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cinnamonglrls · 7 hours

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i love love love when a writer makes you FEEL. characters that are human and vulnerable and willing to show you how they bleed. 😩♥️ bravo!!

Gentle

warning: angst, mentions of depression/anxiety, fluff. Enjoy!

It had been days since Joe lost his match. It meant he could finally be home, taking a break from the WWE's busy schedule. You were thrilled to have him home, just the two of you for a while. Joe was excited too, or so he thought.

He released a huge sigh of relief when he was told prematurely about the outcome of his match with Cody. He loved work but also missed being home with you, and the flexibility to do what he wanted without having to make huge shifts around his work schedule. The guilt that constantly ate at him for missing milestones in your life would finally be put to ease. Your promotion at your job, your birthday, buying your first brand new car with your hard-earned money, all things he missed out on celebrating due to his work.

But as time went by, you noticed a change in him. His energy shifted dramatically. He became quieter, answering with short sentences and avoiding conversations. He barely ate, only managing to do so when taking his medication.

You had to decline many invitations because he wasn't up for crowds; they made him anxious. The bedroom became his refuge, all he wanted to do was lay in bed and rot. It was starting to worry you.

Joe himself didn't understand what was happening. He wanted to shake off this feeling, but it clung to him stubbornly. It was like he'd forgotten his place in life, his roles as your husband, friend, and son. He felt worthless. As the Tribal Chief he knew everything, life was in his control, he was in control. Nothing could phase him when he was his alternative self. His bronze skin was as thick as ever.

But as Joe, he was vulnerable and soft, his hands could barely grasp the concept of life outside of the arena. He believed that he'd let everyone down by missing important moments, especially you. Despite your support and pride in him, he couldn't shake the feeling of being resented. His anxiety whispered that you all hated him, leading him to isolate himself in the room. He thought that by avoiding interaction, he'd be less of a burden.

You were left in the dark, unsure of what was happening with him. You didn't want to jump to conclusions, but you couldn't ignore the signs of either depression or anxiety. It was a delicate situation; you didn't want to say or ask the wrong thing and risk pushing him away. You were at a loss for how to approach him without causing further distress.

"Babe..", you called out as you cracked open the door. Your head peaked in to reveal him bundled under the sheets.

"Hmm?" he hummed back, avoiding looking in your direction.

The room matched his mood—dark and cold. You approached him cautiously, arms crossed before quickly relaxing them, not wanting to convey that you were mad or upset in any way. Squatting beside the bed, you met his gaze. His hair was tousled, covering his face like cobwebs, his eyes red, lips downturned. He looked miserable.

He almost melted at the feel of your fingers feathering through the knots of his tangled beard. He hadn't groomed himself in days, so he looked a mess. But to you he still looked like perfection, just needed a little love. You searched his face, to him it felt like judgment, but for you...you were just looking for any sign of your loving husband.

"You okay?"

That question alone almost unraveled him. His eyes shut tightly, becoming a dam for the flood of tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. He covered his face with his hand when he could no longer contain the wave of emotions. He shook his head, answering your question.

"Oh baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry", you pleaded. You didn't know what to expect. You thought it would take a while to break through his tough exterior.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, you hadn't moved. You stayed squatted in your position, stroking the side of his face that wasn't covered by his huge hand.

"Talk to me, baby. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong," your voice, soft and gentle, began to ease the tension. It seemed to pull him back from the brink of a panic attack.

"Breathe, just talk," you urged. He took a deep breath, his exhale brushing against your face. His hand fell away from his face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and watery eyes. You met his gaze, your own eyes welling up with empathy. You fought back your tears, wanting him to feel safe expressing himself.

Joe tried to speak but faltered, closing his lips and shaking his head. He was at a loss for words, unsure of how to begin.

You let out a gentle sigh as you brushed his greasy hair away from his face. He hadn't bothered to wash it in days, neglecting self-care. As your fingers ran through his strands, an idea dawned on you. With a small smile, you met his sad eyes.

"It's been a while since you washed your hair, huh?" you remarked.

He nodded, still focused on you.

"How about we have a little wash day? I just got some new hair care stuff," you suggested.

There was a moment of silence as he considered it. He didn't want to leave the safety of the room, but he was also bothered by his oily, limp hair.

"Yeah, that sounds nice," he replied softly.

"Yeah? Let's go," you said, standing up and offering your hand. He slowly rose from the bed, taking your hand and letting you lead him to the kitchen.

Since childhood, your family had always washed hair in the kitchen sink. Moms, aunts, and cousins would have you lay flat on the counter, and it was always your favorite part of hair care, like a special ritual.

Your hair care routine had evolved. With the right products and tools, you felt like a pro, especially during tasks like washing your hair. Now, wash days were more enjoyable, and you loved washing your husband's hair too. It was a favorite bonding activity.

"Okay, lay down on the counter," you instructed.

One perk was your spacious kitchen, allowing you to recreate the wash days you cherished from childhood. He hopped onto the counter, and a bit of excitement gleamed through his eyes. It had been a while since you shared an intimate moment like this. With his travels and recent struggles, there had been little room for such simple things.

You stepped away briefly to fetch your hair care items. Your favorite line was created by Taraji P. Henson, who understood the needs of tight coils like yours. Today, you opted for the Honey Fresh clarifying shampoo to remove oils from his locs and the Make It Rain conditioner for moisture.

Returning to the kitchen, you laid out the items on the sink: shampoo, conditioner, Denman brush, wide-tooth comb, and a shower cap—everything needed to care for his hair.

You couldn't help but watch as he lay with his eyes closed, fingers intertwined on his belly. Though he didn't show it, he was eager for this wash day, just like you.

Turning on the sink, you tested the water temperature with your fingers, ensuring it was just right for his scalp.

"Okay, let me know if it's too hot or cold." you instructed. With his eyes still closed he nodded.

The water hit his scalp and you watched as his brows furrowed then relaxed.

"Is that okay?", he nodded once again,

"That's perfect."

The warm water felt like a soothing touch on his scalp, the best sensation he'd felt in days.

"Good," you smiled, running your fingers through his hair. It took a moment for the water to penetrate his hair, the oils causing it to bead off into the sink. The touch of your nails on the back of his neck sent shivers down his spine as you worked the water through his hair.

"Alright," you murmured to yourself as his hair drank in the flowing water. With a twist, you shut off the tap, the room now silent. You placed the detachable head back in its place, and your fingers found the shampoo bottle, releasing a dollop into your hand. With a soft sigh, you worked the dollop into a nice lather with your palms.

You started at his hairline, the pads of your fingers tenderly grazing his scalp. Purposefully avoiding using your acrylic nails, your touch was feather-light. You wanted to cocoon him in bliss and make sure that he was as relaxed as possible.

Your fingers trailed to the hair behind his ears, a familiar path that never failed to make him weak. His ears, his sweet spot, where the slightest touch made his toes curl. Each time your wrist brushed against his ear, he moaned softly, bringing a slight blush to your cheeks.

"Feel good?" the soft words left your lips.

"Feels great." he confessed with a contented sigh.

His response brought warmth to your heart as you continued your movements, moving towards the center of his scalp where he was often tender-headed. With gentle strokes, you massaged the area, mindful of his comfort. In this moment, you found joy in this simple act of caring for your husband.

Though you wanted to get into deeper conversations about his well-being, you hesitated, not wanting to disrupt the peace of the moment. Instead, you chose to stay silent, allowing your gentle touch to speak volumes. But Joe had other ideas.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled

"Don't be, you haven't done anything wrong," you assured. Although you knew what he meant. He felt remorseful for acting distant and pushing everyone away, but you knew it wasn't his fault. He was grappling with emotions beyond his control, and you gave him space to work through them.

"But I have, I haven't been the best husband lately. Well really in the past few years if we're going to be honest."

"Joe-"

"No, listen.." his eyes were flooding with tears again.

"I have not been the best husband in years. I thought with this time off I'd be able to make up for lost time but the more I sit with myself, I'm wondering am I capable of being a good husband? I don't even know who I am outside of Roman Reigns."

Tears were now flowing freely down the side of his eyes and into his hair. For the past 4 years, he had been an alternative version of himself. He completely immersed himself into a character and with the time he had to actually sit with himself, he realized he wasn't really sure who Joe was.

Tears were now rolling down your face. It hurt to see him doubt himself like this. You knew who he was—Joe and Roman were completely different. It was hard to believe he couldn't see it; he was struggling with imposter syndrome.

You wiped your tears away with your wrist, trying to steady yourself. You needed him to know that you didn't share his negative feelings about himself.

"Well, your feelings are valid, baby, and I never want you to feel otherwise. But just because they're valid doesn't mean they're right."

You rinsed the shampoo out of his hair with the detachable head of the sink.

"You might not see the difference between Roman and Joe, but I do. I'm not in love with Roman; I'm in love with Joe. I didn't marry Roman; I married Joe. Roman is manipulative, selfish, cold-hearted—wicked, even," you chuckled softly. Joe wiped away his tears, mirroring your laughter.

You began to wring the excess water from his hair. It was finally clean. Now, you just needed to condition and detangle.

You reached for the condition and squeezed a quarter-sized amount into your hand. Then you gently spread it through his clean hair.

"But Joe.. Joe is sweet, he's vulnerable, and he would give the shirt off of his back to anyone in need. We all love Joe and we understand that just because you're away it doesn't mean you're neglectful, you're doing what you have to do to support your family. Joe is a husband, he's a son, he's a family man, he's a sweetheart, he's you."

Using the Denman brush, you carefully distributed the conditioner and untangled his hair, avoiding any painful pulls.

"You are not Roman, you are Joe. Do you understand?", you asked, pausing to catch his gaze. He kept staring ahead.

"Look at me," you said softly, but firmly. His eyes met yours, resembling those of a puppy.

"Do you understand?"

His lips curved into a soft smile and he nodded.

"Yes, I understand, baby," he affirmed. Leaning in, you tenderly brushed your lips against his forehead, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath yours. Then, with a gentle passion, you pressed your lips to his, sparking a feeling that had been dormant for too long.

As you pulled away, you couldn't help but shower him with one last sweet kiss on the tip of his nose before getting back to his hair.

"I know it's going to take time for you to adjust, and I understand it won't be easy. But I want you to know, I'll be here every step of the way. I promise," your voice was filled with unwavering support.

Carefully, you lifted his head to secure the shower cap, ensuring his hair received the deep conditioning treatment it deserved for the next 10 minutes.

"Thank you, for everything...I love you," he whispered, his words carrying deep gratitude and love.

"I love you too, handsome," you said, your heart brimming with excitement as you anticipated having your husband return to his true self.

---------------------------

Hope yall enjoyed!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx @theninthwonder

#🥺#good reads #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #wwefanfic #romanreignsoneshot #roman reigns fluff #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic

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cinnamonglrls · 7 hours

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The ponytail 🥵

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cinnamonglrls · 2 days

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..Is Mine..

warning: smut (+18) ...umm can we talk about the gif above...whew chile...anywaysss the people have voted and ya'll wanted this! It's a part 2 to Jealous, just a different pov : ). Enjoy!

So... Tell me that, that pussy is mine... Yeah... Tell me, tell me baby It's all mine Yeah...

"Will you stop walking away from me and let me talk to you!" The door slammed shut behind me, punctuating the tension between us.

