions. The higher his star rose, the more distance she felt forming between them. She did her best to make the most of their time when he would come home to visit, but it only ever felt like he wanted what was between her legs versus spending actual, quality time with her like she wanted.
And, then, it happened.
She found out she was pregnant.
Something she was thrilled about.
Something he was not thrilled about.
It still hurts her to this day when she recalls the almost scowl on his face. The ‘you sure?’ that he kept repeating even as she showed him the sonogram. The appointments he missed. There for Macy’s birth but gone three days later. A pattern, of sorts. Even now, their little girl, going on five and starting to ask more questions about her dad, why he’s never home, and the way Jey always seems to dance around the discussion of taking time off, it makes her wonder.
She thought he’d eventually come around to fatherhood, especially as he’d told her from the beginning that he wanted kids, but she’s not entirely certain anymore.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, especially when juxtaposed to the role Roman plays in Macy’s life.
The restructuring of his contract a few years prior allowed him to be home more, an ironic thing considering the taking off of Camryn’s side consultant business kickstarted a lot more travel along with their son also out of the house at that point. It made him available when Jey was not. When Jimmy and Naomi were home, they’d help out, too, but they also traveled frequently like Heaven’s husband.
And, with majority of her family back home in North Carolina and a small friend group in Florida, that really left only her husband’s cousin who was also Heaven’s good friend and a confidant.
Even when he and Jey went through their nasty bout a few years back. Though that was never much of a surprise to those close to the family. As close as the guys were, she always felt and noticed some level of lingering, unspoken tension between her husband and his cousin. It’d never really been discussed much nor did she ever really receive a clear answer when she probed, thus her just leaving it alone.
Now, a few years later, in the past few weeks especially, she’s started to detect slight sparks that indicate a return.
Mostly caused by, of all things, Roman’s relationship with Macy. It started a few months ago, really. Snide comment here and there from her husband about what Heaven considered insignificant and not worth getting upset over. The photo of a smiling Macy taking a selfie with her uncle Roman that was the lock screen on her tablet. The gallery on said tablet filled with family pictures and silly selfies that had more of her uncle than her own father. Jey’s irritation with how whenever Roman was working a show or PLE, he made sure to fly out Heaven and Macy with him so the five year-old could see her dad.
To a certain extent, Heaven can see why and understand Jey’s frustration. She really can. But, the fact of the matter is that the reason Roman holds such a close relationship with their—her—daughter is because he’s been there since day one.
Roman and Camryn. And in more recent years, Roman more than anything.
It was Roman who offered to attend OB-GYN appointments with her. Roman who was at the hospital with her, waiting in the lobby, Camryn on her left side, her mom on the right, when she went into labor. Jey barely made it by the skin of his teeth for the birth of their daughter.
Roman was there less than an hour after her water broke.
Roman and/or Camryn handled preschool pickups for her so that she didn’t have to leave her job. Sometimes still pick Macy up from kindergarten when Heaven gets held up at the office.
When Macy was only six months old and running a 102 fever as a baby, it was Roman who sat with her in the emergency room—Camryn out of town. When Macy had her preschool graduation, Roman was the one in attendance. Not Jey. It’s “Uncle Roman” that Macy asks about more and more about and for as she gets older.
Sometimes….sometimes it does make Heaven nervous. How easily and quickly Macy bonded to and with him. The…the resemblance. Same smile. Similar personalities. Same eyes…
Heaven has even gone as far as falling down the rabbit hole. Stumbling across gossip threads and forums with 15+ pages of speculation and rumors accompanied by candids snapped of herself, Roman, and Macy.
One user going as far as putting together, side by side, a photo snapped of her baby girl at Mania' two years ago and one of Roman when he was around that age.
Heaven almost cracked the screen of her laptop with the force and speed in which she slammed it shut.
That was the last time she ever allowed herself to look at such things.
Has never sat down and did the math. Looked at the calendar. Checked the dates in Flo. That’s a road she refuses to allow herself to venture down.
Because nothing good would come of it. Too many lives would be ruined.
Things are better as they are.
Even if still fucked up, nevertheless.
“Not really,” she answers, unsurprised when his mouth dips into a frown. Unable and unwilling to dive any deeper, to risk him seeing past the lie that flowed so smoothly off her lips, she moves to climb off the bed, gathering her clothes, grateful when he doesn’t call her name as she heads for the bathroom.
Grateful because she fully recognizes the lack of will on her end to resist him.
—————
Disappearing while technically being at the show for her daughter and to see her husband, as of the last few visits, hasn’t really been as much of an issue given the arguments that have lately preceded her arrival.
Again, small, trivial things that get blown out of proportion but result in Heaven letting Macy spend alone time with Jey while she almost always gets coaxed into joining Roman on his bus or his private locker room.
Where they usually fuck.
Not always though.
Sometimes….sometimes, they just talk. Her leaned into him, eyes shut as he presses his lips against her tempe, their fingers threaded, the peace his presence grants her something she’s never found in another soul.
Not even her husband.
Before Jimmy started taking more time off and especially now that Naomi is on maternity leave, those alone, close, intimate moments happen more often that not.
Have become a regular.
But, the moment she walks through the back of the arena, offering small smiles to those in passing, superstars and crew alike, Roman only a few feet behind, the peace is instantly crushed and replaced with panic when her eyes land on the scene before her.
