Aug 3
the shield mask being a stand-in for dean SUMMERSLAM: NIGHT TWO | 08.02.26
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the shield mask being a stand-in for dean SUMMERSLAM: NIGHT TWO | 08.02.26
★ 𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓.
your baby father doesn't take too kindly to you downloading tinder. nevermind his own girlfriend.
content warning: smuuuut. infidelity. (?) manipulation. toxic relationship.
toxic!babydaddy!roman x black!ex!reader.
note: condolences to mia cause.... yea. key west will be a au/miniseries. requests are open for these two if u wanna send.
KEYWEST!VERSE.
The silky fabric of your pink-striped Victoria Secret pajamas catches the heel of your foot as you stride to the front door seconds after the doorbell rings.
You mutter a greeting once the swing of the door reveals a very pristine, put together Roman. Much too formal for such a routine, casual stop. A navy short-sleeve knit polo shirt that stretches to the will of his bulging biceps, pressed black slacks, a thick black Rolex around his wrist topped off with his signature slicked back bun.
Your mouth waters when your eyes land on the brown bag of takeout gripped in his hand from your favorite hole in the wall, Green Turtle.
“Sup.”
You grab the bag from him and close the door when he walks inside and sets his sights on his crawling seven-month-old, Lorelei. He bends at the hip, lifts her into his embrace and smiles once she squeals at the rapid ascend.
You remove the contents of the bag behind the kitchen island while silently watching the interaction between the two. You watch as she repeatedly beats her pudgy palm against his mouth with a coo and how he eats it with every swat.
When he catches your eye, he digs into his pockets and tosses three thick wads of cash each encircled by a rubber band onto the counter. He mentions something about whether or not the security system’s still giving you any issues, that there’s a new one currently in his trunk he brought to install.
You give him an unconvinced look.
Given the nature of the man you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand, you can’t tell if the initiative is out of his genuine inclination to protect you and his baby or his manipulative desire to have you and the house under his constant surveillance at all times. Or, and more likely, a combination of both.
Classifying the relationship you have with your child's father as ‘complicated’ would be an understatement.
You two met at Sunburnt, a tiny surf shack that you own and run with your cousin just off the shore in Key West. He came in one day with his wetsuit peeled to his waist, drenched hair sticking to the skin of his tanned shoulders, chewing a saccharine chunk of gum between his molars and asking about sex wax for his surfboard. If you felt him staring as you showed him around the shack, you didn’t mention it. Instead, you were busy stifling a smile as Namina widened her eyes in swooning jest behind his back across the room. You found out he surfed at the beach on the other side of town, so it was interesting when you started seeing him around the one the shop’s by more often.
By the time he was a regular, you’d learned that he was a child of the ocean inside of a wrestler’s body. He told you he was raised and born in town and whenever he gets a break from the fast life, he comes back to Key West for grounding. That apart from the ring, surfing has his heart.
You quickly learned of his tough disposition. He isn’t as tender, internally or externally, as you’re used to. As you’d like. But he’s action-oriented. Solution-oriented. A protecter. A provider.
He tugs on the edge of your skirt. He pulls on the hemline of your tee. His hand engulfs yours when he holds it. He fucks you straight to sleep. Your name is engraved on the foot of the passenger side of his Camaro. He walks through crowded parties with his palm at your back. He puts dents in men who look your way. You love him.
Eventually, it gets bad.
He starts getting jealous. He tells you to take down certain posts. You’re fighting in public. He doesn't like your friends, calls them hating ass hoes. He tells you they’re in your ear while trying to make a play in his phone. You break up until he lures you into having one last conversation for the sake of closure, and then you’re just skin and flesh in a foggy car again.
Even when you decided to call it quits over his controlling tendencies for good after three years, he couldn't find it in him to exit your life. He’d drop by Sunburnt with a takeout bag from Green Turtle for you during lunch. Whenever he was out of sex wax for his board, he’d come to the shack although there’s a strip of other surf shops and pretend not to be disappointed when you’d pass him over to Namina to assist.
Your pregnancy was the result of a dark night of the soul, so to speak. A temporary lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. It was months and months after the split and you were feeling touch deprived. He was the solution.
He sits Lorelei atop the island and takes a seat on the stool beside the counter, watches as she takes the guacamole-dipped tortilla chip you hand her and start viciously attacking it.
He furrows his brows at the infant, “she not feeding you or something?”
You smack your teeth, “she’s teething, asshole.”
“Oh.”
As you dig into your respective bowls, your eyes rove around his formal attire once more. “So. What’s the occasion?”
Lorelei babbles and coos.
You watch him swallow a bite and watch it quickly travel down his throat before he washes it down with a bottled water. His eyes never parting from yours, “Mia. She’s having her birthday dinner tonight.”
Your brows raise in acknowledgement, “first public outing a year and a half in. That’s a big step.”
“You counting?”
You feed Lorelei another chip, deciding against dignifying that with a response.
“It’s not a step at all. She’s not my girl.”
“She’s not your friend.”
Mia and Roman were set up by her father, one of Roman’s esteemed mentors within the wrestling business. A woman who comes from a long lineage of old money and extensive influence. Unfortunately, that has no bearings on the explicitly casual and noncommittal attitude he’s always had within his relationship with the woman despite her wishes. Although, there are times in which he undersells their relationships to himself.
You’ve never left the picture. She knows it.
She’s had her sights set on him since you two were together, patiently waiting in the wings for her opportunity. When you left him, she got it. She just didn’t expect the stonewalling. The avoidant attachment.
He had made it clear at the beginning that whatever they had going on was casual. Still, it didn’t hurt any less to find out he’d gotten you pregnant during their situationship. And as quiet as it’s kept, the ceiling for how much she’s willing to tolerate if it means she can keep him is exceptionally high.
You’re so amused at how adorable Lorelei looks with guacamole smeared all over her mouth and cheeks that you grab your phone and snap a picture for safekeeping. You stand and grab a wet wipe from the counter behind you before returning and standing by a seated Roman to quickly show him the picture.
As fate would have it, in the split second it takes for you to unlock the phone and lean it towards him, a match notification from Tinder drops from the top of your screen.
In an effort to play it extremely cool, you quickly lock the phone and tuck it into the pocket of your silk pajama pants.
“What was that.”