Our ride home had turned into a heated exchange, the playful banter now replaced by a tense argument.

He stumbled up the stairs, each step heavy with frustration, the door shuddering as he forcefully closed and locked it.

"Dammit Joe, open the damn door. If anyone is going to storm off from a conversation dramatically and slam doors, it will be me!" My voice echoed through the closed door, my irritation evident in every word.

I gave up, the sound of the TV being turned up made it known that not only was he not up to talking but he also wasn't up to listening.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to leave, until a small click and a creaking door stopped me in my tracks.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I watch you flirt with countless women all the time, and I never ever disrespect you the way you're disrespecting m—" Before I could finish, I was pressed against the wall, a sharp gasp escaping my lips as pain shot through me.

My right hand was now pinned above my head, trapped in his firm grip, while the other pressed against his chest in a pathetic attempt to halt the inevitable. His piercing brown eyes bore into mine with a magnetic passion, delving deep into the depths of my soul. With every breath, the air filled with tension, the weight of his gaze leaving me breathless and in an unshakable trance.

His fingers coiled around my neck, exerting a gentle pressure that almost sent me down to my knees. At this point, my body is quivering with need.

"Shh..just..just stop t-talking." He stuttered, a brief pause punctuating his struggle for composure, his head tilting back slightly as if seeking refuge from what was brewing within him. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips while a deep exhale escaped through flared nostrils, a telltale sign of his effort to remain composed. I could sense the temper trying to rise beneath the surface, almost as if there was an intense battle between his restraint and lust playing out internally.

"N-no," I stammered, my brain scattered, torn between wanting to submit to him and standing my ground. Every nerve in my body tingled, yet I couldn't allow myself to give in so easily. It drove me mad that he held such power over me, a power that I both craved and resented.

He shook his head, at my defiance, his eyes smoldering with a determination to put me in my place. With a swift motion, his hand seized the hem of my sundress, tugging it upwards until it pooled at my waist, granting him unrestricted access to the part of me that throbbed for his skilled fingers.

I quivered as his fingertips danced with featherlight caresses along the delicate fabric covering my heated core. My juices seeped through my panties and onto his fingers like a magnetic pull.

"I hope Jimmy didn't get you this wet," he teased, his voice coated with playful seduction as he continued to tease me through my panties. Succumbing to the touch of his fingers, I arched against the wall, a symphony of soft whimpers escaping my parted lips.

I felt Roman's smirk against my neck, the sensation sending goosebumps all over while his breath ghosted over my skin.

"Of course he did," I confessed with a coy smile, letting the thrill of our forbidden game wash over me, each whispered word feeding his anger.

He growled before tossing me onto the bed. I couldn't help but giggle as I propped myself up on my elbows, but he didn't seem to think anything was funny.

His gaze was intense, darker than usual, and his features contorted into a fierce expression that could've fucked me on its own. Perhaps I shouldn't have provoked him. Oops.

With his continued predatory glare, he closed the distance between us, his head descending between my parted thighs. In one swift motion, he tore my panties in half, discarding them without a second thought. And oh, the way he teased me, it was a delicious torture, each touch making me yearn for more.

His focus lingered on my outer lips, alternating between gentle sucking and teasing bites. While he occasionally delved deeper, penetrating me with his tongue, my clit throbbed with a need for more attention. Desperate for release, I grasped at the sheets, my hips arching in a silent plea for friction against my pearl.

"Joe, please, just eat me already," I moaned, the urgency in my voice didn't make him budge as I begged for him to satisfy the ache within me.

He chuckled softly against my pussy, relishing in the sound of my gasp before responding, his fingers sliding effortlessly into my slick heat, claiming me with ease. I melted into his touch completely, now under his possession as he exerted his dominance over me.

My breath hitched, becoming erratic as he pleasured me. With such a slowness, his fingers moved in and out of me, each stroke grazing my g spot. I could've sworn his fingers were in my stomach. His tongue, a welcome intrusion, teased my dripping folds as his fingers worked along my velvety walls.

"Tell me, baby. Tell me it's mine," he demanded his voice a deep baritone that sent intense vibrations coursing through my body. He looked up at me, his eyes smoldering as he snatched my soul.

"Oh, fuck, baby," I panted, my orgasm on the brink. This one was going to consume me entirely.

"It's all yours," I gasped, my voice barely a whisper.

He withdrew his fingers, leaving me momentarily bereft. But before I could voice my protest, he forcefully spread my legs wider, his tongue plunging deep inside me with a hunger that mirrored my own. It was as if he was determined to devour me, to claim every part of me from the inside out as his own.

My hands instinctively found his head, urging him deeper. My eyelids fluttered shut, my world narrowing to the sensation of his tongue swirling and thrusting within me, his lips capturing my clit with soft slurps and gentle kisses.

I unraveled in his embrace, my body shaking uncontrollably with the intensity of my release. The sheets were no match against the grip I had on them. He set every nerve ending ablaze with ecstasy as he continued drinking me up. He moaned against my pussy catching every single drop it had to offer. He loved the way I tasted.

Running my fingers through his hair, I struggled to catch my breath as I basked in the aftermath of my climax.

"That's right, my love. It's. All. Mine," he murmured between tender kisses..

Tell me, tell me baby It's all mine...

-----------------

Whew, he could be mad at me all he wants..

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginaswanmills @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx

#🥵🥵🥵#good reads #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #wwefanfic #romanreignsimagine #roman reigns x black reader #romanreignsoneshot #roman reigns x reader

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cinnamonglrls · 6 days

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cimtfyk!roman. 🫵🏽🫵🏽🫵🏽

#shrug

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cinnamonglrls · 7 days

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NDA

Roman Reigns x Ariel (OC)

Warnings: 18+

Just a little idea that came to to mind. This one will be a little long. I hope you enjoy!!

You can read my other stories here: Master List.

If you'd like to be added to my tag list, please let me know. ❤️

******************************

NDA

NDAs, or non-disclosure agreements, are legally enforceable contracts that create a confidential relationship between a person who has sensitive information and a person who will gain access to that information. A confidential relationship means one or both parties has a duty not to share that information.

Part 1:

The incessant tapping of the pen on the conference room table was starting to grate on Ariel's nerves. She was once again faced with another beautiful woman, tall and curvaceous, sitting across from her.

"Do you need help understanding something?" Ariel asked, crossing her hands on her lap and looking at the blonde across from her. She hadn't intended for her question to sound harsh, but this repetitive task was becoming frustrating. This was the third Non-Disclosure Agreement she had processed for her client this week. The young blonde, who appeared to be no older than twenty-five, nervously met her gaze and let out a sigh. "I just can't seem to grasp all this legal stuff."

Ariel nodded, understanding where she was coming from. "Yes, it may seem excessive, but Joe has had some bad experiences in the past with his personal life becoming public knowledge. This is just a precaution to prevent that from happening again."

The young woman let out another sigh and leaned back in her chair. "I understand, but I feel like I'm signing my life away here."

Ariel smiled sympathetically. "I assure you, it's not as drastic as it seems. This is a standard NDA for anyone who is- close with Joe. It's just to protect both parties involved. You can’t post, Tweet, Tik Tok, Instagram or Facebook about your relationship. Should anyone ask you about Joe, you are not allowed to talk about him or how you are involved with him."

The blonde bit her lip and hesitantly reached for the pen. "Okay, I'll sign it." She quickly scribbled her signature on the document and handed it back to Ariel.

"Thank you," Ariel said as she collected the form and placed it in a folder. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"No, I guess that's all," the young woman replied, standing up from her chair.

“Once all parties have signed you will receive a notarized copy in the mail.”

Ariel let out a deep breath as she leaned back in her chair, thankful for the brief moment of peace before her next appointment arrived. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for not warning the young woman about Joe. But then again, it wasn't her place to interfere in her client's personal matters. She found it curious that someone would go through so much trouble to protect their privacy. But as an attorney, she knew better than to pry. Her job was simply to provide legal services and ensure that everything was done by the book.

Ariel Jones was a prominent Miami based attorney who was contacted out of the blue by Paul Heyman to process a few NDA's for his client who lived locally in Miami.

“I'm sure you've heard of the WWE Ms. Jones. I'm currently working with Joe, also known as Roman Reigns and I need to have a few NDA's signed while we're in town.”

“Yes Mr. Heyman, I know who Roman Reigns is…”

“Wonderful. I'll have his- acquaintances stop by your office, say tomorrow at noon?”

“That will be fine, sir.”

That had been two years ago and the “acquaintances” kept rolling into her law office. But who was she to complain about easy money? Joe seemed to have plenty to spare and never questioned the invoices she sent him. He seemed more than willing to pay whatever amount she charged, even when she had to work late into the night.

One thing that always intrigued her was the enigmatic man himself. What made Joe so irresistible to women, causing them to sign non-disclosure agreements at his every whim? It all felt cold and detached to her. Sure, he was undeniably attractive, but was the physical pleasure really worth it?

Ariel had yet to meet Joe in person; all their dealings were handled through Mr. Heyman, and for some reason, Joe preferred it that way. She wondered if she would ever have the chance to meet him face-to-face, but for now, she was content with taking his money without having to know the man behind it all.

••••••••••••••••••

Six Months Later:

“Genevieve?” Ariel chuckled out loud as she scrolled through her Instagram feed one night in bed. Reading the latest headline about WWE Superstar Roman Reigns being spotted in a Miami nightclub with a mysterious blonde.

“Didn't think she'd survive this long,” Ariel said to the empty room as she continued to scroll through her feed. She had been following Genevieve's Instagram account ever since that day they met in her office. It was ironic that, to the public eye, Genevieve was just another pretty face hanging off of a famous wrestler, unaware of the true nature of their relationship. Ariel couldn't help but feel a mix of amusement and pity for the girl. Clearly, she didn't know what kind of man Joe truly was. Or how many other women he was involved with.

As she clicked on her profile, scrolling through countless photos of luxurious vacations and expensive gifts, Ariel wondered if this was really worth it for her. Was the lavish lifestyle worth being practically owned by Joe? Did Genevieve even have a choice in the matter? Ariel shook her head and closed out of the app. It wasn't her place to judge.

But as days went by and more photos emerged of Genevieve and Joe together. One morning, while sipping her coffee at work, Ariel received an unexpected call from Mr. Heyman.

“Ms. Jones, I need you to handle something for me.”

“Of course Mr. Heyman, what is it?”

“It's regarding Joe's NDA with Genevieve Russell.”

Ariel raised an eyebrow at this new information. Was there trouble between them? Or did Joe just want to update his agreement with Genevieve?

“What exactly do you need me to handle?”

“I need you to meet with Miss. Russell and have her sign a new NDA with updated terms. Joe has decided to tighten security around their relationship, and he wants you to handle the process.”

Ariel felt a sense of foreboding at Mr. Heyman's words. Tightening security around their relationship? What could have possibly prompted such a decision from Joe? She agreed to meet with Genevieve, setting up an appointment at her office later that day.

As she waited for Genevieve to arrive, Ariel couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of her stomach. When the young blonde finally entered her office, there was a noticeable tension in the air that hadn't been there before.

After exchanging pleasantries, Ariel carefully explained the new terms and conditions of the updated NDA to Genevieve. The young woman listened attentively, but Ariel could sense a growing discomfort in her demeanor.