Jey on one knee, hands placed on Macy’s little shoulders, the Yeet shirt two sizes too large and draping off her frame, yet another small but telling indicator of the distance that exists between himself and his daughter.
He doesn’t even know what size she wears.
Rushed footsteps carry her over, frown deepening the closer she gets and realizes Macy’s head is down, hands over her ears, mouth scrunched up into a pout. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are clenched shut.
“What happened?” Heaven demands, but her focus is on her daughter as she bends down and gently cups her face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Jey is the one to answer, his gaze bouncing back and forth between herself and Roman who she’s 100% certain carries the same concerned expression. “She was fine at first. Smiling and shit.”
Before Heaven can press on the “at first” part of his response, her attention is refocused on her daughter who offers a quiet, emotional “loud” that puts all the pieces together.
Roman, however, is the first to say something.
“Did you take her out there?”
Heaven beckons Macy into her arms, her little girl melting into her mother’s warm embrace, as she kisses the top of her head and stands up, Macy's small arms wrapped around her neck.
“It was just a short promo,” is the defensive answer as Jey stands, glasses sitting atop his head. “Wasn’t even that long.”
It’s only because of the concern that flows through Heaven for her baby girl that she doesn’t snap at Jey on the spot.
It all makes sense. Macy shutting down and clearly feeling overwhelmed. Because she is.
Because of Jey.
“Can you go hang out with Uncle Roman for me for a little bit, baby?” It’s a question that doesn’t even really need to be asked, Heaven already knowing the answer. Macy wordless nods into her, Heaven pressing a final, lingering kiss to her head before handing her over to Roman, Macy already reaching for him.
Heaven doesn’t need to say anything else, Roman already walking away, most likely to take her to his locker room so she can calm down and find much needed silence.
It’d be best for Heaven to ask Jey to take them to his locker room, but the absence of her child opens the door for the bulk of her rage.
She doesn’t give a fuck who hears or sees shit.
“What the hell were you thinking, Jey?” She snaps, hand formed into a fist at her side, the tips of her nails digging into the skin of her palm. “Why the fuck would you take her out there?”
“Aye, watch your tone.”
“Answer me!” She shouts, uncaring at the few glances cast their way as she drills into him. “You know that’s too much for her! I told you it was too much for her.”
He sucks his teeth. “She didn’t say nothing.”
“She’s five. She shouldn’t have to,” Heaven stresses, hating the way her chest starts to tighten the way it almost always does when they argue about something near and dear to her heart. Especially as it pertains to her daughter.
“Look.” His voice deepens as he steps closer, tone dipping. “I asked her if she wanted to do it with me. She said yes. I don’t see what the prob—”
“Again, she’s five, Jey.” Heaven doesn’t know how many goddamn times she has to point this shit out to a grown ass man, but it’s beyond redundant and frustrating at this point. “And, she probably said yes, because she just wants to spend time with you. But, you can’t be bothered to learn what things to do to bond with your own daughter, because you’re too goddamn busy with this stupid Yeet shit!”
Even in the moment, she recognizes that she’s taken it too far. That her words are unnecessarily hurtful, but they’re fueled by a mother’s protectiveness and a father’s careless, borderline dangerous indifference.
Heaven can still recall every single piece of information pertaining to all the developments. The initial suspicions she had just hours after giving birth, the almost tedious and cautious way the doctors almost tried to dance around the subject before suggesting “additional” testing. The way her eyes locked with Jey’s through the glass as she sat in the chair, holding her sweet baby girl, already knowing the outcome of the screening the minute she saw his eyes water.
A few follow-up tests later confirmed it. Macy was born with bilateral sensorineural hearing loss. Bilateral in that it was in both ears.
She couldn’t hear.
She was deaf.
It was a jarring, unexpected diagnosis that left Heaven reeling with so many questions and concerns not seemingly shared by Jey. While she leaned into the grief, knowing she needed to fully feel her emotions to be best able to care for her daughter, he avoided them like the plague.
Sometimes she thinks that’s why he left just a few days after Macy’s birth.
Avoidance behavior.
He couldn’t take it, which was understandable but unfair in that it left the weight of the discovery a burden no wife should have to carry alone.
But, she wasn’t. She was surrounded by a circle of love and support. Her mom stayed with her for almost a month. Roman and Camryn made and kept themselves available. Even Jey’s parents whom she’s always held a close relationship with.
It helped, but at the core of it, what Heaven wanted—needed most—was her husband.
If only he recognized as such.
Still, the day that her baby girl was fitted for and set up with her hearing aids, when Heaven saw the way Macy’s big brown eyes followed the sound of her mother’s voice, when Heaven realized that her daughter had finally heard her mother’s voice for the first time….she broke down. It will always be one of the best days of her life.
Her mother, Camryn, and Roman in the room with her.
Jey was not.
On top of hearing aids and several visits and appointments with a child audiologist and neurologist, they got Macy set up with speech therapy at a young age. All of the early intervention steps have allowed her to be a happy, healthy little girl, but she has her struggles. One of them being loud noises something that’s overwhelming and overstimulating for her. And, Heaven can’t think of something as loud and boisterous as the WWE crowd, especially and primarily when her dad does his famous “Yeet” opening.
The very thing he did with her tonight. The thing Heaven was never in agreement with the first time Jey suggested Macy join him, their sweet baby just wanting to “be like daddy” but ending up coming out on the other end crying and hysterical, Heaven turning off Macy’s hearing aids so she could find decompression in the silence.