You take the baby wipes and clean Lorelei’s face once she begins rubbing her eyes with her fist and start to fuss, quiet.
“Why are you on Tinder?”
Meekly, “I’m a single woman, Roman.”
In a move that sucks a loud gasp out of you, while you have your back to him, he swiftly pickpockets your phone and unlocks it using the date he has tattooed below his collarbone. He opens your notification center and clicks on Tinder and watches as it takes him to your existing conversations, his heart beating out of his chest and his jaw tight. An empty folder of chats except the notifying match reveals a newly installed profile.
“Roman!” You go to snatch your phone from him when he exits Tinder and open the FLO app but your tone startles an already fussy Lorelei and she starts to wail.
He stands up while holding it just out of your reach and you're defeated by the realization that you’re no match for his height and build. You grumble underneath your breath about him being absolutely fucking unbelievable and grab the crying infant before taking her upstairs with an attitude.
In the FLO app, he sees two things: you’ve been having regular periods, and there’s an absence of little hearts on the days of your monthly calendar. No sex.
By the time he makes it up the stairs, you’re turning off the light switch and inching the door of Lorelei’s bedroom closed. He follows you into your room and extends his palm with your phone on it for you to take. When you go to snatch it, he jerks his hand back and crosses his arms, his tone low and menacing, “so, what? you just needed some dick?”
That has to be it, he realizes. He bought you this house, he sends you money on a weekly basis, he spends two days of the week with his daughter as per your custody agreement, he pays the bills, he makes sure you’re up to date with your maintenance. Why the fuck else would you want another man in his house?
“I’m not doing this with you Roman. I-It’s none of your business.” Except you’re unconvincing because with every word your voice becomes more and more shaky and it has everything to do with the fact that you know he’s historically made everything that concerns your love life his business since your split and the closer he inches towards you, the less space you have between the door and your back. Except the way he’s looking at you is all too familiar and it lets one butterfly loose in your stomach.
Before you know it, your eyes are fluttered shut because he’s nosing at your sensitive neck and biting at your hot earlobe and the silk of your pajama pants are air thin against the bulge under his slacks. You murmur at him to move and pitifully try to distract him with reminders that he has somewhere to be but you never once tell him to stop as he slides his big hands under your sleek button-up top to grope the swells of your breasts.
He sucks red bruises into your neck as you pant and whimper, rolls your nipples between his fingers, and grumbles about deleting that shit and him being right here into your earuntil a puddle forms in the gusset of your panties.
He detaches his mouth and takes his hands out of your shirt.
His voice booms, “get on the bed.”
You swallow before slowly getting on and laying on the foot of the bed.
He digs his phone out from his pockets and fumbles with it for a second until vulgar audio begins to expel from it. When you pick it up and view it at eye-level after he tosses it on the bedspread, your core clamps down around nothing. It’s a depraved old home video of you where you assume the back of the phone is being supported by a stray pillow. The only thing in the frame is a side-profile close up of your torso-and-up while on all fours except your belly is flat against the mattress and you’re hugging onto a pillow for dear life. He’s out the frame, but he’s behind you. You watch as your body jolts with every thrust, your hooded eyes glued on the camera right as you cream on his dick with your bottom lip rolled into your mouth, only the whites of your eyes visible.
In the heat of your trance, you don’t notice he’s at the foot of the bed until he’s pushing your knees to your chest and his solid length is deliciously rubbing against your now pulsing core.
“Who else gonna make you feel like that? Like this?”
Your hooded eyes flicker from the video recording to his, your pelvis mindlessly starting to roll against his. He smirks.
You raise your hips to assist when he peels your pants off and arch your back when he tugs your panties to the side with one finger. He attaches his mouth to your swollen clit with his hands pushing your knees to your chest. He sucks with a force that lights a subtle flame at the center of your stomach and weakens the muscle in your upper thighs.
“Fuckkkk.” It feels so good.
You can feel the combination of his saliva and your arousal drooling into the crevice of your ass and making a mess of your duvet. He eats until your torso quivers and the second you try to writhe away, he pulls back and slaps your drooling cunt. Two intimidating pools of black overcast by furrowed eyebrows and offset by a pink, shiny mouth, “stop.” His hands wrap around your hips and tug your body back down before reattaching.
Your eyes roll back and you cry out when he hits your special spot with his two fingers and rubs rough figure eights onto your clit with his other hand, “this is what you wanted. You wanted me to see that. That’s why you showed me, right?” You’re too dazed to answer, but the implication makes your pussy clench around his fingers. “Yeah. I know. I always do.”
And when he calls you a slut and tells you that you were just too fucking polite to tell him to cancel his plans and give you some dick, you’re whining and fumbling at his zipper until he catches on.
He tosses you over until you’re on all fours and strips until every one of his articles of clothing are in a puddle on the floor. He barks an order for you to put him in when you feel his thick and hot shaft against the flesh of your supple ass. With your face against the duvet, you reach under your body and between your legs to grip him in your hand. He groans when you spare him a couple strokes before tucking him against the wet folds of your pussy to lubricate him.
You both exhale out a sigh when he slowly sinks into you. It’s been so long and he’s still so big. You ball the duvet in your hands when he finds a solid, delicious pace, “fffff. Mmm.”
He’s transfixed by the filthy image of him sliding in and out of your hole. You’re already fucking creaming. All that can be heard in the room is him pounding into your little pussy, wet flesh, the creaking of the bed, and your pitiful moans. He leans over your arched back to push on the nape of your neck, “tell daddy this is what you wanted.”
The harsher angle that ensures there’s no space between your pelvis shoves you deeper into the duvet with a yelp. “This… this is what I wanted, daddy. Oh god.” Your mouth parts with a whimper when stops thrusting and just gyrates his hips against yours— his fat dick massaging your sweet spot.
His stomach clenches and he bellows a deep groan when you reach under you to knead the full balls slapping your clit. He’s obsessed. You’re his. Nobody else can have you, “you like that big dick inside you don’t you baby? Daddy making that little pussy feel good?”
You nod with your face against the duvet, “s-so good. Daddy’s gonna make me come.”
“Mm. Rub that little creamy pussy and come all over your Daddy’s dick then.”
You move your fingers from his balls and start rubbing your clit as he pounds you hard into the mattress. When you orgasm, you clench the sheets in your fists as you see stars and cry out into the duvet.