"I understand these new terms are stricter than before," Genevieve said hesitantly. "But why now? What's changed?”

Ariel carefully read through the added clauses. They were surprisingly specific, outlining restrictions on Genevieve's social media posts, no more posts of the gifts she had received, no public appearances without Joe, and even her personal interactions with certain individuals. With a reassuring smile, she replied, "I'm afraid I can't discuss the specifics of my client's decisions. Just that there are few more items you need to review.”

Genevieve's eyes widened slightly and Ariel noticed a flicker of fear pass through them. She took a deep breath before speaking again, her voice soft but firm, "I urge you to consider the terms of this NDA carefully before signing. If there are any concerns or questions you have, feel free to voice them now."

Genevieve shifted in her seat, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap.

Ariel sympathized with her unease but maintained her professional composure. "I understand your concerns, but please know that these measures are put in place to safeguard your privacy as well. Joe values discretion above all else."

Noticing Genevieve's hesitation Ariel gently asked, "Is everything alright, Miss. Russell? You seem uneasy."

The younger woman nodded slowly, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. "I... I appreciate that, but some of these terms seem excessive. Why does Joe suddenly need so much control over my life?" Her voice wavered with uncertainty, a hint of defiance shining through the fear in her eyes.

Ariel hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing her words. She knew she was treading on thin ice, but her gut screamed at her to push further. "Genevieve, I urge you to please read everything very carefully." The words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the tension that had wrapped itself around them

The next day, Ariel sighed as she picked up the phone and saw Mr. Heyman's name flashing on the screen. She had been dreading this call ever since Genevieve left their meeting without signing the updated NDA.

"Ms. Jones," Mr. Heyman's voice was crisp and business-like as always. "I understand that Miss. Russell did not sign her NDA yesterday? Care to tell me why?"

Ariel took a deep breath and mentally prepared herself for this conversation. She knew she needed to choose her words carefully, knowing that anything she said could potentially jeopardize her working relationship with Joe.

"Mr. Heyman, Miss. Russell had some concerns about the updated terms of the NDA," Ariel replied calmly. "She wanted to take some time to review them before signing."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before Mr. Heyman spoke again, his tone slightly curt. "I see. And what specific concerns did she have?"

Ariel hesitated, "She felt that some of the restrictions were excessive and raised questions about why they were necessary."

"I understand her concerns," Mr. Heyman said stiffly, "but I must remind you that Joe is a high-profile individual and it is in everyone's best interest to protect his reputation and privacy."

"I completely understand, Mr. Heyman," Ariel replied smoothly, keeping her tone respectful despite the growing tension in their conversation.

There was another pause before Mr. Heyman spoke again, his voice now tinged with annoyance. "Ms. Jones, I trust that you will be able to convince Genevieve to sign the NDA today?" he asked pointedly.

Ariel swallowed nervously but maintained her composure as she replied, "I will do my best, Mr. Heyman."

"Good. I expect to hear from you soon.” He replied before hanging up.

The weight of Mr. Heyman's expectations lingered in the air as Ariel hung up the phone, her mind already racing with strategies to handle the delicate situation with Genevieve. She knew she had little time to act, and with each passing moment, the pressure mounted. Just as she was lost in thought, there was a knock on her office door. Ariel straightened up in her chair and called out for the person to come in. To her surprise, it wasn't Genevieve looking for answers, but rather Joe.

He walked into her office with confidence, his dark hair slicked back into a neat bun and dressed in a sharp suit. Ariel couldn't help but notice how handsome he was, with sharp features and piercing dark eyes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," he said smoothly, extending his hand towards Ariel. "I'm Joe."

Ariel stood up from her chair and shook his hand firmly. "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Anoa’i," she replied politely.

"Please, call me Joe," he said with a charming smile, placing his hand over his heart.

Ariel couldn't deny that there was something magnetic about him, but she quickly pushed those thoughts aside and gestured towards the seat across from hers. "Please, have a seat,"

Joe settled into the seat gracefully, his posture exuding confidence and authority. Ariel couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at his unexpected visit. What could he possibly want from her after the tense meeting with Genevieve?

Joe leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Ariel with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. "I heard you had a meeting with Gen yesterday," he began, his voice smooth but carrying an underlying edge that sent a shiver down Ariel's spine.

Ariel kept her expression neutral as she replied, "Yes, we discussed the updated terms of the NDA."

Joe's eyes narrowed slightly, and Ariel could see a glint of something unreadable in them. "And why is it that she left without signing the agreement?" he inquired, his voice deceptively calm.

Ariel hesitated for a moment, “Honestly, that is something only she can answer.”

Joe's gaze hardened at her response, his jaw clenching slightly before he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "Don't play games with me, Ms. Jones. I'm not one to be kept in the dark about matters concerning my affairs."

Ariel felt the intensity of his stare and the weight of his words, but she refused to back down. Steeling herself, she met his gaze head-on and replied firmly, "Genevieve had valid concerns about the extent of the restrictions outlined in the NDA. It's important for her to fully understand what she's agreeing to before signing."

A flicker of surprise flashed across Joe's face before his features settled back into a mask of controlled composure. Leaning back in his chair once more, he studied Ariel with a calculating gaze. "I see," he said slowly, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest.

A tense silence hung between them as Ariel waited for Joe's next move.

But he only nodded slowly, absorbing her words. "I appreciate your diligence in this matter, Ms. Jones.”

“Please, call me Ariel.” she replied softly.

Joe cleared his throat, “I’m not a bad man, Ariel.”

She could sense the vulnerability hidden beneath Joe's stoic facade, a glimpse of the man behind the powerful persona. “I understand, Joe. It’s important for those around you to respect your privacy and the complexities of your situation.”

Joe's demeanor softened slightly at her empathy. “Thank you for your understanding. I value loyalty above all else.”

Ariel couldn’t help but feel a surge of compassion towards Joe, realizing that there was more to him than met the eye. “I will do my best to address Genevieve’s concerns and find a solution that works for all parties involved,” she assured him.

“No need, she and I have - parted ways.”

Joe's words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken tension that seemed to thicken the atmosphere in Ariel's office. She studied his face, searching for any hint of emotion in those steely eyes that seemed to hold a myriad of secrets. But Joe's expression remained unreadable, a mask of indifference that made Ariel wonder what really lay beneath the surface of this enigmatic man.

As silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the office around them, Ariel felt a sudden wave of curiosity wash over her. Here was a man who exuded power and control in every aspect of his being, yet there was a vulnerability in his words that hinted at a deeper complexity. Who was Joe behind the polished façade he presented to the world?

Before Ariel could voice her thoughts, Joe stood up from his seat with a fluid grace that seemed to command attention. "Thank you for your time, Ariel," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. "I appreciate everything you do for me."

Ariel rose from her seat as well, her gaze meeting Joe's with a newfound understanding. "Of course. If there's anything else you need, please don't hesitate to reach out."

Joe nodded in acknowledgment before turning towards the door, his departure leaving behind a lingering sense of intrigue in Ariel's office.

Alone once again, Ariel sank back into her chair, her mind buzzing with questions and possibilities. The encounter with Joe had left a mark on her, stirring a curiosity that she couldn't ignore.

Determined to unravel the mystery behind the man, Ariel made a silent vow to unearth the secrets that lurked beneath the surface of Joe’s carefully crafted image.

Little did she know that delving into Joe's world would lead her down a path fraught with deceit, and desire.

A month later a mysterious package arrived at her office with an invitation to a party held at Joe’s Miami mansion. The invitation was cryptic, with no details except the date, time of the event and dress code. It was as if Joe knew she wouldn't be able to resist the allure of unraveling more about him.

As she arrived on the appointed date and time, the grandeur of the estate took her breath away, with twinkling lights illuminating the sprawling grounds and music floating through the warm night air. She made her way inside, Ariel couldn't help but marvel at the opulence surrounding her. The mansion was filled with elegantly dressed guests, champagne flowing freely as laughter and music filled the air. Ariel felt a pang of self-consciousness in her simple floor-length black gown but pushed aside her insecurities as she scanned the room for Joe.

Spotting him across the room, he stood with a woman on both arms. Their laughter mingled with the tinkling of champagne glasses, creating an aura of sophistication that enveloped them. Ariel observed Joe's easy charm as he conversed with the women, his charismatic smile never faltering. One of the women leaned in closer to him, a flirtatious glint in her eyes, and Ariel couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy prick at her insides.

As if sensing her gaze, Joe's eyes flickered in Ariel's direction before locking onto hers. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips before he excused himself from the women's company and began to make his way towards her.

Ariel's heart drummed a rapid beat in her chest as Joe closed the distance between them, his steps purposeful and deliberate. When he finally stood before her, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken tension, their gazes locked in a silent exchange.

"Ariel," Joe greeted with a hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "I'm glad you could make it," Joe said smoothly, his words sending a jolt of electricity through Ariel.

She mustered a smile, trying to mask the swirl of emotions churning inside her. "Your invitation definitely piqued my curiosity," she admitted, her eyes darting briefly to the women Joe had left behind.

Joe followed her gaze and chuckled softly. "Ah, acquaintances making the most of my hospitality." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "But you... you have intrigued me in ways I can't quite explain."

Ariel's heart skipped a beat at his words, her pulse quickening with anticipation. She searched his eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, but found herself lost in their depths. There was a magnetic pull between them, an unspoken connection that seemed to transcend the bounds of their business relationship.

In that moment, with the soft glow of the party enveloping them, Ariel felt a wave of uncertainty wash over her. Joe's proximity was intoxicating, his presence commanding yet comforting. She struggled to maintain her composure, to keep the boundaries she had carefully set in place from blurring into something more.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Joe reached out a hand and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle yet electrifying, sending shivers down her spine. "You look stunning, Ariel," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "You're so different than any woman I've ever met."

Her breath caught in her throat as Joe's words washed over her, stirring emotions she had long tried to bury. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, reading her like an open book, unraveling the layers she had so meticulously constructed around her heart.

She knew she should step back, create distance between them, but something held her in place, rooted to the spot by an invisible force stronger than her will. His touch lingered on her skin, igniting a fire that threatened to consume all reason.

"I...I don't know what you mean," Ariel stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her facade of composure was crumbling under the intensity of his attention, and she found herself teetering on the edge of a precipice she wasn't sure she wanted to step back from.

Joe's thumb traced a feather-light path along her jawline, his eyes never leaving hers. "Don't fight it," he urged softly, his tone laden with unspoken promises. "You feel it too, don't you?"

Ariel's breath hitched as her heart beat like a drum, the tension between them crackling like electricity in the air. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to gather her thoughts, but Joe's proximity was overwhelming, his touch setting her senses ablaze.

In a moment of surrender, Ariel leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them locked in a dance of shared longing.

The party continued around them, oblivious to the silent exchange passing between the two of them. In that stolen moment of intimacy, everything else melted into the background, leaving only the raw connection pulsing between them.

Without a word, Joe closed the distance between them, his lips capturing Ariel's in a searing kiss that sent shockwaves through her entire being.

Pulling away abruptly, she found herself breathless, her mind reeling from the intensity of the moment. Joe's gaze bore into hers, a mixture of desire and something deeper that Ariel couldn't quite decipher. The world seemed to spin around them, time standing still as they lingered in the aftermath of their shared kiss.