Jey was there for that. He saw how Macy reacted, so how he could allow a second time to occur is beyond infuriating.
Reckless, too.
“I guess I can’t just do nothing right, huh?” He scoffs, gesturing to her up and down with a grimace on his face. “I guess I’m just—I’m just some fuck up of a dad.”
Heaven’s eyes double in size, the disbelief reflected in the way her jaw drops. “Are you seriously making this about you right now?” She shouldn’t be surprised. This is becoming a typical thing for him at this point, and for the life of her she can’t recall if it’s a newfound trait of his—unintentional gaslighting—or if it’s always been there.
And, she didn’t see it.
Or didn’t want to, at least.
He maintains his stance, however, digging his feet in the dirt even deeper. “You standing here chastising me like I’m some fucking child, and I’m not a child, Heaven. I’m a grown ass man.”
“So act like one then, Jey!” She shoots back, still unbothered by the eavesdropping of those nearby, noticing the slower steps taken intended to prolong the audible space of their heated argument. “I’m tired of always having to be the parent. Taking care of our daughter while you out here acting like your only job is this. You never have time to come see us, but I can open Instagram and see you riding around drunk with people you don’t even know!”
Back in their late teens and especially early twenties, Heaven can admit the entire friend group was big on partying. Maybe not all the time but definitely a bulk of the time. They had their fun, did the wild, crazy things most people laugh about when reflecting on such days. However, they all eventually grew out of it, recognizing that certain things should and must be put behind oneself as a result of age, maturity, and life in general.
She certainly has.
Camryn has.
Roman has.
Jimmy has.
Jey….not so much.
It almost feels like him being thrusted in the spotlight and being as over as he is right now, how successful he is, has made him want to recapture certain aspects of his youth that, in Heaven’s opinion, should remain exactly where they belong.
In the past.
If only her husband viewed it the same.
“Yeah, you fucking trippin’. I’m grown, Heaven,” he counters. A part of her, though she hides it well, is somewhat hurt that her words don’t seem to penetrate but instead bounce off the steel exterior of a man she’s starting to no longer recognize. “I do what the fuck I want. I don’t answer to you.”
She grows silent, watching the way his brows cave in, subtle twitch of his nose and the anger in his eyes. Standing right before him, she’s never felt such a distance.
“No….” She swallows. “You don’t.”
More needs to be said. The silence that befalls them is drowned out by the thumping her chest, a painful recognition of a deterioration that perhaps started longer than she would like to admit. Even she can even allow herself to admit as such.
Clearing her throat, the sound of people walking and moving past them return to the front seat at she turns to walk away, partially hoping that her husband calls after her. Attempts to keep her from leaving. Tries something.
He does nothing.
By the time she’s outside the door of Roman’s locker room, the tears have already started to fall. She uses the back of her hand to blot her eyes despite it being a waste of time. The minute she walks in, he’ll see, and he’ll know. Roman has always been exceptionally observant, a great skill for one to have in most regards but not right now.
She doesn’t want to talk about this, and he’ll no doubt push and pry.
He can be annoying like that.
Blowing out a breath and smoothing down the creases in her shirt, she bites the bullet and walks in. Met with dim lighting and almost silence, she walks over to the curved leather sofa where Roman’s gaze falls on her at the same time she’s focused on her daughter.
One of the first things she notices is the fact that Macy is no longer wearing her father’s merch. Or, rather it’s covered up by the OTC hoodie Roman got for her last year—perfectly sized—that she almost never travels without and hates when Heaven washes. It’s one of her favorite pieces of clothing. The colorful, rainbow Build-A-Bear in her lap that’s seen better days is also cradled into her chest. Cookie. Macy’s comfort stuffed animal she absolutely will not travel without. Even likes taking to school with her.
Also a gift from Roman.
She’s sitting in Roman’s lap, legs spread across his slightly spread thick thighs, her head laid against his chest, eyes shut, mouth set in an almost perfect line. Peaceful. She looks so at peace.
Then again, she always does when….when she’s with him.
“What the fuck did he do now?”
The stark and abrasive tone of Roman’s voice makes Heaven switch from admiring her sweet little girl to glaring at the man who is seconds away from waking her up. The concern must be show on his face. “I turned them off.”
Oh.
Them being Macy’s hearing aids.
It tracks though. When the noise becomes too much, the silence is what heals.
“Now answer my question.” She sighs, sitting on the other end of the sofa, reaching and fiddling with the shoe strings of Macy’s Nike’s. “What did he say to—”
“We’ll fly home with you tonight.”
Her interruption is a combination of things. Deflection. Frustration. Exhaustion. But, mostly a heaping pile of defeat.
The arguments are becoming so draining, and while she initially planned to stay until tomorrow afternoon, or whenever Jey had to leave, that no longer feels like the best option. He’s upset with her, and when he gets that way, he doesn’t know how to fake a smile and put on a show for the sake of their child.
She doesn’t want to keep exposing Macy to that.
She doesn’t want to keep exposing Macy to any of it.
So, it’s best they depart the same way they they arrived.
♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 | ⇢ it's the most wonderful time of the year as roman and solana celebrate lina and leya's second christmas and tama's first. all is well....or, is it?
♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 | ⇢ this is set when it's just the og's. a certain sub-storyline was included following an ironic ask considering it happens around this timeframe anyway......anyhoo, merry christmas, friends! ❤️🎄
♡ — 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓 ⇢ graphics and dividers made by me.