He slows to a stop and slowly pulls out. He chuckles when your body collapses onto the comforter, your legs quivering in aftershocks.
You feel yourself being lifted and loosely realize that you're now at the center of the bed. He crawls on after you and between your legs. In a particularly vulnerable moment, after he tucks the duvet over both of your bodies and you're floating back down from your high, you lock your lips with his in a sultry but passionate kiss. It’s long and sloshes the waves in your belly in all sorts of directions. He presses your knees into your chest and raises his torso so the duvet is curtains over his towering, elevated body before sinking back into your sodden cunt.
You’re staring at each other with parted mouthes and hooded eyes, groaning and moaning as your glares flicker from your squelching cores to one another. You tell him you love him, he tells you he loves you too. You wrap both wrists around the forearms keeping your knees pinned to your chest under the comforter, lost in pleasure.
It’s 9:45PM when his phone rings. You shake your head and pout as your body jolts with each thrust. He answers, places it on speaker, and tosses the phone on the bed.
“Roman…? You’re like half an hour late. Everyone’s here and they’re asking about you... where are you?”
He halts thrusting and lets a string of saliva slowly ooze from his tongue and onto your clit. With your brows furrowed, you take one hand off his forearm to rub his spit onto your sweet button, “I told you I was going to stop by Capri’s to see my little girl, Mia. You know I only get her for two days out the week.”
There’s a look of realization in his when you two lock eyes after you cover your mouth with your palm. His dick found your sweet spot. You try your best to remain mute as to not notify Mia of whats really happening on the other side of the phone but he just feels so good inside of you. As fucked up as it is, him doing this to you while having her on speaker just makes your pussy pulse around his dick that much harder.
“I know… but I just thought since we made plans…”
The sensation of your clenching core around his cream-covered dick forces him to stare at the ceiling with a dropped-jaw as to not come too early. He takes a second too long to respond, “A… Am I expected to just neglect my responsibilities when my family needs me? That’s the kinda man you need me to be? That’s… that’s ridiculous.”
Too quietly for Mia to pick up on, little sprinkles of yes yes yes drift from your mouth when his hips start slapping against yours. You’re about to lose it. One hand rubs your clit, the other slides under your button-up to grope your breast as he massages your sweet spot with every thrust of his fat dick. You’re moaning and panting with your eyes fluttered shut. The image alone is enough to makes his balls swell. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Under him.
“No, no, no. I don’t want you to think that. I just… no, you're right. I guess it isn’t always black and white. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call you later.”
A second after he hangs up, he starts thrusting harder. “You liked that didn’t you? You like almost coming on Daddy’s dick with her on the phone?” He smirks when you nod sheepishly, your lips rolled into your mouth. He knows you inside and out. Your kinks, what gets you going. He calls you a nasty little slut, tells you that you almost made him bust all inside you until you’re whimpering and telling him you’re close.
“Tell me who you’re gonna call next time you want to be a slut.”
The bedsprings creak and duvet rustles as you quicken your pace on your clit when you feel your peak creeping up on you, “o-oh god. Fffffuck. You. Gonna call you. I promise Daddy. Only Y.. you.”
With his bottom lip bitten between his teeth, he pounds himself into your wet little pussy until your watering eyes see white. Your siphoning muscle clamps down so hard on his dick, it catapults his own orgasm. The groan he lets out when he shoves himself as far as he can, stops thrusting, before nutting inside you in ropes is primal.
Your body continues to jolt in aftershocks as he lowers your knees from your chest to lay flat on the mattress with him still inside you. Both still panting, you slowly wrap your legs around his waist and your arm around his neck, “mmm.”
Eventually, he lays on his back and you lay on his chest. You spend the next hour catching your breath and sweet-talking each other with your cunt still a mess of his come until you fall asleep.
With your head tucked into his chest, he reaches for your phone on the nightstand. He unlocks it, goes to your Tinder account settings, and deactivates your account.
My friend who doesn't watch WWE wanted me to send her some info about the wrestlers so I sent her these..
Made a Pt. 2
And a Pt. 3
New Generation Era Faves
WWF Attitude Era: Main Eventers
it kills me | public v.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. unprotected sex. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. daddy kink. age gap couple (16 years). brief reference to physical illness. angst. themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand and some change (5k+) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝waking up in vegas❞ by katy perry // ❝it kills me❞ by melanie fiona 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 laying in bed, listening to music, feeling like shit, this idea came to me, so i just opened the notes app and got to writing. most of it was written on my phone in one sitting, so do with that what you will. also, reader and roman are both irritating to me, but i also sympathize with both in different ways. idk. also, the thoughts and views of the characters, by no means, reflect that of the author. lastly, if you're in arisylum, ensure you read the full 7k version posted in the community.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ꨄ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ꨄ
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀
May 19th, 2026
“Oooh yes, fuck this pussy, daddy.”
The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.
Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.
A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that.
Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.
“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”
“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”
“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”
No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.
You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.
For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick.
He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.
You know him.
“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”
“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.
“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”
Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.
Just like you are right now.
“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.”
“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”
His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.
You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you.
You’re more or less the same.
“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”
The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.
Life is just easier when he’s around.
Until it’s not.
“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.
It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.
It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.
But no one ever said you were smart.
“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“
“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”
You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”
His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”
“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”
Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”
“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”
His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”
Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.
If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.
Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”
It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises.
“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”
The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”
He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.
It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too.
“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”
It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it.
There’s no turning back.
You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.
“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”
It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason.
“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”
“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”
“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”
Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.”
At least, that’s what you like to believe.
“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”
There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.
Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.
And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl.
It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want.
Again, the fucking back and forth.
Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.
My
“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”
Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.
Hence why you want your own child.
A child with Roman.
But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”
His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.
You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.
An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.
Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man.
And then some.
12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.
You were married.
Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.
Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.
He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.
And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.
Two storms on a collision course for disaster.
Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate.
He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.
Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him.
It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin.
Silent tears streaming down your face.
It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.
“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”
His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”
“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.”
Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth.
An intentional last day.
Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday.
That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you.
Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.
It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror.
That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess.
Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.
Felt that way, at least.
Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.
That you’d get help.
Real help.
Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.
He protected you from that.
He’s protected you from a lot.
Including yourself.
Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep.
So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted.
The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.
But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same.
“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”
You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him.
“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”
Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”
He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”
For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”
His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”
“I know that, Roman.”