“I should go.” she faintly remembered whispering before fleeing from the house. Ariel stumbled outside, her heart racing and her mind in turmoil. She couldn't believe what had just happened, and she was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

On one hand, she couldn't deny the intense attraction she felt towards him. But on the other, she knew that giving into it would only lead to heartache and pain.

She quickened her pace, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. But no matter how fast she walked, his touch still lingered on her skin, his kiss burning on her lips.

As she neared her car, Ariel fumbled for the keys in her purse, desperately trying to regain some semblance of composure. But even as she slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, her mind was still consumed by thoughts of Joe.

She drove aimlessly for what felt like hours, trying to process everything that had happened. Part of her was angry with herself for letting things go so far with Joe.

She knew better than to get involved with a client.

To be continued...

Tag Squad: @mohawkmama @vebner37 @jeyusos-girl @cyberdejos2 @sunflower-leigh @thesamoanqueen @jstarr86 @vibessonvibes @harmshake @christinabae @stardust181 @iluvthebloodline @alyyaanna @claymorexpunisher @pusiqw @siriuslyblackonback @raya-hunter01 @jeyusosgirl @wooahmiri @theninthwonder @crxssjae @iguessilikewrestlingnow @sassginaswanmills @freegardenbanananeck @visionarymode @bebesobrielo @wrestlingprincess80 @lizzyd1ish @ilovericexx @empressdede @mocooper98 @blonde-boy-harem @brie-mode-activated @msbigredmachine

#if he walks into my office #he ain’t coming back out #btw #ariel’s REAL #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction

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cinnamonglrls · 7 days

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tanks of blood (4) - i'll be your mirror

pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: angst. talks of parental neglect. consensual underage intimacy (just a kiss!) roman and reader are 17 & 16 in this flashback authors note: we going down that memory lane again. this chapter is inspired by the velvet underground's song "i'll be your mirror". it's such a bittersweet song, something that i think perfectly sums up the relationship. word count: 3900 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @spritelucozade @gg-trini

roman didn't, and still doesn't have the burden of being an only child—thank God—and certainly not the burden of being an only child to such disagreeable parents. i love you, i hate you, and then that heavy drowning silence to follow. and no, he's never seen your mother and KG fight, but the after affects of such tumultuous affairs are always evident. cleaner and more clear than a chrome finish. a force fed sort of isolation he can feel, even if such feelings are just, to him, a secondary burden. pain by association. and he hates to imagine the messiness of it, that mangled and tattered sort of hurt littered everywhere, but his imagination is all he has, because you never say much about it. leaving the air as dry and brittle as they had. but maybe if you do ever say something, give the silence a soft solemn touch, he can restore it the rest of the way. or try to at least. he can do or say or be something, enough of whatever you need to remedy what he can. but even the idea of that is scary, a new desire the sixteen year old him that existed the year prior wouldn't have. lacking so much urgency about anything that wasn't him inspired. 'you need to grow up fast', he'd heard his mother say once. maybe this is what she meant. his seventeen year old sensibilities a little different. a little more urgent than easy, a little more ardently driven.

priorities are funny though. a list constantly shifting. everything ever that he liked, maybe even loved—parties, bikes, parties, girls, his hair, his bike—trumped by the state of your emotional being. which was interesting. a tire skid of an abrupt shift. and not to mention your hair, and your eyes and your face. full lips that love to pout in time with their irritations. and how would he notice that unless he was lingering? his eyes there, trailing up and over, down and everywhere. a twist in his belly, hearing you call his name. he can't help but to like it. to crave that rushing energy of getting you to squirm, to smile. to have your eyes fix themselves on him.

and if he didn't like you so damn much he'd probably hate you. his heart sinking into himself all the time now. a habitual falling that couldn't be stopped. regardless of how deep he breathed. self soothing be damned. so its nothing new to work through, when he gets to you—twisting open the door with a spare key he forced you to get made for him because he hated the idea of you being alone a lot at night —comfortable in your very empty house but not really. wrestling still with his body, because doesn't it know he has a coolness to maintain? an air? a quality? prince of pensacola and all that nice prestigious shit. but maybe that wasn't the point. maybe that wasn't supposed to exist with you. his fingers playing over the velvet box in the right pocket of his sweatpants.

but when roman says empty, he doesn't mean barren because your house is homey. comfortable. lived in. theres just no one here to indulge in it. to indulge in earth tones and splashes of green. plants and throw blankets. KG staining the place with pops of black leather jackets and silver things. little harley bikes and idle jewelry. no one but you. but whatever you've done, it leaves him hungry. the air warm and savory scented. tomatoes and garlic and bread and other fragrant little seasonings.

roman's sneakers thud over hardwood floors. your voice carrying from the lit kitchen. music low and melodic under your words, just enough to fill in the emptiness of the house. "roman i swear if you don't have my ice cream, please turn your ass about face and exit stage left".

he leads himself into the kitchen easy paced. overly familiar with the lay of the house. sliding into a too tiny for him kitchen island table high chair. his body half way off the seat. "you tryin to kick me out when i have a key is real backwards shit".

and you pout. full lips down turning. brows pulling. it makes the tip of his fingers itch. his tongue working over the roof of his mouth. he'd thought about it, once or twice. your mouth. questioned how good mango lip balm tastes.

you throw a balled up napkin his way. "the one little thing i ask for, you keep forgetting. its like you hate me".

"first", he starts. eyeing the portion of food you've tonged onto a plate. "that lil market you want it from is out of my way", snagging a fork and dipping it into the heat of the plate. your hand sliding him a can of coke. "second, its expensive as hell. tryna have me travel damn near across country for a forgettable ass flavor".

you gasp offended. full on dramatics that confirm just how spoiled you are. because KG and your mother were many things. complicated people he couldn't at times understand. but they always gave you things. whether it was wanted or needed. you always had it.

"my needs are forgettable?"

his eyes roll playfully. pulling his fork to watch the heat rise from it. "gimme a few days. i'll draft up a nice fat invoice for your pops. show him just how needy you are. spending all my money".

"money you let me spend!", you give. smiling. because you were right. there was never a moment where he let you buy things around him. not since the development of such abrupt, overwhelming feelings. harsh butterfly's and hard to quell desire making him do things he otherwise wouldn't think of. and he never saw his dad do it. never saw his mother reach into her wallet. your fingers pointing to the once upon a time crew neck band tee that you cut into a tank top. "your contributions paid for this top by the way. and my shorts", the neck of it slit into a v shape that gave him a view he didn't need to see. it wouldn't do much but excite things that didn't need exciting. ideas that didn't need encouragement. not now anyways. the biker shorts hitting mid thigh, soft brown skin left to the air. and you seem none the wiser to his examinations. cleaning out the contents of the fridge. your voice carrying over to him still. "the best thing you can do for a woman is open up that little wallet of yours".

roman snorts. sips at his coke with a smile. "when this so called woman shows up, give her my number so we can chat".

your teeth suck. throwing in a little mumble of "whatever", taking a towel to the fridge shelves. a diligent but bizarre work of your hands. because the house was already clean. already presentable. there was no reason for you to drench cloths in pine scented product. to work in a wipe down that left reflections rivaling the fresh chrome finish of his father's vintage cruiser. maybe that's why you've been on him about ice cream pick ups and late night last minute shopping mall trips for band tees and flannel shirts. everything a project. a process to pass the time. and his sudden willingness to say yes to everything didn't help. it only drew him in. manifesting itself in the form of a little black velvet box. one which sat in his pocket, waiting for some much needed exposure. exposure roman is sure won't be given tonight. not if his fears have anything to say about it. obnoxiously loud, heart thumping fears. seventeen isn't the age for rejection anyways. and he's seen it before, he can do well without that type of pain.

and with all this passion filled anxiety, roman goes unaware. tunnel visioned by thoughts and the impression of that velvet box pressing into his leg. levels the good heap of food you've given him easily. growing boy and all that jazz.

your reaction is cute though, when you do finally face him again. a play at disgust. pretty brown eyes watching the roll his tongue takes over his lips to taste the remnants of flavor. and he can feel the exacting of them. a sensation over his mouth from your eyes. hesitant and curious.

"y'know you could've chewed it right? it wasn't going nowhere"

roman stands. a finished plate in one hand and his unfinished coke in the other. shuffling to the sink. "the way you mindin my business is kinda crazy actually".

"the way you eat is crazy actually. very much like a starved animal".

and roman does a lesser by the day rare thing, slipping out of the hesitancy that comes with what if's and unknowns. the saucy mess of his plate in his right hand, body inching close, smooth and unashamed, till he's caging you in between his height and the sink. his eyes catching onto the slight hitch in your shoulders as you flush up against the counter. his head tilting, narrowing in on the surprise of your face. the stillness in your body that comes with unsure thoughts. mixed desire. or at least. thats what he hopes. this would be bad if you absolutely hated everything about what he was doing. but he kills that way of thinking. pushes it to a deeper, quieter corner. his blood racing. something in him wanting to see you thrash and break against the hold of your resolve for him. for him only. "all that jealous energy for a plate of food is unnecessary. i got enough attention to go around".

you gasp. catching his drift. his thigh nudging into yours. this teasing, faint knock in that has your hands rushing into him. a not so hard pushing away. "be so fuckin for real right now".

"starin me down, watchin me cause you like the way i eat", his emphasis on words, sharper on some than others. it makes your nose flare and the pulling in your brows deepen. his body rife with sweet satisfaction. he smiles, teasing, and the slip of it catches your eyes again. "it's ok to admit i make you feel something". his hand reaching down to dump the plate in the sink and sit down his can of coke. a maneuvering that gets him closer, deeper into the warmth of your space. "squirmin n'shit away from me like you don't like it".

your eyes dilate. a black heat pushing against the sweet docile brown. something new and unknown pushing against something comfortable and old. telling him everything he needs to know.

you bristle. short of breath."roman shut the fuck up and-...", your teeth sucking as you push against him again. "...and make yourself useful". getting away from what he's sure is suffocating air. and no this isn't totally his ego, but he knows that the intoxication of such a new feeling is more than likely overwhelming, because roman isn't new to making girls melt. to having them go weak and silly eyed for him. he was and is who he is, and the aura is natural, comes to him as true as would a birthright to the firstborn son of ancient nobility. but its never left such a satisfaction in him as it does now.

"need me to eat somethin else?"

your fist balls around a towel you've picked up. standing in front the light of the open fridge. you hurl it fast to hit him, approaching to have your hands push at his solid chest. so obviously overdone by whatever truths you're fighting to avoid. because why else would it bother you so much if it isn't true. if you don't feel the same way he does.

"close this", your finger pointing as his mouth. "wash this", directed at his still saucy plate.

eyes rolling for dramatic effect. to really sink home that overflowing of disgust. you fooled nobody. nobody but yourself.

"not sure if you know this...", his hands soapy and wet as he starts to clean his plate. heart pounding in his chest. a giant step of words tumbling down off his tongue. heavy and thumping as they hit the air less implied than they've ever been. "...but we can't work if you're gonna be violent to me. it's gotta be fifty-fifty. give and take and all that good shit".

you wipe mindless at another fridge shelf. from what he can see of your face, the gears turning slow and cautious. "and what exactly is supposed to be workin?"