♡ — 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — ♡
December 25, 2027
The initial tickle is the first thing that’s felt. Scratchy, almost coarse hair against the soft skin of her neck. Familiar. Similar to the feel of hands roaming, exploring, tugging and pulling at the thin, vexing material of her gown. Red, sheer, the outline of her hardened, chocolate areolas and smooth skin visible beneath the sexy lingerie piece that she’d surprised her husband with the night prior.
He’d admired it for a solid minute or two before doing as he typically does, snatching it off her body, leaving her naked and exposed to him just the way he likes. As Solana comes to, eyes gradually blinking open while her husband continues to trail hot, open mouthed kisses along the length of her shoulder and arm, memories gradually return.
The way they made love before falling asleep, eventually awaking to the sound of their son crying, Solana waking and redressing, robe over her negligee as she made her way over to Tama’s nursery. The minute she hit the switch for the dimmed lighting, not wanting to blind or startle him with the full, bright fluorescent lighting, she’s met with the sight of her baby boy standing up in his crib, chubby hands gripping the railing, face contorted into misery and distress. It tugs at her heart, Solana quickly picking him up and kissing his flushed cheeks, rocking and humming to soothe him, his cries naturally fading out into sounds of comfort and “mama” pressed into the now damp material of her robe. It’s the usual routine as she brings him downstairs into the kitchen, giving him his nighttime bottle.
He stays in her lap as she sits at the dining room table, the glimpse of him briefly teething the nipple of the bottle just another reminder as to why she had to transition him from breastfeeding to pumping and letting the bottle in hand provide him his sustenance. Eight. Four at the top. Four at the bottom. She’d tried when it was only two, but it only took once for him to bite her, and she knew they had to make the switch.
Walking, burping, and soothing him back to sleep after he finishes his feeding takes around 45 minutes, the usual, Solana soon back in the room with her husband who’d handled the girls, both waking up shortly after their brother.
It’d become a bit of a routine for them. If Tama awoke, Lina would also awake, Leya the last to follow. How the domino effect came to be, especially given the girls have their own wing of the house and Tama in another, Solana hasn’t a clue.
It’s just something she and Roman have come to navigate well enough for the most part.
Thus, what leads to where she is now, being gradually stirred awake by her husband, his big body pressed up against her as she lays on her side. A deep breath inhaling the scent of him, clean, woodsy in combination with the holiday scented plug-ins she has scattered around their family home.
Eyes still fluttering, she places her hand atop his as he travels the curve of her hip, scrunching up the material of her gown and dipping forward in between her legs.
“Roman….”
Murmured, breathy, a shaky exhale following as he journeys up the front of her body, groping her breast, the act making them fall free from the too small to completely conceal her large chest. One minute, his mouth is near the shell of her ear, and the next, it’s on her face, a hot, open mouthed kiss following him turning her head, forcing her to look at him.
Her body feels warm all over, a familiar wetness between her thighs and once more the feel of his big hands shoving away her dress. A loud moan into his mouth when she feels the wet, mushroom tip of his dick nudging at her walls, eventually finding entrance as he penetrates her from behind while she remains on her side.
Her whimpers bleed into his mouth, as he maintains a gentle, slow pace, as he always does, allowing her to accommodate his girth and length. But, the minute he senses it, feels the way she tugs at him, slick walls gripping him with equal, fervent need, slow, deep strokes are conjoined with a heightened pace.
Eyes rolling to the back of her head, she grips at his arms, muscles tight underneath her touch, the groan that tumbles from his mouth as he grinds his hips into her enough to have Solana climax right then and there.
Hands soon braced on the side of her head, he’s slightly hovered above her, fucking into her from behind, at an angle, an angle that has her eyes watering. Quiet, murmured words in Spanish that are absorbed once more into Roman’s mouth, as he leans down to kiss her again, her fingers grasping and trailing across his chest.
At some point, she’s not sure entirely as it’s far too easy to get lost in this, lost in them, they switch positions, her husband between her legs, her knees up and feet planted on the mattress as he fucks into her. Heated kissing, mouths incapable of separating, she reaches and grabs at his ass, craving and needing every inch of him.
“Shit,” he curses. She gently bites down on his bottom lip, feeling the pulse of his thick member buried deep inside her. Studies the way he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against her, visibly and clearly just as enthralled in the heat of the moment as she is.
It’s what allows her to take advantage of the situation, bringing her hands to his shoulders with a slight push that quickly turns into them switching positions once more with her on top.
She can feel his eyes burning into her as she braces her palms on his chest, rocking against him, his own hands shifting to her hips.
“Mmmm.” Head back, hips rolling forward and up—just in the way she’s learned he loves—there’s very little concern for anything other than the man underneath and inside of her. Once upon a time, being on top was the most terrifying fucking thing in the world. Towards the beginning of their sexual relationship, at various points throughout, and once more—perhaps the worst—after she gave birth to their daughters.
But, it only took one steamy, intimate, unforgettable night of her husband reassuring her that there’s not an inch of her he doesn’t worship for many of those qualms to wash away. They still pop up from time to time, but she’s gradually learned and continues to learn that if a man as objectively, inhumanely handsome and fit as her husband finds her body to be perfect the way it is, who is she to judge?
“Fuck, Sol.”