You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”
“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it.
His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?”
You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy.
“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”
He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”
As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this?
You grow quiet. “Yes.”
Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?”
And there it is.
You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.
Just like his question has pricked into your heart.
A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate.
“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?”
“Y/N—”
But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.
“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”
He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.”
“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”
It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens.
“That’s different,” he says, lowly.
You cross your arms. “Is it?”
“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.”
Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.
“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”
“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.”
And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps.
But Roman isn’t most men.
Not in the slightest.
He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”
Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too.
You don’t wanna test it.
Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”
You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.
Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children.
That has to mean something.
As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.
But.
But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?
What does that mean for the both of you?
full throttle | r. reigns
roman reigns . world heavyweight champion
genre ⇢ smut (minors dni) . some plot content warnings ⇢ car sex . sir kink . semi-public sex . hair pulling . unprotected sex (use protection!!) . cockwarming . praise kink . tears . overstimulation . age gap (reader is in twenties) . afab reader (she/her pronouns) . mild dissociation/sensory overload word count ⇢ 3.7k inspiration ⇢ roman winning the whc . cars . that one scene in fast five (the one with han and giselle in the car) songs ⇢ "dfmu" by ella mai (x) . "bonnie and clyde" by dean (x) note ⇢ sorry i've been a bit mia! i've had some stuff go on in my life, and it has made it hard for me to write and post. thank you always to @spiicii, who has kept me motivated, supported, and encouraged. i love you lots, and this is for you 🩶🍵
the first thing she thought was that she won, and that she was too spiked up on adrenaline to really process exactly what just happened.
her holding a championship belt—a world championship belt, she should have added—was one of the more surreal things for her that weekend. as attention-grabbing as it was for her, she could barely remember all of the events that transpired after. she could recall posing for the photos with the championship for social media and the website, but she couldn’t remember explicitly doing it; she recalled her mouth moving as she answered the questions in the post-show, but she didn’t think that she actually did that. the words sounded like hers, but she didn’t think it was her mouth that was moving.
wrestlemania weekend, no matter how exhilarating it was, always tended to leave her overstimulated in the bad way. she couldn’t keep track of how everything was going, even if she was certain that she was the one performing the motions. she remembered being in the audience for the second night, flexing the championship belt on her shoulder and smiling with that high fashion beam. the moment the camera pivoted to other things, she allowed that ironed grin to falter just enough, even if she couldn’t completely shut it down. she did her job well. after all, so much of wrestling to her was performing, and at the very least, she could perform attentiveness and wonder. her mind continued its cocooning while she allowed herself to continue watching the main event, even as she gasped on cue when the announce desk broke or at the false pin.
in some twisted way, she could feel herself grounding back reality as they watched the match. roman was the person she could easily track, because she was absolutely abysmal at avoiding his gaze. he was magnetic in the way that only somebody who was the main event of wrestlemania for the 11th consecutive time could be. he felt larger in life, elusive, and rightfully so. they hadn’t spoken, but she knew that her admiration of him wasn’t a well-concealed secret among the roster. she was only fortunate that nobody ever made it clear to him. not that that mattered, since roman was part-time anyways. she was certain he wasn’t even aware of her existence. that was fine with her—at least then, she wouldn’t be able to embarrass herself in front of him.
she did come to the realization that the match was veering towards the end sooner than she would have wanted it to. apparently, a thirty-minute match would not help her get back into herself; she considered that a bit foolish of her. she found security escorting her to gorilla again for more press photos now that they had all of their crowned champions for the weekend. she shook hands with everyone, smiled graciously, and posed. the only thing she hadn’t anticipated was pr telling her to stand next to roman for the photo of the new champions for monday night raw.
at first, she made an attempt to stand a respectable distance from him, enough to portray as close. “get closer,” she heard someone say. her eyes, wide and dazed, wasn’t sure if she caught that correctly. before she could react, though, his hand (an admittedly large hand she definitely hadn’t fantasized about several times in an attempt to get off after watching his title matches), tugged her by the waist, placing her right by his side. both of them raised their belts high, staring down the camera with precision and no shortage of cockiness. at least, she attempted to emulate that.
the first thing she registered was that he smelled good, even through all the sweat and exhaustion. she deciphered notes of sandalwood and something that was distinctly roman reigns. the other thing she could process was how warm he was compared to her cold skin. “overwhelming, isn’t it?” he murmured through the static of her mind and the shutter of the camera.
her answer didn’t feel as automatic as perhaps it should have been, her voice foreign to her own ears when she responded, “how do you ever get used to it?”
even when all of the press shoots were done, he kept his hand on her waist, helping the two of them make their way to the dressing rooms. he answered as they walked, “you just do. take the loud with the quiet—it gets easier over time.”
she didn’t know if she could believe him. the entire weekend wasn’t even really loud anymore, now veering into overload as he dropped her off at her room, which granted barely enough privacy to take a moment to breathe before more celebrations began.
she knew that a few glasses of champagne slid down her throat a few times throughout the evening, but not enough to warrant being any way incapacitated through alcohol. she knew that she shook her head and said something about excitement and gratitude for being given the opportunity. she knew that she was smiling. yet, she couldn’t really register that the alcohol was going down her throat, that it was her head moving, that it was her muscles contorting into that beam, that it was her feet guiding her towards the corner. she wasn’t sure if she could properly breathe, even though she rationally understood that her body was able to breathe on its own, and could handle it just fine.
“you look like you’re five seconds from tapping out to an anaconda vice,” a voice dryly remarked. naturally, she turned her head up towards the direction of the voice’s owner. she most likely couldn’t keep the shock off her face when her brain finally managed to process (however slowly) the present visual and auditory stimuli that roman reigns was addressing her. but, this time, of his own volition.
she technically felt more than properly realized that his expression shifted from amiability towards concern—more specifically, that it was her fault. her breath hitched, pondering if she did anything wrong. did she not answer fast enough? did her smile seem too off? or worse: did she make it too obvious she was into him? the hypotheticals had her lungs struggling for air. not that she could entirely register it, because one moment, she was in the corner of the room with the otc, and the next moment, he had his hand on her waist, escorting them both out to the elevator.
