Rock the Boat – Part Ten (Conclusion)
A/N: Thank you all for reading this fic! I was extremely nervous about reception, and I’ve received the sweetest messages in response. I hope you enjoy this last chapter as I will not be able to get some of the images out of my mind for some time. Enjoy!
Tags: @wwefoever70 @ladymoxley @rocker-girl90 @ashleyh28 @wweoneshotsbycharlie @wwedivadeluxex @sausagefest1996
Pairings: Roman Reigns x Reader
Warning: Language and Lovin’
Summary: Baby making blunders
Roman continues to play with your son as the two of them eat dinner; your husband relieved he has returned home to find you worrying less and relaxing more.
You can’t help it; you’re exhausted – far more exhausted than you were with the first pregnancy. It’s not surprising as the daunting task of carrying and having twins is consistently gnawing at the back of your brain. You pat Roman’s hand, signaling him that you’re going to get up, only to have him drop his fork immediately, dark eyes set upon you, “What are you doing?”
“Dishes. The kitchen’s a mess.”
“No, you sit. I got it.” Roman does this, makes commands that you are just supposed to follow without protest; he can tell your irritated but only laughs, “You didn’t listen to me about cooking. You can at least let your man do the damn dishes.”
Rolling your eyes, you release a deep breath and lean back in your chair, “Fine. I will just sit here.” You rub your belly, blinking your heavy eyes and letting out a low moan, “I’m not arguing at this point.”
Roman checks your son before returning his eyes to you, reaching a large hand over to your stomach, “How they doing in there?”
“God, that doesn’t sound a little weird to you?” You chuckle, slapping his hand away and self-consciously pulling your shirt out to hide the twelve week protruding bump, “I asked you for one, not duplicates.”
“Sorry, baby girl,” Roman gathers plates, kissing the top of your head, “I can’t control what my troops do once they get on the battlefield.”
“Could we not call my womb a battlefield? That’d be great.” You narrow your eyes playfully at him while he put everything in the sink; you stand to your feet, smiling brightly at your boy, “Let’s get you clean, papa.”
“Wait. Wait.” Roman stops his work in the kitchen, running around to stop you once again, “I’ll get him cleaned up. You go sit.”
“Babe, I appreciate all the fussing, but I gotta get used to this. You aren’t going to be here all the time.” You try not shrink a little out of his touch, his hands on your stomach and hips, “I need to be doing everything normal, as though I’m—”
“Two things.” He pulls you to him, like that’s not going to make you feel weird – seeing as your stomach puts a bit of distance between you, “One, I’m here. When I’m here, I am allowed to do everything while you kick back. Two…I wanted to talk to you about the always being alone thing.”
“Wha—why?” You can see it in his expression, immediately growing somewhat irritated, and park your son on your hip, despite Roman’s stern stare, “No, you will not have your family in here checking on me like I’m some kind of invalid.”
“You heard what the doctor said,” Roman stands in your way, making it clear he won’t budge, “stress is supposed to be at a zero. You have to take better care of yourself than ever before, and you need to get in the habit now. That way you don’t make it harder on yourself during the last trimester.”
You hand over your son, not looking Roman in the eye – even as he gives your cheek a kiss and takes your son away to be cleaned. It was a double edged sword to have a man so willing to care for you, especially for someone as independent as you are. Ignoring the urge to go into the kitchen, you go upstairs to grab a pair of comfy shorts and try three baggy shirts until you find one you’re comfortable in. The bump wasn’t huge, though you imagine it is and will be by the nine months is over – if you can avoid premature labor as Roman’s suggested. But you don’t remember being this big, this early, with (Y/B/N) which was to be expected. Still, you were quickly losing your sexy in spite of your man’s consistent urge to have his hands on you.
You pull your hair up into loose, messy ponytail and go back downstairs to sit in front of the television like a good little wifey. By this time, Roman comes back and returns your son to you. You smile, stretching your feet out as Roman props another pillow behind you, and accept your son into your open arms. Your son immediately curls up against you and begins to settle, your hand stroking his hair as you slightly sway with your eyes on the television. While you do so, Roman does as he promised and cleans the mess in the kitchen as well as others he finds around the house.
“He’s out.” Roman whispers, gathering your son again, and smiling down at you, “Nice work, Mama.”