"don't be dense". he throws a look your way. mocking and a little impatient.

you wince. a slight hitch in your arms. like such a thing to hear was painful. "roman. stop saying that", you scold. his name leaving you violent and parental.

and he feels an immediate failing in his chest. a stuttering that forms as the complete summation of every heavy bout and measly piece of anxiety since he's taken his first step past your front door. of course he didn't mean to be so wounding as to bring up in your eyes a more than mild detesting but there it is. brown and burning and heavy. a loathing born from the awful slip of his memory. too comfortable in his slip from caution to reign in the no go phrasing. because KG—as cool as roman thinks him to be—says not so nice things sometimes. 'don't be dense', as a way to inspire common sense from the other guys romans age. ones that hang around lazily. doing half ass jobs and wasting his—your fathers— time. but it doesn't mean you hate it any less, even if it never is directed at you.

"sorry", he gives softly. "sorry".

and the silence after is agony. like his body is working through the painstaking process of drowning. a suffocation that makes him squirm. uncomfortable in his skin. soft music playing still, the only thing that attempts to fill in the deep well of quiet. his hands toweling dry, leaning up against the sink to watch you work. steeping further into a self directed annoyance. the banter at one point ok. teasing but never so much that it made you go quiet. because quiet, from you, means that roman can't access whatever you're thinking. he can't gauge whatever feelings exist. and he's never been so brainless about a thing before, so disconnected that his words make you mount with a displeasured heat that quickly. again, this care for all of your feelings all the time. happening so quickly. when the fuck did that start and how the hell is he going to catch up?

he needs to fill the silence. the loudness of it nearly killing him.

"how's your mom?"

because he hasn't seen her for a while. her always less than warm stare and short words. smiles that don't reach the eyes and tense, unsure hugs. it was better when you both were younger. she gave him more to work with then. always smiling and cooking and present. her eyes bright and warm and brown, similar to the ones you have now. they looked at him with less distance then.

the circular wipe down of your hand falters for some seconds. picks back up as if nothing has happened. "she's fine", your voice flat. unenthused. "went up north to visit family".

and he's heard his own mother and father talk about it before. hushed words when they think others don't know. a sadness to the syllables. to the air when they say things. he figures its an excuse. visiting family is an excuse for other things.

the curiosity crushes into him. for the sake of wanting to do something. to have you not be so quiet about it. so alone in it. "how long has she been gone-"

"a few days", sighing out answers. seemingly exhausted with his prying. you stack things back into a clean—it was already fairly clean—fridge. dumping out not so old containers and ceramic dishes into the sink. "she'll be back whenever".

"whenever?"

you give him a look. one that peers up from under your lashes. one that says to stop. to drop the subject. to let it go. but roman is compelled by his own needs to get closer. to be something more than whatever it is that exists now. he wants to be let in.

"listen", picking his brain for words to say. anything that will properly stick. "...i'm here... if you wanna talk about it... you don't have to shutdown-"

you wipe out a tupper-ware bowl. old food and a nasty smell. disinterested. "don't really know what you want me to say".

romans jaw clenches. "don't do that".

"don't do what?"

"don't downplay shit", words toughing out harsher than he means them to. he sighs, tightening his eyes and going for a deeper breath. "i'm just trying to-", but you maneuver about him regardless. eyes not meeting and your fingers soapy and wet with too hot water. like he's not there. a twist in his gut performs well enough that he thinks somehow it'll bruise internally. his jaw clenching. "stop ignoring me-"

the dishes in your hand drop hard. but somehow not breaking. the fire in your eyes small but dangerous. "s'nothin to say...", you start. each word cutting out. "...because everybody knows. because it's very fuckin obvious. she gets tired, she goes to visit family", your tone playing patronizing. like a parent to a child. "he gets tired, he stays at the clubhouse".

"...and they leave you here alone", he finishes. upset for you. upset alongside you. why is that so hard for you to see?

"oh really roman?", sarcasm washing over. "i didn't notice. thanks for telling me".

and he doesn't really know what to do now. what to say. to much of an abrupt turn back into the banter could make you grow more sour. but he doesn't want to leave you to quietness either. doesn't want you to stew in the heat of all this unaccounted for anger. he's lost. ill feeling. but finally at least coming to some resignation of just how deep the care for you is steadily staking its claim into him. and that insistent scrubbing you're doing, roughing your hand into hot soapy water, almost mindless the way your arm works. like maybe whatever it is you're not saying, you're bleeding into the motions of it. your lips between your teeth. biting in. he wishes you'd just say something. even if that thing is small.

the ceramic dish breaks. a clacking sort of crack from too much heat and pressure. weak and overworked. the water it suffers under running red from the spill of blood. the skin on your hand lifted and pooling steadily. the pieces dropping to shatter more as you let them go. beads of blood pull up still past your skin but you don't dare to move. shocked maybe? the pain waiting to sink in.

"shit", a full registration. roman running to your bathroom. rummaging for anything first aid. bandaids and alcohol and gauze and ointments. but the cut itself was easy enough to bandage. yeah no, his speed isn't for the cut. it's for distance coloring your eyes and the way your body refuses to react. the speed of his running is to get back to that. to help that. attempt at a bandaging for that. or maybe thats not something mendable by his hand. maybe not at all.

the kitchen water is running when he comes in. hands full of helpful things and eyes filled with worry. your hand under cold water. grimacing with pain.

"here", he gives. stripping paper towels and pressing them into your hand. holding tight to pressure over. staring hard at sad eyes.

your hand pulls from his. releasing him. "thank you", fragile. on the precipice of breaking. soft breaths and a firm standing in front of him. amongst a too clean house and a bloody hand. your eyes not meeting. your lip suffering under the tension of weary teeth. and roman aches but the tower of his body stands over you present and waiting. a comfortable patience. your head falling into his chest. a lean in that asks for the permission to gain relief. if not from pain than from the carrying of a full burden. something that can be shared. and he takes it gracefully. his arms coming over and around till you're flushed into his chest. fingers spread and soothing. a pleasant caress.

you sniffle. small like but he can hear you. and maybe in this moment, this is all you can give. a simple cry without the heavy complexity of words. but it's enough. for him it's enough.

and your face is warm when you decide to shift away from tear staining his shirt. his fingers feeling the brunt of the heat as he thumbs the wet streaks along your cheeks. feeding his eyes into yours. no examinations or readings. just simple presence. an undefiled attention. here now, not so similar to before, he knows what to say.

"i gotchu". a tender thumbing caress just under glassy pink eyes.

everything about you here soft and abruptly undone.

his eyes slip against the seam of your lips. yours doing the same for his. looking away quickly to your hand.

"i got blood on your shirt", you say. his hands leaving the comfort of your face. looking up to him from under wet curled lashes. "sorry".

"it's cool", smiling. fingering the fabric of his t-shirt before tugging easy at yours. smudges of blood on it pressed in from the impact of your embrace. "we gotta get you a new tank top though. time to open up my little wallet i guess".

"that and my ice cream is the least you can do".

and roman goes about the work of wrapping your hand patiently. a tenderness he's never really known existed in his till the first breaths of this moment. soft music that played before, playing still. his fingers steady as the gauze folds over and over to cover the wound against your palm.

he can still feel the impression of the velvet box in his pocket. the pressure of it calling to him. heart thudding ill-controlled. with no mind to give him reprieve.

his thumb runs over the wrapping of gauze against your hand. taking in just how much he towers over you easily. something like possession working into his blood. wanting to keep you safe.

he does the lesser and lesser rare thing. slipping out of hesitancy.

"can i show you something?"

you nod. "show me".

the velvet box gets its much needed exposure. after living so long in the shadows of such a deep pocket. his thumb opening it to reveal a pretty silver necklace. slim and simple. a heart at the center covered in diamonds. surprise takes you whole, pretty post-tear brown eyes full of questions.

"you like it?"

you nod again. "its pretty".

"it's yours if you want it".

his heart. if you want it, it's yours.

your eyes trail to his lips again. his tongue licking sly over them, feeling the burden of such a sensation. you reach on your toes, lips planting delicate and shy. an unsure take to his mouth that burst' the ways of his seventeen year old heart. he clutches the necklace dearly, the slim silver of it nestled in his palm as it circles your waist. hugging you in as his lips slot. pursing to pull against yours. a hum of sweet satisfaction slipping up as he maneuvers your mouth gracefully. something tender and fleeting, like a moan, from your throat. breaths heavy as you part from him. his nose knocking gentle into yours. mango lip balm sugary and addicting as he pecks your mouth again.

he latches the pretty heart to secure around your neck. thumbing your cheeks. his body urging him to go for more. pursing against your lips for another kiss.

angst and fluff… theyre so sweet!! makes all the present animosity and tension better i think. let me know what you think!!

#😩😩😩#good reads #i’m an angst girl down #what can i say #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader

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cinnamonglrls · 8 days

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also mood because now, it’s demon time. 😈

#CIMTFYK 🧋

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cinnamonglrls · 8 days

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??? no words at all. what a thorough & introspective analysis. thank you for taking the time to write this out and thank you for reading. i appreciate it boo. ♥️

kerosene. [R.R]

summary: the fire reaches a fever pitch.

wc: 5.7k

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Pure, unequivocal radio silence.

You got the message, especially after your blue message spun green when you texted him the morning after that night at HEIDI’s. You got the message, especially when he subtly swerved your attempts at approaching him on two separate occasions with the intent of sincerely apologizing for your inebriated lapse of judgement face-to-face— your persistance a true testament of your developing appreciation of the budding friendship you two were cultivating in the bracket of time post-injury and pre-fallout, no matter how short lived it was.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

In all honesty, you wanted to be buried where you laid. When you awoke with three flutters of your eyelids that morning, a shutter of film-burned memories of the night prior rolling on a reel that you played, paused, rewinded and repeated in your mind’s eye, you wanted to be buried where you laid. It was the type of regret and humiliation that drives you into nosediving beneath the cover of your duvet, hiding from the harsh realities and cruel, cruel consquences of casamigos.

He’s fucking married.

You groaned and moaned and pressed your knuckles into the corners of your closed eyeballs in frustration, berating yourself underneath the safety of the thick comforter where no one could find you.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

You had heard it in passing. You were winding down for the night at the barren arena after a show in Chicago. Only a few people were left at the venue, comprising of staff and a handful of wrestlers who were scheduled to perform near the end of the show that night. You were stripped clean of your in-ring gear and settled for something far more comfortable; a tight angelic tank top with black sweatpants. A NIKE duffle bag hanging off of your shoulder as you cruised the hallway on your way out to the escalade that would then lead you to your hotel for the night when a murmured conversation you couldn't help but overhear as you passed an office peaked your interest.

“… Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all. I think that…”

It stopped you in your tracks.

You slowly leaned your body onto the cold cinderblock wall in the dimlit vacant hallway, a few safe feet away from the source of the voices. A deep fold etched between the natural arches of your brows as you stay within earshot of the conversation but also at secure enough distance to eavesdrop without arousing suspicion. Roman put you on Paul’s radar?

You don’t remember how long you stood hidden in that dark hall, quiet as a mouse with your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip and then your fingernails, a cycle that rotated as you skimmed through cold memories of how unwelcome you were made to feel upon your debut at his hands, which was bad enough. But he was a factor in the reason you were placed on the main roster in the first place?

It wasn’t until you heard shuffling of feet originating from the office that you hurriedly pushed yourself off the wall and made your way down the hall and out the building.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Part-timer.

It was a nickname he worked overtime to earn.