“let’s get you some air,” he murmured, keeping his voice that unwavering baritone as he closed the elevator door, forcibly shutting the door before anyone else could enter and overwhelm her further. once the doors closed, he cautiously pulled her in, strong arms caging her into him. his voice broke through the fog, “it’s alright. deep breath in for me, yeah?”
her lungs followed, matching his pace as the elevator rode all the way down to the resort’s car garage. every instance the elevator door opened and stopped at a floor, roman immediately pressed it shut, ensuring total privacy and external insulation for her with every shiver she gave. each descending floor granted her another breath to return to herself.
by the time the elevator reached the intended destination, she felt mostly back. she regained enough clarity to realize that she was in a parking garage, following roman reigns to his car, an admittedly nice one. her steps began trailing behind his, hesitant while he guided her to the passenger seat, opening it for her to slip into. the moment he shut the door and joined her in the driver’s seat, she closed her eyes, shuddering an exhale so large, as if she was atlas and the belt was the entire planet on her shoulder.
“fuck,” she whispered, “i’m sorry you had to leave the party ‘cause of me.”
he extended his hand, leaving his palm up for her to take if she wished. she took it, allowing his hand to dwarf hers. “don’t apologize,” he said, unrepentant about affixing that heavy gaze on her erratically panting chest, “first one’s always the one that hits the hardest.”
“didn’t want to take you from the party though,” she murmured in apology, shuffling awkwardly in her seat to evade enough of the heat of his eyes. “you deserve to celebrate.”
“got my celebration right here, babygirl.” his free hand brushed her cheek, gently tugging her face up. she couldn’t avoid the sensation of heat on her face. her eyes frantically flitted anywhere but him, though he seemed to know what she was attempting to do in the first place, because he leaned in enough to rest his forehead against hers. roman’s tone took on a more impish foundation as he mused, “you’re cute when you’re trying to be subtle.”
“i’m sorry,” she squeaked out again, “it’s unprofessional, and i know it’s probably creepy for a twenty-something to be having a crush on you. i promise i’m not a stalker or anything like that.”
roman tilted his head forward enough to rub his nose against hers, lips curled into an amused smile. “now, who said anything about stalking?” her eyes bolted wide open to that, pulling away to make some sense of his mirthful eyes.
“i mean, it’s weird, ain’t it?” she mumbled, “you’re like…a superstar. i didn’t wanna make it weird for you ‘cause you’re not always here. i didn’t wanna make it unpleasant or uncomfortable for you every time you came back.”
roman chuckled, breath fanning against her lips and retorting, “trust me, angel, i wasn’t ever uncomfortable with you staring at me.” he didn’t have to say much else then, his insistence enough for her to brush her lips against his for a tentative peck. roman deepened it, shifting his hands to tug her closer past the console.
“fuck,” she moaned against his lips, fingers brushing his beard firmly. she leaned further over the console, shifting herself on the passenger seat to rest more of her upper body against his.
he groaned, amused still, yet more fond as they continued to make out, “sweet thing, aren’t you? all soft and needy from some kissing?” her cheeks flared, though she didn’t deny it when she kissed him again, squeaking when he forcibly maneuvered over the console functioning as a barrier.
her mind blanked out from being shifted however awkwardly from the passenger seat to be on roman’s lap—at least she figured this time it was from something pleasant rather than dissociation. she squeaked as he pressed her form up against his, allowing him to take all of her weight while she straddled his hips. “fuck, you’re adorable,” he cooed against her lips.
“thank you, sir,” she responded, voice growing shriller as she realized what she just said and what she just called him. for all of her troubles, she earned a deep-bellied rumble that let her know that she probably didn’t have to stop calling him that. if anything, he was turned on, if the growing bulge pressing into her clothed heat was any indication.
“call me that again, babygirl,” he growled against her mouth, the same way he did when he demanded acknowledgement.
“yes, sir,” she repeated, earning a heavy spank on her ass, “fuck!”
roman swallowed her sounds with a guttural groan, pressing her closer. his other hand came to cup her sex through her panties, shifting the skirt of her dress up to give him better access. naturally, she ground down on it, rocking back and forth against the weight and heat of his palm. “such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” he breathed into her ear, allowing her to move her own hand down to fully grasp just how hard he was at the sight of her. she nodded, skin gently flushed from want and his attention.
tentatively, she palmed him, applying just enough pressure to not seem shy, but not being overzealous and presumptuous about how much pressure he would maybe like or want. roman responded beautifully to her touch, groaning especially husky when her finger rubbed the tip of his length, swirling the budding beads of precum around. his own hand shifted so that he could slip right through her panties; her own arousal coated his fingers in an unabashed, honeyed gloss. “sorry,” she mumbled, though she only sounded semi-repentant.
roman smirked against her skin, wetly smacking her pussy; she could only squeeze his dick harder for that. “cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he mused mirthfully, spanking her again, “but, i can’t blame you, can i? that’s how you got that championship.”
there was a part of her that lit up embarrassingly at the mere prospect that roman reigns watched her championship match, however short it was. when she mustered more courage to look up and gauge his reaction, she could only see pride reflected in his gaze, but also an awareness that he knew she wasn’t expecting it. “of course i watched, baby,” he chided fondly, kissing her forehead and then her pout away, “wanted to see you win your first world championship—the first of many. now, up you get, ‘cause i want you sitting on my cock.”
sue her. she was eager, exuberantly eager while she shifted her hips, allowing him to remove her panties. her own fingers worked to quickly undo his pants, pushing them and his undergarments far down enough to unsheath his length. she adjusted so that his tip brushed her slit, whining pleasurably every time the mushroomed head brushed her sensitive clit. “shit,” she whispered, overstimulated, “how are you gonna fit, you’re so fucking big?”
“don’t worry, baby.” his voice was cocksure, self-assured the only way a multi-time world champion and someone completely aware of his looks and its effect on other people. he nearly knocked the breath from her lungs with his cocky smirk as he promised, “i’ll make it fit.”
in one fluid motion, he effortlessly transitioned to slipping the tip inside her gummy walls, engendering a broken moan past her lips, arguably loud enough to shatter his eardrum. roman didn’t seem to care as he gripped her hips firmly, gravity taking over to have her impaling herself onto his dick. “holy fuck,” she gasped. her lips furled into a needy pout, one roman indulged with a searing kiss to her lips, enough of a distraction for the overwhelm that was just him filling her. she shivered and pulsed when she realized that he wasn’t even entirely in yet. that caused roman to groan, an animalistic sound that sent shivers down her spine.