She looks down, the way his bushy brows cave together as he focuses on watching her, hands guiding, directing, and leading in a way she doesn’t feel as necessary anymore but appreciates. Solana isn’t sure she’ll ever feel 100% confident when it comes to intimacy, 100% sure of herself as it pertains to sexual capabilities, but one thing she has learned is what he likes. What he loves.
Her.
He loves her, and that will always be more than enough.
Hands over his, she travels them from her hips to up her body, over the rolls of her stomach and to her breast, head lolled back when he starts to squeeze her tits, thumbs peppering over her puckered nipples, eliciting another moan.
Lightest layer of sweat bubbling across her back, thighs starting to burn and a familiar but welcomed ache from the sheer size and depth of him inside her are all byproducts and forced to the back of the line as she continues to ride him. There’s an almost insatiable, sexual hunger her husband has for her, has always had for her it seems, and while her sex drive isn’t nearly as high as his, she can’t deny the overall high she receives from this. It’s connection. It’s passion. It’s intimacy. It’s them.
And, nothing has ever felt more right.
Once more, another look downward as he sits up, another repositioning of his hands to her back, tugging her close as she moves her arms around his neck. Grasping at his hair, his lips are back on hers. Solana moans into his mouth, tugging on his loose curls, fingers brushing against his scalp.
Continuing to bounce her on top of him, an escalation as she whimpers, feeling his ravenous gaze on her. The deep timbre of his voice partially registering, words spoken in another language, an intentional thing as he knows it does something to her.
Has her clenching around his unforgiving girth, tugging his head back, her eyes locked onto his. Mutual panting as she presses her forehead against his. Small, shy smile on her face and words of her own in Spanish. The bulk of which she knows he can’t understand, but it’s inconsequential as it’s the last word that matters the most. The one she knows he knows very well.
Papi.
Solana gasps when one minute she’s sitting on top his dick, riding him, and the next, she’s on her back, his hands on the back of her thighs, pushing her legs back so far that her knees are parallel to her ears.
A groaned moan when he enters her once more, swift and deep, Solana looking down to see the sight of his cream coated dick poisoning in and out of her.
He borderline growls, a dark determined gleam in his warm eyes that has her pussy fluttering around his cock. “You should never start a game with me that you can’t win, pretty girl….”
—————
After starting off Christmas morning with lovemaking and a shared shower that Roman unsuccessfully tried to turn into round three, husband and wife take up their respectful shifts. It’s his morning to handle the girls while she focuses on Tama and Dulce. Alternating days with who covers morning duties for the kids, so far, works well enough. Yesterday, it was his morning to take care of Tamasa and Dulce while Solana cared for the girls, so today, it’s the opposite.
An arrangement that also assists in helping both parents have about equal enough one on one time with their young children.
And Dulce, of course, though once she gets her piss, shit, and breakfast, she’s relatively good all on her own. Sometimes she’ll hang around the kids but mostly prefers to lounge in her bed or her parents bedroom. For still such a young dog, she has a relatively calm and chill personality. She still enjoys her walks and playing, but she’s not as rambunctious as some of the other more active dogs around her age.
A large part of that, Roman guesses, is due to the fact that Lina has all that covered already. His oldest is….something.
Loud at points, Tama, too. Leya is more reserved, of few words, unlike her siblings. So few that it sometimes worries him how little she talks. He loves hearing her little voice, but he keeps reminding himself that her pediatrician has reassured them nothing is medically wrong with her. She's just....quiet.
Not like her twin sister.
Lina’s busy body self is probably too much for Dulce who is just fine with lounging around and letting the kids do them.
And do them they certainly do. Ever since Lina and Leya started crawling—especially since they started walking—it’s been an adventure for sure, with Lina always being the ring leader.
When she started crawling at five months, a month later, Leya did the same. When Lina started walking at eight months, Leya followed a month after. And, Roman has personally seen with his own eyes how Lina has started trying to “help” Tama crawl and walk when he was only six months, both of which he’s now doing relatively well at 10 months.
It seems whenever she picks up a new skill or trait, she makes it her mission to teach her younger siblings as well, which would be fine if not for those skills including things like crawling out of bed, picking locks, knocking down baby gates and things of that sort.
For Catalina, there is no such thing as impossible.
If she wants something, she’ll find a way to make it happen.
She’s a determined little something, that’s for sure.
After an hour of helping the girls get changed, dressed, hair done, teeth brushed and everything else, Roman holds and carries them downstairs, Dulce on his heel. The minute his feet his the wooden floor, Lina is wiggling to get down. A request he honors followed by doing the same with Leya. Taking her little sister’s hand, the girls rush over to the living room, Dulce, tail wagging, following behind.
A small smile on his face as they clap happily at the sight of the tree that’s surrounded by nothing but gifts. The whole house is, even he can admit, decorated beautifully. Shades of red and green, scents of warm apple pie and cinnamon, several trees, each with different themes. His wife's creativity knows no bounds and shines bright in her stunning design of their home for what he'd guess is now her favorite holiday.
Lina talking to Leya and pointing to the tree, however, causes him to refocus on his mini me. “No opening until breakfast,” he warns, walking and grabbing the remote to put on that Purpley show they love so much with the funny looking animals.
Lina’s scowl is expected, Leya simply saying nothing, as she pets Dulce who rubs up next to her pant leg. Satisfied with the girls being straight, Roman makes his way over to the kitchen, lulled by the delicious smell of whatever his wife is making along with the sound of his son “talking.”