Since the fallout, he’d begun limiting his appearances on television— only showing face once every two to three weeks at best. A privilege that came with the termination of the storyline that included you two, coincidently.

The sudden decision to cut the cord on the narrative, which came only three weeks after that fateful night, snatched the rug right from beneath your feet. It cut your air time by a whopping seventy-five percent, infuriating loyal wrestling fans all around the world who made their voices heard.

Trending tweets. Cunning signs. Persistent chants.

The people wanted you so much that you were coined The People’s Princess.™

Paul’s demeanor as he delivered you the news indicated that there was nothing he could do. It was beyond him.

The biggest upset of it all, a sentiment that you felt deep within you and a sentiment that wrestling outlets and general fans all around the world who also had the capacity to recognize it echoed: this juggernaut of an opportunity to showcase your skill was seized from you before you could really prove yourself worthy. To the people, to yourself.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

And now, there’s a fire sparking in your gut.

Chocolate covered strawberries, extravagant flowers, trips out the country, frequent and random proclamations of love.

There wasn’t a stone Roman left unturned for Thea.

Overcompensation tends to be a symptom of gnawing guilt, after all.

His forehead gently falls against your knee at the same time his eyes flutter closed in surrender, like he knows what you’re thinking about. Like he’s thinking about it too. You spread your legs a tiny inch. A forbidden invitation paired with a whiny whimper; a desperate siren plea of his name.

After bolting out of your hotel room that night with the speed of lightning, he stayed encaged within the peace of his escalade for a long time before pulling off, tightening his jaw and flexing his fingers for any semblance of control. And he’ll never admit it if he was ever confronted, but he spun the block. He pulled back into the parking garage and contemplated it.

He thought about it.

But then he thought about Thea. Thea, who has never forsaken him. Thea, who has suffered through the loss of all three babies they’ve ever conceived before birth. Thea, who slept on uncomfortable chairs at the hospital during the trials and tribulations of his health battles. Thea, who left everything she’s ever known to facilitate his career aspirations.

So how could he? He couldn’t.

He did everything in his power to scrub your essence off of him: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He showered three times in succession. He blocked your phone number. Then, he made a couple phone calls to management with a request that carried no room for leeway this time around.

He dug through the cardboard boxes in the dark and dusty attic and stared at the crumpled up piece of vows with faded lead etched on it from all those years ago, reminding him why he chose Thea.

And that was it.

It’s been 4,320 seconds, 180 days, 26 weeks, six months since you last seen Roman.

Until now.

Now, as you sit atop a high stool at Naomi’s outdoor bar and lock eyes with him the second you toss your head over your shoulder— curious as to the influx of commotion at the backyard gate during her and Jimmy’s 4th of July cookout. You wish you didn’t feel it. The peace that you’ve made with the heat that blooms in your ribcage but spreads like wildfire. Your eyes dart to Naomi and she looks just as lost as you are when she inconspicuously slides her phone out her backpocket.

mimi ♡: He told us he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m so sorry

mimi ♡: U know I would’ve told u he was coming if I knew

2:21 PM.

You grip the spine of your mimosa a little tighter than you were two minutes ago,the sizzle of smoke, indistinct rowdy chatter, laughing children, and throwback jams wafting from the stereo of a hefty speaker overstimulating your senses now that you were far more distressed than you were two minutes ago.

There’s a lot of pressure on you right now. You’re in an uncomfortable situation, not only because you’re in the same vicinity as the man who is the direct source of every single issue you’ve faced in your professional career, but you’re on his turf. This is his family. You’re the outsider.

Unbeknownst to you, standing beside his brother at the grill, Jey is watching this all play out with the eye of an eagle. He watches Roman unlatch the backyard gate with one hand and carry a shiny package of TNT explosives under the other arm, Thea trailing in behind him as symphonies of greetings expel from family members scattered around the yard. He catches the silent interaction between you and his sister-in-law and sighs under his breath.

“Man, hold this, uce.”

He passes his seasoned pair of tongs to Jimmy and unties the knot of his apron behind his back as he makes his way to the backyard bar. An arched football slices through the blue sky when he slips the apron off and tosses it over his shoulder, sliding behind the bar before you see him.

“Uh-uh, where you goin?” he interrupts you before you can slide off the stool.

“Um, to the restroom?”

He smacks his teeth, “with your purse?”

You look down to the bag clasped in your hand before sighing, sitting back on the stool and placing your purse onto the bartop.

He grabs your mimosa by the spine and tugs some liquor from beneath the bar before pouring it into the mimosa. You laugh, so he laughs.

“I can’t stay, Jey.”

“Ion know whatchu talkin bout.”

“Yes you do. That’s why you’re over here, right?”

He looks up at you from his concoction and then closes the cap on the liquor, returning it back to it’s place.

“I’m over here cause you look like a wallflower at my brothers get-together. And if there are any wallflowers, that means the kickback lame,” he looks away from you, “Aye Jimmy! Is this kickback lame?!” he yells out for his brother and you scramble to slap him on his chest to get him to lower his voice as to not any draw attention.

“Hell naw! Who said that?”

Jey shrugs, tossing a finger at you.

You hear grass crunching under shoes from behind you and suddenly Jimmy is sitting to the left of you but you can’t peel your eyes off of Jey, your hand incredulously cupping your mouth at his outburst.

“Say it ain’t so.” Jimmy states, looking between you and Jey.

Shaking your head, you explain to him what you were telling his brother. The conversation shifts gears when Naomi joins and persuades the group into playing a round of uno over at the outdoor sofa. One round crossfaded into three which crossfaded into numerous other card and board games until the sun set.

When you find yourself growing restless, you separate from the group with a stack of dirty dishes in your palms and stroll into the empty house to discard of the dishes.

As the faucet’s stream polishes the ceramics in your hand as you hold it under the water, you feel it.

Eyes.

It instills a deep sense of paranoia within you. Your eyes have scanned the expanse three separate times, lazily and then slowly and then very meticulously in hopes of pinpointing the source. You sweep the hazy vicinity once more but this time you lock eyes with the source.

You expel a tight sigh past your lips. You don’t even have to turn around. You know he’s there.

Something softly thuds against the kitchen island and you turn your head to see your wallet placed there before his herculean frame— almost a silhouette due to the luminated backdrop of the tangerine sunset past his build, in the backyard. You soundlessly return to softly scrubbing the plate clean.

A minute passes.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move either.

“Jimmy and Naomi put alot of effort into putting this together.”

“So.”

“So don’t make me fuck it up for them, Roman,” you tuck a loose strand behind your ear, “don’t make me fuck it up.”

With his bottom lip bitten between his teeth in ponder, he takes a second to digest the sentiment. He’s never really taken you for a brazen daredevil at the mouth with the singular exception of the moments following the time he unintentionally caused significant damage to your ankle and became the catalyst of the first and only blip on your professional tracksheet thus far. Even then, that independent situation unfurled after months and months and months of subtle transgressions— equivalent to having a long, less than ideal day and bursting into tears only after you arrive home and your belt loop gets latched on a door handle.

It seems to be a pattern with you two.

The ebb-and-flow. The long periods of piling tension rolled into motion due to his inability to communicate and behave with you the way he truly desires and then manifesting in frustration but delivered to your front door in the final form of misdirected ignorance.

It never fails.

That usual sensual liveliness about you that piqued his interest during that fateful NXT interview almost two years ago has been stunted. He knows it. Everyone knows it. Now, you’re self-aware enough to recognize that falling out with the thickest pillar supporting the operations of a male dominated, billion dollar business was a major oversight on your behalf which has almost boxed you into the placement of a social outcast. The slippery politics sucking you dry and leaving you for a pile of bones.

There’s a varnish of guilt that lines his features, perhaps due to the hazelnut sadness in your eyes. He’s heard indistinct whispers through the grapevine for a while during his attempts to keep his distance that can be traced via a paper trail back to your coworkers and peers, ridiculous enough that he refuses to breathe life into them, but it’s hard to refuse when you’re standing before him. As breathtaking as you’ve always been, yet absolutely depleted, “Isabel…”

And perhaps it’s what propelled him into swiping your wallet from your table after ensuring his wife was deeply engrossed in conversation with a family member, crushing Jey’s attempt of a heroic intervention beneath the sole of his shoe like he was a slimy cockroach with a low and stern Shut Up when he saw Roman take your belonings and roam into the house behind you.

Your hand, fatigued from holding the grudge, drops the ceramic plates with a reverbrating clank into the sink. You rush past the kitchen and through the halls with every intent of preserving yourself from digging yourself into a deeper hole, disoriented when your elbow is gripped and tugged into an empty bedroom and bookended with the silky click of a lock.

The speed in which you tug your arm away from his possessive grasp startles you both once in the solitude of the empty sanctuary, but him more so than you. An unsuccessful organ transplant where the body deems the foreign entity as a threat rather than an antidote— you have emotionally marinated in your resentment towards him for so long that your body’s natural response to his touch is immediete rejection, “don’t touch me.”

Gathering the courage to apply your body weight on your other foot as you stand, you immediately scurry to your feet, inhaling a tight gust of air and squeezing your eyes shut.

His eyes spring around your features in multiple, quick successions, “what the fuck do you want from me? Huh!”

Peace. Uproar. Honesty. Transparency.

Despite your own desire for a dose of his honesty, you’re hypocritically far too polished and noble to admit what it is you truly itch for from him. Too honorable and righteous to peel the rug back inch by glorious inch and reveal the tight-lipped accumulation of pink dirt you’ve swept beneath the surface for a very long time in the name of a carrying a clear conscious and straying away from ruffling any feathers. And, he simply does not deserve that from you. He doesn't deserve your secrets. He doesn't deserve your vulnerability. He doesn't deserve a fleeting glance at the cards tucked in your hands. So you keep them close to your chest, “I want absolutely nothing from you. I want nothing to do with you.” Snapshots flit through your mind at unruly speeds: your conversation with Paul, the faint bone-chilling sensation of fire running up your ankle, eating lunch in isolation in your dressing room as a rookie, the tight finger-snap of rejection pooling red-hot embarrassment in your stomach at the hotel, his suave and effortless manuevers and dodging your every feeble attempt at an apology. Weak and shaky, “you’re pathetic.”

A whistling wind rolls a tumbleweed across the sandy soil of a Nevada desert.

Despite his own desire for a dose of your honesty, he’s hypocritically far too dutiful to admit what it is he truly itches for to himself. Too obligated to promises he’s already made to indulge in the forbidden fruit that haunts him in his dreams and stirs him awake in the midst of stormy nights. His conscious torn into two, split evenly in the middle. Snapshots flit through his mind at unruly speeds: his heart nosediving into his stomach at the haunting sound of your scream piercing the air the night of your injury, his conversation with Paul, lingering glances despite your awareness, eyes pinned on you during your first night back at gorilla. But he’s too obligated to promises he’s already made. His jaw wired tightly shut in indignation, he stares at you in silence as tension rolls off the blades of his rigid shoulders.

You’re a hellcat on turbo with a dark tint and severed breaks when you get like this, “look at you. You know it too. You can never confront shit. Ever. All you do is run.” You pause and desperately rummage for something that will elicit a reaction from him even half as equivalent in intensity to the kinds that you’ve been grappling with, “like a bitch.”

And you get it.