“such a good girl,” he growled into her mouth. his tongue swiped the roof of her mouth, absorbing her squirming and pants with relish. roman’s other hand wandered down to rub tight circles at her needy clit. naturally, her walls spasmed; naturally, he reacted accordingly by spanking her with his heavy hand. it resonated within the metal confines of the car, and her own noises immediately followed suit.
“sir, please,” her voice was wrecked, as it only could be, but still, there was a dreaminess that roman found endearing as he set the pace for her—slow, but thorough. insistent, though not forceful. he only lifted her off half of his length, keeping her full at all times. roman kept his lips on her, anywhere and everywhere he could reach. his hand continued their marking endeavors, heating her ass in rhythm with his hips.
he sounded smug as he wondered, “yeah, baby? ‘please’ what?”
her breath faltered, fingers curling to undo the neatly tied bun of his mane, raking her nails through his illustrious mane. she didn’t yank. he seemed to appreciate that she only tugged with minimal pressure. he smiled against her lips, rewarding her with a steeper bounce, pulling out so only his tip remained before impaling her again and again. any time she attempted to formulate a comprehensible word, he swallowed it with a heady kiss and smack to her asscheek, which made her forget what she wanted to say in the first place.
not that she had much he could parse to begin with other than saying “please” and “sir” like they were the only two words remaining in her lexicon. even then, she wasn’t able to even manage a syllable that simple. that was how he seemed to prefer it based on the thorough thrusts of his hips against hers.
he groaned in her mouth just right when she tugged his tresses again, twice in quick succession and one longer tug. she wasn’t sure if she could explain to him if she was close with how he kept subsuming her mewls and starts of words into his groans and grunts. at this point, she wasn’t sure if she could call what they were doing really kissing so much as a mashing of tongue and teeth. she figured he could tell she was reaching the edge to her climax through the fervent way her walls pulsed around him like a butterfly struggling to escape its cocoon.
“close, aren’t you, babygirl?” he chuckled, her nods rapid and messy. she gripped his hair firmer, more demanding now that she teetered on that edge of release.
she begged, eyes welling with unshed tears from overstimulation, “p-please, sir! wanna cum!” her lungs gasped for oxygen when he delivered on her request, transitioning into thrusting more calculatedly, angling right up at the spot that had her seeing stars.
“right there, baby?” he murmured, repeating that particular thrust. her frame vibrated atop his lap as her climax washed over in unceremonious, reckless fashion. she wailed, throat ripping itself out from the weight of her scream. roman didn’t take that much more to follow after her, spilling those pearlescent ribbons deep inside her cunt with a deep roar briefly reminiscent of the ones preluding his spear. “fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he praised heavily, “sweetest fucking pussy for me.”
he continued thrusting through the aftershocks, arms firmly locked around her while she vibrated in his arms. “i got you, honey,” roman promised, kissing the side of her head while he tempered his pistoning down. he kept her on his lap, letting her tug on his hair enough to anchor her to this plane of existence. her breath fanned against his lips as she stole a kiss from him. he didn’t say much other than repeating his promise, forcing her lungs to follow his cadence until she could do it on her own.
when she did recover, she whispered, “sir,” her voice cracked at the edges from practically screaming herself hoarse.
“you did so good for me, baby. i’m so proud of you.” he punctuated his praise with a kiss to her hairline, not minding the sweat pearling there from exertion. from how he looked at her, how he sounded, she knew he meant it. she smiled, the first one she could feel from the past two days—she knew his pride went beyond her performance on his lap and extended to the two belts stacked atop one another in the backseat.
“thank you,” she responded with a shy heat to her cheeks. her hand moved away from his hair, resting on his heart while her fingers twirled some strands of his hair. roman smiled, one of the softer ones he reserved for his family, mainly. she flushed at the honor of being one of its recipients.
she gasped when he shifted just enough to start the car, accidentally shifting her hips to roll just right against his own. he groaned, sending her a raised eyebrow and barely contained mirth in his eyes. she shrugged, semi-apologetic. roman merely adjusted her positioning so they were both more comfortable as he started reversing out of the parking space and out into the vibrant vegas streets.
“you’re crazy,” she murmured, breathless as she glimpsed outside the window, allowing the oversaturated nightlife to consume her vision while he drove them both back to the hotel.
“yeah, well,” roman responded with the assurance of a champion, of being her champion, “i’m the tribal chief.” he said it like it was simple.
maybe it was to him. her thoughts, naturally, swirled around to the aftermath and to what monday would bring. New challengers, new threats, the inevitable paranoia—she wasn’t sure where she would stand as the weight of the belt grew more prominent on her shoulder, the responsibility chipping at the wide-eyed woman who only ever dreamt of carrying something as prestigious as the women's world championship. as if that wasn’t enough, her mind fabricated worst-case hypotheticals about their nebulous relationship given her feelings and how roman reciprocated, apparently. she wouldn’t be able to look at him without thinking of the mindblowing and grounding sex they had after wrestlemania. She didn’t factor that he would be there more frequently now, either. She could easily visualize the inevitable wetness growing at every instance. To make matters worse, she wasn’t sure what he wanted beyond just the celebratory sex, on the minuscule chance he would change his mind. or—worse—if he only did it out of pity.
before she could fret herself into the next century, roman cut her spiral short with a firm remark, eyes focused on the road, “don’t worry about tomorrow, baby.” at the red light, he tilted her chin towards him with a thumb and index finger. “just focus on me, alright? i got you. i promise. i’m not going anywhere.”
it suddenly struck her that he perhaps meant it beyond just trying to tether her back into her own body at this point, even if that intention still stood. her eyes peered up at his features as he returned to focusing on the road, applying gradual acceleration on the pedal as the car continued along the route. she parsed the relaxation in his posture, paired with the understated confidence that things would work out in their favor. her eyes flitted back to the two belts, resting like a perfect match, a picturesque display of harmony.
shifting just a little more, she rested her head along his heart, listening to his heartbeat while her own rammed at full throttle in anticipation of what the future brought her. starting with, naturally, the growing hardness still inside her.
taglist ⇢ @yana3sworld . @fearlesschimera . @theusotwinzcom . @acute-crashout-jeyuso . @geekinstilettos . @pr0wlerpunk . @miss-kuki-nz . @kelbrave . @romanswifey . @psilovey0u . @flyygirlmia . @lov3rla03 . @zillasvilla . @loreofsarai .
friends with benefits: part one
⭑ warnings: lil smut. messy. slightly toxic, idk.