His son though, who should be in his high chair, is very much not in his high chair and instead hiked up on Solana’s hip as she stands in front of the stove, spatula pressing down on the pancakes she’s making.
She turns around, smile on her face deepening. “Hi, baby.” Leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth, Roman’s eyes dip to his son, Tama eyeing him with a happy smile, a happy, loud “dada!” accompanied by a little wave.
Roman chuckles, leaning down to kiss the top of Tama’s full head of hair, thick and wavy locs similair to that of his siblings and father.
“Still holding him, huh?” She rolls her eyes, refocusing on the stove, as Tama redirects his gaze back to his mama. “Sol, how many times do we have to go over this? He’s too heavy for you to be holding as much as you do.”
Roman can fully admit he’s probably not the best person to be saying as such considering he knows that he struggled with this as well when the girls were still babies. The minute one of them even looked like they were remotely upset, he had them in his arms. It was just a habit, one he carried with him despite Solana’s warnings that holding them all the time would spoil them and set an unrealistic expectation that they could be picked up whenever they wanted, regardless of if they actually were upset or not.
He didn’t listen.
And, he wishes he had. “Velcro baby” is the term he’s seen used a lot on the parenting forums he peruses from time to time, and a better term has never existed.
He can’t even go to the bathroom or try to take a shower without one or both of the girls on the other side trying to get in, banging at the door, Lina shouting, “daddy, hold you,” which is her way of asking him to hold her, play with her, let her beat the shit out of him, and many other things.
Because on top of being vocal as hell, Lina is also physical as hell. Not even two, damn girl has the strength of Samson, pushing doors open, trying to rip his hair from his scalp when taking a fistful in her little hand. Meanwhile, Leya, his sweet, calm daughter, just watches quietly and sometimes attempts to intervene.
She’s every bit of Solana. That’s for sure.
Lina though….Roman doesn’t know who the fuck she is yet, or more so specifically, who she takes after with all that damn stubbornness. Tama seems to be headed in the same direction as well, though he prays that he’s wrong.
Solana makes a sound, dismissive of her husband’s comment about holding Tamasa, kissing her baby boy’s temple as he palms at her chest. “Leave him alone. He’s just a little chunky.”
“A little?” She looks over at him, somehow already knowing exactly what he’s going to say. “Baby, the boy is big as hell.”
“Roman!”
But, he’s not listening, pointing out something she can’t exactly deny. “He’s only ten months old, and he’s already damn near half your height.”
Despite being two months shy of hitting his first birthday, Tama very much almost reaches her knees when standing up, which wouldn’t be exactly terrible considering she’s only 5’0 but when one factors in their only son—so far—isn’t even one, it’s definitely…something. 30lbs, size 3T in clothes, and a size 4 diaper….yeah, big as hell indeed
Solana sighs, flipping over the pancakes, pleased with the perfect golden brown color. “Mi amor, you are 6’3 and almost 300lbs. Of course, he’s a little big.” The smile returning as she directs her statement to her husband despite how she mushes her forehead against Tama’s, evoking his happy giggles and small palms to her cheek. “He’s gonna be a big boy like his papa. Aren’t you, baby boy?”
His response, a loud, happy “mama!,” makes Solana squeal and her heart swell.
It even tugs up a small smile on the Tribal Chief’s face. At the end of the day, there’s no denying the close bond his son and wife share, and as someone who had nothing remotely close to that with his own egg donor, it means a lot.
For sure.
Still, that doesn’t negate the fact that Solana is a complete pushover when it comes to their youngest. He steps forward, reaching for his namesake. “Here. At least let me hold him while you cook.”
She inches back as Tama starts frowning, clearly detecting what’s about to commence. “I can hold him.”
Another sigh. “Baby, this is what I’m talking about. You’re always holding him. He needs to walk more.”
“Because he’s chunky?”
“Because he needs to learn that just because you’re around doesn’t mean you have to carry him everywhere.” Tama looks away, face in Solana’s chest, as if fully understanding what his father is proposing and wanting to display his nonverbal protest. “Plus, he’s too heavy for you to keep holding as much as you do.”
“Roman Reigns, if I can walk around with the weight of my breast, then I can walk around holding my sweet, chunky baby boy.” And, before her stubborn ass husband can argue back with her, she gestures with her chin behind him. “Why don’t you go watch the girls?”
“Because the girls are—” He stops, realizing they’ve been too quiet, sounded out by the TV playing one of those annoying ass kid shows they seem to love. Sure enough, looking into the living room, Dulce is curled up in a ball on the sofa while Lina and Leya stand near the Christmas tree, the older of the twins with one of the 5011 gifts he and Solana got the kids in her hand as she shakes it. As if doing so will reveal the contents. “Lina.” His deep voice travels across the space, snatching her and Leya's attention as his refuses-to-ever-listen child ceases her previous movements. “Didn’t I tell you not to touch the damn gifts? Put it down.”
But, this is an unacceptable demand, as she starts arguing back with him. “I wanna open!”
To some, it might be difficult to make out what she’s saying as, at nineteen months, his girls are at the age where they can communicate well enough overall but still have a few words here and there that aren’t pronounced as clearly as they could be.
There’s nothing unclear about Lina’s response.
“I said no, Catalina.” He follows up once more in Italian, directing her a second time to put the box back.
