﹏ ˒ ken ❜ ᵎᵎ @jeysverse - Tumblr Blog

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 masterlist + taglist request form

⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀

I shouldn't be here.

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.

My mother's daughter.

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