⭑ word count: 2.5k
⭑ a/n: my bad guys, i kind of put this on the back burner and forgot about it….but, roman’s interview yesterday along with how fine his ass looked during the rumble, gave me a ton of inspo to finally be able to finish it. 🥲💗
⭑ divider credit: @anitalenia
⭑ if you would like to be added to my tag list, click here.
Friends with benefits.
No feelings, no attachments. It was simple.
Or at least it was supposed to be….because in reality it couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth was they weren’t friends. From the moment Malia met Roman, that was made pretty damn clear.
Most of the time, she couldn’t fucking stand him.
Roman was an arrogant, egotistical asshole, who by now had managed to piss her off more times then she could count. From their first interaction, she knew he’d be a thorn in her side. The one and only reason she forced herself to tolerate him, was due to a very simple fact….
Her sister was marrying his brother.
And to make matters worse, she was paired with him to walk down the aisle. Meaning every rehearsal, dinner, or photoshoot she somehow managed to be stuck within his orbit. Yet, no matter how much Roman irritated her, she refused to complain or risk doing anything to ruin such an important moment.
She told herself she just had to survive the week. That having to see him so often was just temporary. And maybe that would've been the case.
If only she never would’ve sent those damn photos….
It all happened so quickly.
What started as an unforgettable and touching ceremony, transitioning to an even more beautiful reception, somehow still managed to be weighed down by her mistake from the previous night. The embarrassment aided by her memory causing Malia to down her third—maybe fourth—glass of champagne.
That same champagne being one of the reasons she was in this situation in the first place.
Just a night before the wedding, what was supposed to be a relaxing spa day ending with some well deserved rest, turned into a disastrous fuck-up of a lifetime.
Such a simple mistake really.
A mistake that—in her defense— was driven by her ovulation along with the inability to fall sleep.
After twisting and turning for God knows how long, Malia slowly felt her hormones get the best of her. Because as the hours of the night progressed, so did her horniness. Which is exactly what led her to impulsively drink one too many glasses of wine before propping her laptop on the hotel bed. Liquor coursing through her body as she proceeded to set her camera, her oversized T-shirt quickly discarded leaving her breasts on full display as she posed, her pierced tits perked as she flaunted her new—pink heart—nipple rings. Malia’s tipsiness only growing as she continued to pose, drunkenly giggling as she snapped one final photo with her back arched as her laced thong slightly peeked through.
If only she would’ve stopped there.
Because without even realizing, and in the haze of her slight inebriation, the pictures Malia was trying to send to her—occasional—fuck buddy, somehow ended up being sent to Roman.
Pictures that were never meant for him to see…
She remembers the exact moment her heart sunk into her stomach. How her smile instantly dropped the moment she unlocked her phone only to see Roman’s message on her screen. The way the moment felt so fucking mortifying that it was almost instantly sobering.
Roman: If you were horny you could’ve just said that, pretty girl.
Despite the absolute utter humiliation Malia felt, she decided to try and brush it off, refusing to give him the reaction she knew he wanted.
Malia: Sending them to you was obviously an accident. Please drop it.
Roman: Whatever you say…
Roman: The titty piercings suit you, btw.
Malia: Are you always this fucking annoying?
Roman: Only when I wanna be.
It seemed the more Malia attempted to ignore Roman, the more he seemed to enjoy teasing her. Which was exactly why she’d spent most of the reception avoiding him.
The open-bar upstairs happened to be the area where she visited the most when she wasn’t conversing with friends or family. Malia quietly stood near the balcony studying the sea of people downstairs, smiling to herself as she watched her younger sister, more radiant than ever, sharing laughter with her husband. She took a swig of her wine as her gaze slowly shifted towards the downstairs bar, her eyes instantly landing on Roman. And as much as she hated to admit it, it was hard to ignore the way his black on black tuxedo somehow managed to accentuate his chiseled features, his big arms and broad shoulders practically battling against the fabric of his suit. The way his beard was neatly trimmed and sharp the same way his jawline was.
A few younger women surrounded him, causing an evident look of irritation to grow on his face as he slowly brought his drink to his mouth. His scowl apparent as two of them obnoxiously giggled at whatever he said.
Confusion set in as she watched his eyes scan the room, almost as if he was looking for someone…and it was when he looked up and their eyes met that made her realize who he was searching for. That annoying ass smirk of his returning as he glanced at her. Malia blew a breath out as she rolled her eyes, quickly setting her glass down as she made her way towards the dressing room. The last thing she needed was for him to ruin the well-appreciated buzz she currently had.
She sighed in relief when she stepped in and noticed she had the room to herself, a make-up touch up would be needed considering how alcohol tends to slightly flush her cheeks. Malia sat at the vanity, beginning to powder her face only to be interrupted moments later with a knock at the door. The subtle scent of his cologne hitting her as soon as she opened it.
Roman’s glossy eyes scanned her before he basically invited himself in, “You really think avoiding me is gon’ make me disappear?”
She crossed her arms, scoffing, “A girl can only dream.”
A dangerous smile tugged the corner of his lips. His eyes slowly trailed over the valley of her breasts as he stepped closer, “It’s a shame those pictures weren’t meant for me you know…”
Her eyes settled on his thick pink lips as she responded mockingly, “Oh really…and why is that?”
Roman grinned as he stepped even closer, carefully studying her reaction as he backed her into the vanity, his mouth now slightly hovering over the shell of her ear as he muttered ,“Because I would’ve made it worth your while...”
She hated this.
Hated the fact that his words sent a shiver down her spine, how his stupid smile widened as she felt her cheeks redden. Despised the way the smell of whiskey on his breath felt just as intoxicating as he did in this moment.
“It’s clear you can have any bitch you want, why the fuck is bothering me so damn amusing—”
Malia gasped as Roman’s lips crashed into hers, the alcohol on each others tongues instantly mixing as his body pressed into hers. Before she knew it, he was lifting her on the vanity. Their breathing growing frantic as he kissed her with hunger and urgency. She moaned as Roman groaned into her, his big hands began prying her thighs apart resulting in her granting him the access he so desperately needed.