Roman is met with her scowl and stomp of her foot, as she deepens her scowl, clearly ready to battle it out with him. Leya, however, sees this as well and shakes her head, taking the box and putting it back where it previously sat, untouched, waiting to be opened with the rest of the gifts once they’ve all had breakfast. Her innocent, brown eyes slightly widened, face almost perfectly framed by her onyx curls that are down, partially eclipsing her cheeks. A stark contrast to Lina’s that are piled atop her head, accentuated by a red, green, plaid bow that matches the pattern of their matching pajamas.
“Good job, Leya,” he compliments. It’s an unsurprising thing. The most well behaved of all the kids being the one to try to deescalate what she has to be used to at this point. With both of her siblings.
He’s rewarded with her smile that reminds him so much of Solana as she takes Lina by the hand, tugging, pointing towards the steps as the two wobble and venture off, probably to go play in one of their playrooms. Hopefully on the first floor. Roman still struggles with some level of anxiety about them going up and down the steps. If only that damn Lina didn't manage to knock down and undo every sort of baby gate he and Solana attempted to erect, failing every time.
Lina has to be the most determined fucking kid in the world.
Dulce, noticing the departure, lifts her head to look around before curling back into a ball to finish her sleep. She clearly needs a break from all the shenanigans.
Understandable.
Roman blows out a breath and runs a hand over his face, stroking his beard. “Next year, we’re not putting the gifts under the tree until the night before.”
Because all this man has done since they started adding the gifts gradually as they came in is redirect his two children. Lina, stop this. Tama, don’t do that. His son don’t wanna walk any other time, but when it comes to touching and messing with gifts, he’ll walk a damn mile.
And, Lina…
Good lord. She’s not even two yet, but he feels like the “terrible two’s” he’s read about is something he’s been experiencing since she could talk.
“Damn girl doesn’t listen,” he mutters, thoughts betraying him. “Gotta tell her fifteen different times not to do something before she stops arguing.” Because if there’s one thing Lina is going to make sure she has, it’s the last word. At least, she tries. Cause, Roman’s not having that shit. He’ll go back and forth with her little ass all day if that’s what it takes. And some days, it does.
Solana, however, rolls her eyes, acquiescing to his earlier request when she walks over and hands him Tama, his son, who looks between the two of them, eyes lingering on his father long enough in a ‘I guess you’ll do,” type of forced acceptance. “She’s just like you, Roman. Stubborn and hardheaded.” Solana grabs Tama’s hand, kissing his fingers, making him laugh loudly. “This one, too.”
He looks down at his son as Solana starts moving around the kitchen to speed up, Tama scowling initially before smiling, grasping at his dad’s shirt, fisting it tightly.
“Come on, buddy,” he chuckles, turning to walk out the kitchen. “Let’s go see what trouble your sister is getting into now.”
—————
After what might be the quickest breakfast ever that consists of Roman having to tell Lina 5011 times to slow down eating before she chokes, ten minutes of fighting with Tama to get him to stay in his high chair before he ultimately gave up and let his grown ass son sit on Solana’s lap, and Leya being the quiet, perfect child she is, occasionally sneaking Dulce some pieces of pancakes, the Reigns family finally transition to the living room.
It’s similair yet different to last year’s Christmas in that Roman spends majority of the time snapping photos of his wife and children but taking video as well. Just as he did the year prior for the first Christmas he’s celebrated since he was a boy. Different in that Lina and Leya were only seven months at the time, so their speech, vocabulary, and movement were extremely limited compared to this year’s. Not to mention the addition of his son who grabs at boxes just like his sisters, chubby little fingers trying to rip off the paper, sometimes succeeding, sometimes tugging on Solana’s top and shouting “mama” as his request for her to do so. Leya every so often notices her brother’s struggles and reaches over to help him, similar to what Lina does for her younger siblings.
Acts of kindness that bring small smiles to their parents faces. Seeing how well they all get along, even Dulce who lays on her belly, tail wagging, chewing on her bone that was one of her gifts.
Almost everything that’s opened is met with sounds and expressions of happiness, expected reactions considering how anal Roman was with ensuring he crossed everything off the list he and Solana created of gift ideas for the children. Well, most of the items listed were courtesy of him. He’d easily dished out over 20k on their gifts alone, not even factoring in the ungodly expensive designer bags and jewelry he’d gifted his wife despite her protests that she didn’t need anything. It didn’t stop him from going all out, the same way it didn’t stop her from also gifting him with several items, some high end, some handmade creations by herself and the kids, the latter being his favorite. It’s always those things that carry sentimental value, that represent his family, his children, his legacy, that mean the most.
The climbing all over him and Solana, accompanied by “thank you, daddy!” and “thank you, mama!” from the twins and even Tama’s happy bounce and hug of his parents are just the cherries on top. Having three young children, still adjusting to fatherhood, and trying to balance work while still making time for his family is a lot at any given point. Not to mention working hard to continue to support his wife as she puts herself through school and pursues establishing her foundations. There are definitely some stressful days and times where he just wants to sleep for an hour without interruption, but every time his daughters smile at him or his son laughs and reaches to be held, the look of happiness on his wife’s face as she sings and soothes the kids to sleep, making love to and waking up to the love of his wife….these, of many other countless moments that he’ll always remember, make it all worth it.