“Thanks, I try.” You extend your limbs further, enjoy the little releases of tension, and do not fight him as he goes to put your son to bed. One commercial later, you hightail it to the kitchen and grab a small container of vanilla ice cream; you grab chocolate syrup, sure you’re just going to put a few swirls on top, but you shrug as you use the doctor’s orders to your advantage; you’re just listening to your babies. Grabbing the bottle, you head back to the living room with a spoon hanging out of your mouth and the ice cream in the other hand. When Roman finally returns to the living room, you curl your legs under yourself, announcing, “The doctor said to listen to cravings. This has been one of them.”
“Yeah?” He falls into a seat beside you, his legs half hanging off the couch as he eyes the container, “Give me some.”
“You’d really take from your babies?” You tease, swirling some of the ice cream around your tongue when he pouts; shaking your head, you get a spoonful and slip into your husband’s awaiting mouth, “Selfish.”
You proclaim, taking another big spoonful into your mouth as he lays his head on your knee, “Mm-hmm…the rest is for us.”
“Fine, don’t share.” Roman kisses your knee, his hand beginning to move up and down your leg, “I got a craving for something else anyway.”
While part of your body responds immediately to his heated tone and wandering hand, the larger part of you (much larger part) is extremely self-conscious at the thought of it. You clear your throat, uncurling your legs and putting the bottle as well as the ice cream with spoon on the table, “I’m exhausted. Would you hate me if we just went to bed?”
“Nope, come on.” Roman shuts things down in the living room, leaving you slightly suspicious, until he grabs all the items you set down; trying to kill your suspicions, he insists, “Just in case you have a midnight craving.”
“Right, because who doesn’t want ice cream soup.” You roll your eyes, leading the way to your bedroom after getting one last look at your son’s nursery. Roman sets the things on your bedside table, watching you closely as you peel the covers down and climb into bed.
Once you lay on your side, facing him, he crawls into bed with you and scoots close so you can feel his warm breath. When he places a hand against your ribcage, his thumb brushing just beneath your breast, you move a little away and try to get cozier with your pillow.
A frown immediately clouds his features as he pauses his touch, “Why are you doing that?”
“Every time I touch you, you act like it disgusts you.” Roman takes the same hand that had been touching you and runs it into his wild hair, “I’m trying not to be offended, but—it’s hard not to notice when my wife doesn’t want me touching her.”
“It’s not you…it’s—” You shut your eyes tight, sighing heavily, “I just—I get so tired.”
“Really? So tired that you can’t stand the idea of me helping you to relax?”
“No, look at me,” He waits for your eyes to flutter open and meet his, whispering desperately, “Please, just be honest with me.”
“This! This is what’s going on with me, babe!” You roll onto your back and gesture towards your stomach, “I’m not feeling super desirable right now! There, total honesty.”
You expect him to tell you that you’re crazy; you are never more beautiful than when you’re pregnant and all that other crap. Instead, you hear him release a huff and move, ordering you, “Sit up.”
“Just, do as I ask, all right?”
You do, trying to avoid his eyes as he moves; you allow him to easily part your legs so he can sit on his knees between them. Continuing to submit, you watch as he reaches over for the ice cream carton. He pops a spoonful into your mouth, leaving you confused until his tongue is swirling with yours, giving you the wonderful taste of vanilla and Roman. The flavor is enough to leave you in a daze, and you simply give in when he removes your shirt – just wanting another spoonful. Obliging your silent request, Roman reveals a cocky grin at your grabby hands in his hair upon the second vanilla kiss.
You somewhat bite your lip, attempting to hide it by bringing the back of your hand to your mouth, until he yanks on your shorts so hard that you slide down on the bed, bursting into laughter. The message he is giving you is clear, you are beautiful and – more importantly – he’s desperate to have you.
Roman grabs the chocolate syrup, dripping some along your collarbone and licking it off in slow, purposeful strokes with his tongue. When he is sure you will no longer deny him, he squirts the chocolate liberally along your inner thighs; before he has fun removing it all, he puts a dab on his tongue and leans down for you to taste him again.
Once you are done sucking the tip of his tongue, you moan in disappointment as he pulls away, “No, I’m awake now. Come back.”
“I got work to do.” Roman circles the chocolate along one of your thighs, bringing his thumb to your mouth and allowing you to suck on that, “My wife needs to know how beautiful she is…” Before you can protest any further, he begins to trail kisses down your body, thinking aloud, “I want to see how much sweeter you taste covered in chocolate.”