Roman discarded his suit jacket proceeding to kneel in front of her. Malia’s soaked panties were practically ripped off as he stared at her slick pussy hungrily. “Been wanting to taste your fine ass all day.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Her body tensed the moment Roman’s big arms wrapped around her thighs pulling her towards him, his long tongue gliding across his bottom lip as her cunt fluttered in anticipation.
“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart…”
Malia bit back a moan the second his tongue swirled against her clit, her hands firmly gripped the counter in an attempt to steady herself as he greedily submerged his tongue inside her. “Shit,” she whimpered as her hips subconsciously bucked into him.
“So fucking sweet…” Roman’s fingers tightened their grip against her thighs as he groaned. His beard now soaked and glistening as he devoured her with a need she wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced. Men who could successfully eat pussy were a rarity in her opinion. While his cockiness initially intrigued her, she honestly wasn’t expecting him to actually be able to back it up.
It was clear she couldn’t of have been more wrong.
“Fuck, Roman,” Malia’s head rolled back, the speed of his tongue flicks rapidly increased as she squirmed against him.
The dressing room now filled with the sloppy, wet sounds of him devouring her with complete and utter fervor. The way his agile tongue catered to her sensitive clit had her on the verge of coming undone then and there.
“This what you needed, pretty girl?” Roman’s index and middle finger teased her tight opening as he continued to lap at her cunt relentlessly. “Needed daddy to get you nice and wet in order for you to shut the fuck up?”
Malia’s mouth parted, her back arching as his huge fingers plunged deeper, expertly curled and angled hitting her special spot, “I—I still can’t f—fucking stand you.”
Roman looked up at her with an amused grin, “This wet ass pussy seems to say otherwise, baby…” The steady rhythm of his fingers fucking her while his talented mouth worshipped her, had her vision blurring. “Thought about this shit all fucking night.” Roman’s eyes darkened as she clenched around him. His words obviously holding more power over her than she was letting on, only encouraging him more. “Go ahead, come in my mouth like a good little slut.”
“S—Shit,” with every second that passed Malia could feel that familiar pressure building in the pit of her stomach. Her thighs tightening around him as she rolled her hips against his face. The volume of her moans increasing as he worked his skillful tongue while simultaneously pumping his big fingers in and out of her.
“Don’t hold back, give it to me…”
Malia cried out as her orgasm took over, the way Roman’s tongue continuing to lick her clean as her body convulsed had her seeing stars. He slowly pulled his fingers out, eyes on hers as he brought them to his mouth, the sight alone making her pussy pulse. Roman’s lips slammed back into hers with a desperate force making her to moan the moment she tasted herself on his tongue.
His hard erection pressed into her as he started to kiss her neck, his big hands trailing the span of her back as he reached for her zipper. “So pretty when you’re mad.”
“Shut up.”
“Still got a smart ass mouth, huh?”
“Did you really think giving me head was going to stop that?”
He chuckled, that annoying smirk suddenly tugging the corners of his lips, “You’re right, maybe I should’ve shoved my dick down your throat instead…”
Malia’s hand reached down palming Roman’s hardened member, a taunting smile formed on her face noticing how his jaw clenched as he let out a pained groan, “So shut me up then.”
Present
There was no doubt another argument between them was about to take place. It almost felt like any moment they weren’t fucking, they seemed to argue.
If Malia was being honest, there were a few moments where Roman was a little more tolerable. Moments where they actually were able to hold a conversation without bickering.
Rare and few, but still… something.
That along with the monstrous thing that hung between his legs, kept her coming. Literally and figuratively. Because when it came to sex, there was no denying he was easily the best she’d ever had.
Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him that.
Malia paused, taking a deep breath as she reached his door step. She’d been dreading this. This was the longest Roman had went without responding or reaching out to her. And while, she normally wouldn't give a fuck, let alone stress over a man who was just a fuck-buddy…there was a part of her that felt slightly guilty.
Their last argument had been the biggest one to date.
Truth be told, she couldn’t help but to feel partially at fault. In her defense, it’s not like they were exclusive. But, going on a date with someone she knew he hated, probably wasn’t the smartest idea.
It’s not like she fucked the man or even planned to, it was simply a dinner date that she felt bored enough to entertain.
What she wasn’t expecting was for Roman to have a business meeting at the same damn restaurant.
If looks could kill, the man she walked in with would’ve been dead in a matter of seconds. She’ll never forget the way Roman’s jaw ticked as he attempted to keep his composure during the rest of his meeting. The way he followed her when she went into the bathroom and somehow ended up in between her legs, fucking and releasing every fiber of his frustration while possessively claiming her as if she was his territory.
She thought that meant he was over it by then, but given the fact she hadn’t heard from him since, proved otherwise.
Malia knocked at his door, after giving it a moment and hearing no response she decided to test her luck by turning the doorknob. And to her surprise, the door was actually unlocked.
What the fuck.
Loud female moans filled Roman’s Miami penthouse as Malia felt her breath hitch in her throat. She quickly followed the sounds that led her to his master bedroom. The last thing she was expecting to see was Roman in bed, eyes shut as his big hands fisted through the hair of the two women who were sloppily sucking his dick.
“So this is why you’ve been fucking ignoring me?”
Roman’s eyes shot open the second he heard her voice, she watched as the women got out the bed, quickly scattering like roaches, “Malia…what are you—”
Malia laughed humorously, “Wow…and to think I came here to fucking apologize…”
“Malia…”
“We’re not a couple, Roman. Feel free to fuck any bitch you want. But over three weeks of texts and calls and you couldn’t even give me the decency of a single fucking reply?”
Roman’s eyes avoided hers as he remained silent. His reaction alone causing her to scoff.
“If you have no interest in fucking me anymore, my suggestion is for you to actually get the balls and fucking say it.”
“Malia—”
“Fuck you.” Malia slammed the door behind her, storming off without looking back. Deep down she knew that maybe she had no right to be angry, but whether her feelings were rational or not, didn’t change that she felt hurt and betrayed.
So many different emotions ran through her, leaving her more fucking confused than ever.
The one and only thing she knew for certain, was the fact that two could play this fucking game.
WRESTLEMANIA, 2014 → SUMMERSLAM, 2026 the return of the infamous shield mask 12 years later