They are all worth it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
——————
January 8th, 2028
The room is quiet. A still, silent absence of sound and merriment. Void of anything audible and familiar. Anything normal. Tamasa’s nursery has always been a source of sound, his son almost as vocal as Lina was when she was a baby. Babbling, humming, crying, and sometimes a combination of it all. Most of which has always been soothed and calmed by the light, soft sound of Solana singing and rocking their youngest child. Sometimes combined with her walking him around, speaking to him in a combination of English and Spanish. Just as she did/does with the twins. Roman will also do the same, sans the singing, walking and talk with his son, occasionally beyond just his sizable nursery. Across that wing of the home. Outside, even. Pointing out the stars and sky that twinkle and reflect in his son’s eyes.
That has been the norm since Solana birthed their son.
But, for the past almost two weeks, Roman can’t recall what that even feels like anymore.
He walks into the room, unsurprised at finding the light dimmed, Tama sleeping quietly and peacefully in his crib. Unlike his mother.
Solana is sprawled out across the day bed in Tama’s nursery, on her back, head to the side, open textbook on her stomach. Her chest moves in a controlled, natural up and down motion, but it’s the expression on her face that has Roman frowning.
Even in her sleep, she can’t avoid it.
The anguish and torture written all over her face, even in the midst of a sleep that can’t be anything more than surface level. She hasn’t truly slept since then.
He hesitates, starts to bypass waking her up and carrying her to their bedroom where the girls are already fast asleep in their parents bed, Dulce also snoring lightly at the edge of said bed.
But, he also knows his wife well enough to know that when she’s in this state, abrupt approaches only tend to trigger her. And, she’s had more than enough of that lately.
It’s why he opts to carefully remove the book from atop her. Her semester starts up again next week, and he knows she’s behind on the usual reading she does ahead of time. She’s behind on a lot of things, really.
Understandably so.
But, the minute he returns and crouches down beside her, pushing back some of her hair, her eyes shoot open.
His frown deepens.
Solana makes a sound, quickly sitting up, looking around confused, hand to the side of her head. “I—I must have fallen asleep.”
“You’re tired.” Exhausted is a better word, but he also knows using it could potentially….upset her, so he opts against it. “You need to re—”
“I’m fine.”
“Solana—”
“I said I’m fine, Roman.” A sharp dismissal accompanied by her clearing her throat and using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe at the crust in the corner of her eyes. “Are—are the girls—”
“They already woke up,” he informs, just noticing the increasingly dark circles around her eyes that continue to grow deeper and deeper by the day. “They’re in our room.”
A flash of relief accompanied by her nodding. “Good.”
He swallows. “Ba—”
“I’m sleeping in here tonight.”
Again. What should be included in that statement is the word again, because it’s not the first, second, third, or even fourth night. Tama’s nursery has been her bedroom since….since he told her.
A decision he struggled with like hell before settling on informing, and a decision that’s wrecked the deepest part of his soul with guilt ever since.
Hesitation followed by a soft voice. “Solana, I don’t think—”
He’s ignored once more as she moves to stand up, walking towards the crib. Roman closes his eyes before gradually rising to his full height to see her slightly leaned over, most likely caressing his sleeping face.
“I’m gonna take this semester off.”
He stills, grateful she can’t see the look that flashes across his face. “What?”
She remains with her back toward him, offering a simple, limited reply. “So, I can stay home and be with him. And the girls.”
Roman looks away, once more careful and specific with his words. “Baby, you don’t—”
“I need to be home with him.”
“You don’t—”
“I have to watch him.”
“We have—”
“I have to protect him.”
“Solana—”
“I have to!”
A passionate, shouted reply accompanied by her turning around, finally facing him, eyes filled with tears. At his pained expression, she gasps sharply, looking away, bottom lip trembling. “I have to—”
Roman’s chest tightens as she once more turns away, head down, gaze focused on their son. He watches her right arm shift, can tell she’s once more caressing his face as he either remains sleep or starts to stir from his slumber from her outburst.
“He’s just a little boy. He—he’s not even one yet.” Honest, painful words that drag the dagger around in Roman’s chest as his wife continues to break down before him. “They didn’t—they didn’t do this with the girls. Why….why him?”
Never one to want to lie to his wife, it’s never felt more preferred than the truth. But, she’s owed that much.
Even if it kills him to do so.
Even if....if a partial truth.
“They're not my heir.” His voice dips, emotion betraying him, the guilt at still being somewhat dishonest with her weighing on him even more than the crushing weight of this moment. “He is.”
Solana turns around once more, tears streaming down her face as she shakes her head. “He’s a baby. He’s—he’s our baby.” She points to herself. To her heart. “He’s my baby, and they want to ki—” She stops once more, hands over her face as she turns to face the crib. Roman moves fast, wrapping his arms around her from behind, catching her as she falls to the floor, a collapse he carries her through.
Literally and figuratively.
It fucking shatters him to hear her wails, to be able to do nothing while knowing how badly she hurts. How fucking terrified she is. Body shaking from the sheer intensity of her crying. He wants to comfort her beyond just holding her, letting her sob into his chest as she clutches onto his shirt. Tell her that it’s going to be fine. That he’s increased security around the estate. That he has every fucking available resource at his disposal searching high and low to see who put out the bounty. That it’s going to be okay and nothing is going to happen to their son. But, he can’t, and it makes him fucking sick.
Eventually her crying subsides enough for her to press a quiet, broken, whispered question that has his entire body still.
“Is….is it always going to be like this?”
He doesn’t have an answer for her.
Or, maybe he does.
Maybe he just can’t bring himself to give it to her.
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