His thumb and forefinger press into the plush flesh of your jaw with analytical precision and a tilting force just enough that you’re resorted to eyeing him down the slope of your nose before you even get the chance to blink. Your chest rises and falls in sharp cycles, your stomach tied in a tight knot as he furrows his brows while looking down at you, “oh yea? I’m a bitch?”

“Yeah.”

“And what else? Tell me.”

When it gets too intense, when his gaze starts to feel like he’s talking to you without saying a word, when it feels like you’ve known him forever and just met him all at once, when it feels like he’s a second away from unearthing your most depraved impulses, when you start to feel small at the foot of his scrutiny, you shove his hand off and watch the floor as he emits a low scoff beneath his breath.

His hunky frame inches away from yours, his arms across his chest, “gon ‘head. Tell me about myself since you know every-fucking-thing Isabel.”

In biology, the way in which we ensure immunization from foreign bacterias and virus’ is by taking it upon ourselves to insert those virus-causing organisms within us via vaccination with the intent of familiarizing our body enough to the organism to build the antibody to fight it— that way, the illness doesn't have a profound effect on our immune system should we ever contract the virus again, since we were proactive and already trained our body to combat it. In life, resistance to fear is built the same way. You have to be foreseeing enough to inject yourself with temporary toxins for the greater good despite it feeling like you’re nosediving into deep waters, swimming with blood-thirsty sharks as cinderblocks hang tied to your ankles, “no. I don’t know everything, but I do know one thing.” Your eyes latch with his like a lock and key, your voice small as a mouse, “I know you feel it too.”

All the air in the room has been sucked out.

You’re in the middle of the ocean, one blood-thirsty shark slowly circling you.

“It’s why you ripped me off of you like I was a venereal disease and almost shattered the foot I stand on. It’s why you haven’t been able to look me in the eye for the past six months, right?” You have to know. You have to. Because whether he knows it or not, the career you’ve sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears for hangs on the line tied by a thin thread. And apart from that, you don’t care about what else really hangs in the balance in the moment: not his wife, not his self perception, not even yours. If you know the why, then you’ll know just how to manuever this dillema so your career is in safe hands.

His chest puffs out once, a chuckle barren of humor entirely spills from his nostril— eyes ablaze. Deciding against dignifying you with a response, he turns and walks to the door.

“It’s why you put in a good word for me, isn’t it?”

Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all.

Stillwater.

His back prevents the sight of his eyelids rolling shut as his fingers mold around the door handle.

His unresponsiveness feeds the fire of your spiel, “I’ll violate my contractual obligations. I’ll go elsewhere. Tell me I’m making this all up and it’s a coincidence. Tell me I just keep on stepping on your toes and that’s where it starts and ends. I’ll make all of our lives easier. Because I don’t want this. I don’t want my position in this organization to be dependent on the state of my relationship with you. I deserve better than that, Roman. So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.”

If regret was a color, it would be the film of deep navy blue that envelops the morning just a couple footsteps before dawn. Nostalgic and self-depricating. Something like the faint billow of Bobby Womack’s If You Think You’re Lonely Now wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of funnel cake at an amusement park does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melting on borrowed time.

Perhaps the worst part of regret is the alternative, the masochistic relish in marinating in another universe in which your decision is slightly or entirely different than the one you landed on, resulting in a completely different outcome. Is the grass greener on the other side? Or is it green where you water it? Was the grass doomed from the start, sprouting from contaminated soil with infected toxins?

Perhaps the grass is green under you and there is no contingency.

It’s nomansland. It’s quicksand except every single grain of sand is an alternate outcome, engulfing his lungs as the ground swallows him whole, belching, and spitting out nothing but his bones.

A thin tube of brown velvet lies nestled between your index finger and thumb, tracing the lining of your razor sharp cupid bow with your eyes glues to the compact mini mirror the size of your palm in the back of the black escalade. When the grandeur golden marquee of your hotel approaches into view, you place the liner back into your clutch and exit the vehicle, tossing a curt Thank You to the chauffeur.

Pure kismet, he spots you instantly.

Pure kismet, you spot him instantly.

It isn’t discernible to neither of you when his knee begins to bounce beneathe the guise of the hovering counter as you begin to approach, his head hung low as if there were something suddenly very interesting on the napkin under the foot of his whiskey.

The last conversation you two had two months ago marked the beginning of something else entirely for you. The response you were fishing for that night returned an empty hook, but there was something final in its essence. After all, there’s only so much water you can fit under the bridge before it overflows. As luck would have it, or just the natural cycle of good karma, you were offered a contract at AEW with benefits that chucked your current arrangement with WWE out of the frame, including complete creative control of your character and likeness. An iridescent, silky pearl discovered within the jaws of a grueling tough-as-shit clam, “you didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

His glass meets his lips, his body facing forward entirely, “I did, actually.”

You have a newfound sense of calm within you. The type of peace that only the knowledge of what’s to come can ensure. The type of peace that envelops you when you see the sun yawn over the sky after a very dark night. Trusting what you can’t exactly see. Blind faith, “I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

This draws him to you. He eyes you behind his drink. His hooded eyes take you in before the glass contacts the wooden counter with a clank. He rolls his lips into his mouth and looks away, “that’s not your color.”

“Excuse me?”

Silence.

You raise your hand in the air and point to his drink when the bartender catches your eye, signaling one for yourself, “whatever that means.” You watch him mindlessly roll the band on his finger before peeping out again, “what’s my color then?”

The color you were in the first day he saw you, “cherry red.”

You glance down at the minimalistic black silk clinging onto the skin of your frame, dipping and divoting along with the natural curve and pivot of you. You shrug, thinking nothing of it, “my date liked it.”

How do you mourn the loss of something you never really had? How do you bury something that never even lived? Perhaps the reason why the thought of you out with someone else is lighting his skin on fire is because he’s silently aware of where the fingers of fault should be pointed at and there’s nothing he can do to negate it. But hurt men are impossible men, “well you’re here with me so I take it he was a dud.”

The sound you emit is half a laugh and half a scoff. You thank the bartender with a curt nod and nurse the glass with your palm, “You’re unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?” he mindlessly shrugs, “anyways. i just wanted to stop by and… clear the air before I left. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but last night was my last ni—”

“—I was introduced to wrestling when I was in the Airforce.”

When the inital slight surprise of the unexpected revelation wears off, a phantom thumbnail of a polished silver dogtag swinging on the neck of Roman’s olive green fitted tee— tucked underneath camo cargos comes alive in your minds eye. A location somewhere confidential. Somewhere top secret, but sandy and hot, his skin tanned and freckles indulgent. His hair unkempt and glossy with sweat as his upper body folds in situps when in the privacy of isolation.

He runs his fingers through his rough beard, still faced forward, “whenever any one of us had a bone to pick with one another over there, we’d handle it like men; with our fists. Cut our losses if we were defeated. First blood would end the fight. But it started getting messy. Rules were getting bent. Our men were getting hurt.” He takes a sip, “one time one of the boys stole one of the airmen’s breadrolls at lunch. The concussion put him on his back for a month. Our sergeant held our feet to the fire.”

You fill in the blank, “so they started wrestling instead.”

He lips purse in acknowledgement once.

The Airforce was the perfect solution to the troubled adolescent. There tends to be a haunting trail of overcompensation that’s left in the aftermath of trauma. Ghosts that whisper indistinctly in your ear, of which only your insecurities and weaknesses and fears are audible— telling you that you’re weak and that you won’t ever amount to shit and that you should just quit while you’re ahead. Or maybe not. Maybe that just applies to him, “there was something about the opportunity to discipline myself that drew me to enlisting. My pops was a piece of shit. No way around it. Used to beat on my mom. Used to belittle me, taunted me when I tried to help her.”

Roman tries to lower and sit on his haunches, looking immensely out of his element as this is the most concerned he’s ever been about you since meeting you, “hold o-,”

Perhaps the fuel to build his body came from the fire of helplessness that afflicted him as a doe-eyed child, hiccuping tears away as his father scoffed and laughed at his feeble attempt at intervention. Perhaps the opportunity to disipline himself was never that simple, but rather a way to become the man he’s always aspired to be; stronger, tougher, resilent. Because our past is never truly in the past.

And if you listen close enough, it sounds like there’s something he’s telling you without telling you.

He chuckles, but it’s absent of any humor, “I’ve spent my entire life wanting to believe I was nothing like him, that I was better than him, but shit, maybe I’m my fathers son after all.”

Half of a man, just like his father. Wandering eyes, just like his father. Except the circumstances are vastly different. Except the context is vastly different. Except he’d never dream of laying a hand on you with the intention of hurting you. Except his father never felt a damn thing for any of those women. Except nothing is the same at all.

“Why are you telling me this, Roman?”

So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.

“I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

The fact that he’s too little too late isn’t lost on him, the optimistic hurl of a basketball piercing through the air mere seconds after the game-ending buzzer. But the opposing team is already celebrating, bottles of champagne popped and confetti sprinkling from the sky.

“I don’t think that’s true at all. I think you’re the most conflicted man I’ve ever known, but you’ve never wavered. You face adversity in whichever form life decides for it to manifest that day yet you’ve never compromised your values. Your father sounds like a wet sock and I’m sure he’d be devastated to hear that you’re nothing like him despite what your mind tells you, Top Gun.”

A subtle tight-lipped smile sparks to life, warmth radiating in the ribcage of his chest.

And suddenly there is a lightness that settles between the two of you that can only be compared to the calm after the storm. The gradual sway of the trees to a slow halt after a particularly devastating hurricane, when the winds slack and the dark clouds part to make room for the sun. Because there are no more questions to ask, and you aren’t in the dark anymore.

The two of you spend the night immersed in the longest conversation you’ve ever shared under the soft lighting of The Belliago’s bar in the name of a bid farewell. He tells you tales about his time in the force that make you laugh and you fill him in on things he missed in the six month time span during the fallout. The bartender brings you two a bowl of macadamia nuts that he mindlessly shoves to the side because you’re allergic. He slyly mentions your dress again with the intent of you elaborating more on the man you just returned from a date with so he can dissect him and make him lesser of a man for his own pride but you don’t take the bait. You tell him how happy you are about the height this new endeavor is going to take your career. He can see the light in your eyes again.

When you excuse yourself and wander off to the ladies room, he blows a gust of air that’s been repressed in the deepest pit of his lungs all night and rubs his hand down his face. If regret was a color, it would be the forlorn warm lighting of a hotel bar somewhere in Nevada. Melancholic and self-loathing. Something like the faint billow of The Temptation’s My Girl wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of chlorine at a pool on a summer day does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melted.

And it dawns on him that you don’t plan on returning when he finally notices you took your clutch to the ladies room with you.

He watches in slow motion with baited breath as you exit the bathroom, toss him one last glance over your shoulder, and leave the bar for the lobby. Quicksand. The empty archway carved into the bar’s wall instead of doors facilitate the view of you entering the elavators when the stainless steel doors slide open. Quicksand. His eyes glued on you, he tosses a wad of cash onto the counter as his feet move on their own accord. Quicksand. All the air is sucked out of your lungs when you see him approaching with the prowess of a black panther with every intention of pouncing. Quicksand. His body barely slides inbetween the constricting steel plates before his mouth is latching onto yours so intensly that even a pack of hungry wolves couldn't rip him off. His palm wrapped around your throat, your back collides into the corner of the elevator as your fingers grasp onto his tee for dear life. A deep rumbling of I fucked up I fucked up tumbling past teeth, moaning lips, and writhing bodies.

sorry for the wait. school been turning me every way but loose i fear. but cimtfyk is back andddd it’s about to get uglier than vince mcmahon. thank u for reading <3

tags : @cyberdejos2 @annfg8 @looneyloser0 @joannasteez

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cinnamonglrls · 8 days

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IM CRYINGGGGGGGG

OPEN MIC NIGHT BITCHHHH

#my face when i first saw that brandi segment #she unloaded the clip #love this sm

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cinnamonglrls · 10 days

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kerosene. [R.R]

summary: the fire reaches a fever pitch.

wc: 5.7k

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Pure, unequivocal radio silence.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

He’s fucking married.

You groaned and moaned and pressed your knuckles into the corners of your closed eyeballs in frustration, berating yourself underneath the safety of the thick comforter where no one could find you.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

“… Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all. I think that…”

It stopped you in your tracks.

It wasn’t until you heard shuffling of feet originating from the office that you hurriedly pushed yourself off the wall and made your way down the hall and out the building.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Part-timer.

It was a nickname he worked overtime to earn.

Trending tweets. Cunning signs. Persistent chants.

The people wanted you so much that you were coined The People’s Princess.™

Paul’s demeanor as he delivered you the news indicated that there was nothing he could do. It was beyond him.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

And now, there’s a fire sparking in your gut.

Chocolate covered strawberries, extravagant flowers, trips out the country, frequent and random proclamations of love.

There wasn’t a stone Roman left unturned for Thea.

Overcompensation tends to be a symptom of gnawing guilt, after all.

He thought about it.

So how could he? He couldn’t.

He dug through the cardboard boxes in the dark and dusty attic and stared at the crumpled up piece of vows with faded lead etched on it from all those years ago, reminding him why he chose Thea.

And that was it.

It’s been 4,320 seconds, 180 days, 26 weeks, six months since you last seen Roman.

Until now.

mimi ♡: He told us he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m so sorry

mimi ♡: U know I would’ve told u he was coming if I knew

2:21 PM.

“Man, hold this, uce.”

“Uh-uh, where you goin?” he interrupts you before you can slide off the stool.

“Um, to the restroom?”

He smacks his teeth, “with your purse?”

You look down to the bag clasped in your hand before sighing, sitting back on the stool and placing your purse onto the bartop.

He grabs your mimosa by the spine and tugs some liquor from beneath the bar before pouring it into the mimosa. You laugh, so he laughs.

“I can’t stay, Jey.”

“Ion know whatchu talkin bout.”

“Yes you do. That’s why you’re over here, right?”

He looks up at you from his concoction and then closes the cap on the liquor, returning it back to it’s place.

“Hell naw! Who said that?”

Jey shrugs, tossing a finger at you.

“Say it ain’t so.” Jimmy states, looking between you and Jey.

When you find yourself growing restless, you separate from the group with a stack of dirty dishes in your palms and stroll into the empty house to discard of the dishes.

As the faucet’s stream polishes the ceramics in your hand as you hold it under the water, you feel it.

Eyes.

You expel a tight sigh past your lips. You don’t even have to turn around. You know he’s there.

A minute passes.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move either.

“Jimmy and Naomi put alot of effort into putting this together.”

“So.”

“So don’t make me fuck it up for them, Roman,” you tuck a loose strand behind your ear, “don’t make me fuck it up.”

It seems to be a pattern with you two.

It never fails.

Gathering the courage to apply your body weight on your other foot as you stand, you immediately scurry to your feet, inhaling a tight gust of air and squeezing your eyes shut.

His eyes spring around your features in multiple, quick successions, “what the fuck do you want from me? Huh!”

Peace. Uproar. Honesty. Transparency.

A whistling wind rolls a tumbleweed across the sandy soil of a Nevada desert.

And you get it.

“Yeah.”

“And what else? Tell me.”

His hunky frame inches away from yours, his arms across his chest, “gon ‘head. Tell me about myself since you know every-fucking-thing Isabel.”

All the air in the room has been sucked out.

You’re in the middle of the ocean, one blood-thirsty shark slowly circling you.

His chest puffs out once, a chuckle barren of humor entirely spills from his nostril— eyes ablaze. Deciding against dignifying you with a response, he turns and walks to the door.

“It’s why you put in a good word for me, isn’t it?”

Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all.

Stillwater.

His back prevents the sight of his eyelids rolling shut as his fingers mold around the door handle.

Perhaps the grass is green under you and there is no contingency.

It’s nomansland. It’s quicksand except every single grain of sand is an alternate outcome, engulfing his lungs as the ground swallows him whole, belching, and spitting out nothing but his bones.

Pure kismet, he spots you instantly.

Pure kismet, you spot him instantly.

His glass meets his lips, his body facing forward entirely, “I did, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

Silence.

The color you were in the first day he saw you, “cherry red.”

“—I was introduced to wrestling when I was in the Airforce.”

You fill in the blank, “so they started wrestling instead.”

He lips purse in acknowledgement once.

Roman tries to lower and sit on his haunches, looking immensely out of his element as this is the most concerned he’s ever been about you since meeting you, “hold o-,”

And if you listen close enough, it sounds like there’s something he’s telling you without telling you.

He chuckles, but it’s absent of any humor, “I’ve spent my entire life wanting to believe I was nothing like him, that I was better than him, but shit, maybe I’m my fathers son after all.”

“Why are you telling me this, Roman?”

So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.

“I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

A subtle tight-lipped smile sparks to life, warmth radiating in the ribcage of his chest.

And it dawns on him that you don’t plan on returning when he finally notices you took your clutch to the ladies room with you.

sorry for the wait. school been turning me every way but loose i fear. but cimtfyk is back andddd it’s about to get uglier than vince mcmahon. thank u for reading <3

tags : @cyberdejos2 @annfg8 @looneyloser0 @joannasteez

#reblog

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cinnamonglrls · 11 days

Text

kerosene. [R.R]

summary: the fire reaches a fever pitch.

wc: 5.7k

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Pure, unequivocal radio silence.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

He’s fucking married.

You groaned and moaned and pressed your knuckles into the corners of your closed eyeballs in frustration, berating yourself underneath the safety of the thick comforter where no one could find you.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

“… Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all. I think that…”

It stopped you in your tracks.

It wasn’t until you heard shuffling of feet originating from the office that you hurriedly pushed yourself off the wall and made your way down the hall and out the building.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Part-timer.

It was a nickname he worked overtime to earn.

Trending tweets. Cunning signs. Persistent chants.

The people wanted you so much that you were coined The People’s Princess.™

Paul’s demeanor as he delivered you the news indicated that there was nothing he could do. It was beyond him.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

And now, there’s a fire sparking in your gut.

Chocolate covered strawberries, extravagant flowers, trips out the country, frequent and random proclamations of love.

There wasn’t a stone Roman left unturned for Thea.

Overcompensation tends to be a symptom of gnawing guilt, after all.

He thought about it.

So how could he? He couldn’t.

He dug through the cardboard boxes in the dark and dusty attic and stared at the crumpled up piece of vows with faded lead etched on it from all those years ago, reminding him why he chose Thea.

And that was it.

It’s been 4,320 seconds, 180 days, 26 weeks, six months since you last seen Roman.

Until now.

mimi ♡: He told us he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m so sorry

mimi ♡: U know I would’ve told u he was coming if I knew

2:21 PM.

“Man, hold this, uce.”

“Uh-uh, where you goin?” he interrupts you before you can slide off the stool.

“Um, to the restroom?”

He smacks his teeth, “with your purse?”

You look down to the bag clasped in your hand before sighing, sitting back on the stool and placing your purse onto the bartop.

He grabs your mimosa by the spine and tugs some liquor from beneath the bar before pouring it into the mimosa. You laugh, so he laughs.

“I can’t stay, Jey.”

“Ion know whatchu talkin bout.”

“Yes you do. That’s why you’re over here, right?”

He looks up at you from his concoction and then closes the cap on the liquor, returning it back to it’s place.

“Hell naw! Who said that?”

Jey shrugs, tossing a finger at you.

“Say it ain’t so.” Jimmy states, looking between you and Jey.

When you find yourself growing restless, you separate from the group with a stack of dirty dishes in your palms and stroll into the empty house to discard of the dishes.

As the faucet’s stream polishes the ceramics in your hand as you hold it under the water, you feel it.

Eyes.

You expel a tight sigh past your lips. You don’t even have to turn around. You know he’s there.

A minute passes.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move either.

“Jimmy and Naomi put alot of effort into putting this together.”

“So.”

“So don’t make me fuck it up for them, Roman,” you tuck a loose strand behind your ear, “don’t make me fuck it up.”

It seems to be a pattern with you two.

It never fails.

Gathering the courage to apply your body weight on your other foot as you stand, you immediately scurry to your feet, inhaling a tight gust of air and squeezing your eyes shut.

His eyes spring around your features in multiple, quick successions, “what the fuck do you want from me? Huh!”

Peace. Uproar. Honesty. Transparency.

A whistling wind rolls a tumbleweed across the sandy soil of a Nevada desert.

And you get it.

“Yeah.”

“And what else? Tell me.”

His hunky frame inches away from yours, his arms across his chest, “gon ‘head. Tell me about myself since you know every-fucking-thing Isabel.”

All the air in the room has been sucked out.

You’re in the middle of the ocean, one blood-thirsty shark slowly circling you.

His chest puffs out once, a chuckle barren of humor entirely spills from his nostril— eyes ablaze. Deciding against dignifying you with a response, he turns and walks to the door.

“It’s why you put in a good word for me, isn’t it?”

Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all.

Stillwater.

His back prevents the sight of his eyelids rolling shut as his fingers mold around the door handle.

Perhaps the grass is green under you and there is no contingency.

It’s nomansland. It’s quicksand except every single grain of sand is an alternate outcome, engulfing his lungs as the ground swallows him whole, belching, and spitting out nothing but his bones.

Pure kismet, he spots you instantly.

Pure kismet, you spot him instantly.

His glass meets his lips, his body facing forward entirely, “I did, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

Silence.

The color you were in the first day he saw you, “cherry red.”

“—I was introduced to wrestling when I was in the Airforce.”

You fill in the blank, “so they started wrestling instead.”

He lips purse in acknowledgement once.

Roman tries to lower and sit on his haunches, looking immensely out of his element as this is the most concerned he’s ever been about you since meeting you, “hold o-,”

And if you listen close enough, it sounds like there’s something he’s telling you without telling you.

He chuckles, but it’s absent of any humor, “I’ve spent my entire life wanting to believe I was nothing like him, that I was better than him, but shit, maybe I’m my fathers son after all.”

“Why are you telling me this, Roman?”

So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.

“I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

A subtle tight-lipped smile sparks to life, warmth radiating in the ribcage of his chest.

And it dawns on him that you don’t plan on returning when he finally notices you took your clutch to the ladies room with you.

sorry for the wait. school been turning me every way but loose i fear. but cimtfyk is back andddd it’s about to get uglier than vince mcmahon. thank u for reading <3

tags : @cyberdejos2 @annfg8 @looneyloser0 @joannasteez

#roman reigns #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns x reader #wwe #roman reigns one shot #wwe one shot #roman reigns x black reader #CIMTFYK 🧋

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