#Strip Winding Rewinding

[cinnamonglrls]

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

[pricegouge]

Wanted to write fluff instead of anything actually important so here's a noncanonical drabble for Fatted Rabbit - takes place before bunny finds out Johns a shifter

Fatted Rabbit

"What you watchin', honey?"

It's late when John gets back from the bar. Late enough he's definitely not expecting to see you still up, but it's not often you find yourself with unlimited internet access anymore. At least, not without having to share the TV with him. John, of course, would never stop you from watching whatever you wanted, seeing as he seemed to spend most of the time watching you instead of the screen anyway, but it being his house always made you defer to something you knew you both liked. Tonight John had insisted you stay at his place while he worked, and though you usually demure on such offers, you couldn't deny you'd been looking for any opportunity to spend some time with the Discovery channel. 

You roll your head back to smile up at him where he stands behind the couch. "Animal documentary."

He hums, folds himself forward to rest his head on his arms, his arms on the back of the couch. "'Bout bears? You thinking of your other man?"

"Maybe," you giggle. "Was hoping to learn a thing or two about him." 

You offer John the remote, but he shakes his head and plants a kiss on your forehead. "Gotta shower off. You wanna join?" You motion at the TV as if to say you're busy with something very important and John chuckles, "I see how it is." You turn to quip something back at him, but stop short when you see him stripping his shirt off. He's been putting some weight back on, hairy belly filling out in a way that always makes you want to squish him, snuggle close. When your eyes finally track up to his face, he winks, having caught you, then plops his still-warm thermal on your head. 

You grumble, but he's gone by the time you resurface so you content yourself to sniff his shirt aggressively. It's nice, unfortunately, not too sweaty. You cover the nearest throw pillow with it and tuck in to learn about blastocysts. 

John returns in time for the narrator to declare the female which the doc has been following has gained enough weight for successful impregnation. "Good job, mama!" you cheer and grunt when John lays down fully on top of you. 

"What's she done?" he asks, nosing behind your ear. He snuffles enough he notices his own shirt on the pillow and you can feel him grin against your shoulder.

You ignore him. "Got big enough for babies."

His voice is thick when he answers. "Hm, now that is a good mama."

The wet mustache tickles so you manually turn his face toward the TV. "Ain't she so pretty?" you prompt, as the soon-to-be mother on screen sniffs out a good place to bed down for the winter.

"She's alright, I guess." He sounds unimpressed, and you roll your eyes good-naturedly when he tucks back into your chest undeterred. 

"Are you comparing me to a bear?" 

"Not much to compare, honey."

You smile, charmed despite yourself. You tilt his chin toward yourself and he follows, sliding up your body until your lips meet. You hum happily, ask him how work was when he pulls away.

"Quiet," he hums, planting more kisses across your cheek. 

"Could tell." You hadn't heard even one rowdy guest tonight. 

"Glad we didn't keep you from your date," he smirks, nodding to the TV.

It should be fucking ridiculous that he actually looks a little jealous, but somehow it's just endearing. Still, the crease in his brow looks even cuter when it's slightly deeper. "Date wasn't with mama here." Grabbing the remote, you rewind back to mating season and stop when the star of the show comes upon a boar. "Had eyes on her man, to be honest."

You wind up intimately familiar with the smell of John's thermal, nose buried in it as it is.

Next>>

[toprayarc]

what doesn't kill you makes you stronger: so mari makes sure that survival is her state of mind. she loads her arsenal, backs her bullets, and steps up to bat with a swing-and-never-miss. she melts into business, sanctifies her pleasure, and mixes a cocktail of mock impressions to boot. she's mean, and lean, a blood-bathed machine, and jesse pinkman? well, he doesn't stand a chance. not with that mumble-mouthed, messy-mind, motor-boat of a mouth. not with that curve and swerve and beck-and-call bend in his spine. not even with that spark of a lighter, the crackle of tobacco, those tendrils of smoke: wrapping around his jaw, his cheeks, his teeth, and beckoning for mari's mouth to do the very same—

wait, what? (freeze-frame, rewind, let's strip the scene clear.) —here's the deal: mari's got a heart like a hound, and it's howling at jesse's door. she's got a survival streak, a softer side, a send-and-delete sentence caught in the back of her mouth. she's got something hidden, something secret, something wrong, or right, or forbidden fixing every fluctuation of her heartbeat, and no one in the room wants to admit it. least of all, her.

"don't feel sorry for me." — @tocook.

"i don't feel sorry for anyone." she spits the words out like something sour; scoffs like there's an unwanted hint of something sweet. "and especially n — not you. i don't do pity—" her boot nudges against the bottom of the floorboard, tempted to rip out and around until there's nothing but graves beneath the both of them. soil, stretching its arms back up. (even that feels like a better fate than this, at this point.) forearms cross, straight along her chest. "— and i'm not— m — making any exceptions, so you can sl — sleep tight knowing i'm not sob-storying you, or whatever." muscles tense, jaw winding into a locked state. "i'm just saying." mari's gaze flickers to the side, dodging any prolonged tension. "you shouldn't take that shit from anyone." a beat. "not even me."

[asaltyrat]

Tools of the Trade - Gnolbard’s Request

Wood smoke filled the forest clearing. The mixed scent of a warm fire and a savory meal had started to work its way through the still wind. There, sat in the center, next to the crackling fire was the impossibility of a Gnollish woman, dressed in proper clothing made of flax and cotton rather than furs and rawhide, as was against tradition. She sat there, tending the fire, turning a fat haunch of meat on a spit.

It was a particularly fatty piece of meat. Poorly marbled, badly butchered, but the Gnoll didn’t care. A Gnoll is many things. Resourceful, creative, crafty. Nothing would be wasted, Not the drippings falling from the meat, into a earthenware bowl that sat nestled in the warm ashes, nor the animal’s gut, that the woman had taken off the hands of the butcher who, otherwise, would have thrown them into the refuse pile with the rest of the day’s remnants. She was familiar with spiced offal, but this wasn’t the day for it. Too little salt, not enough herbs. It had been set to dry over the cooler part of the fire.

At her side, on a lain out cloth, was a fine wooden mandolin. It was hard worked but lovingly cared for. Imperfect, where the worn spots where the varnish had worn away from a tender grip turned the tan fine grain into a pale divot. It laid there, missing one of the thinnest strings on the fret. The Gnoll never learned the names of these notes. They never felt right in her head. Single letters didn’t give the sound and song any meaning that she could come to grips for. To feel in her heart. Her mentor only called the thing string ‘Like a songbird’. A light, sweet tone.

The Bard loved that note the most, oft plucking it with the tip of her smallest finger’s claw as she drummed on the body or idly sat in mead halls and taverns while waiting her turn to perform. That loving attention netted it one too many plucks, haphazard against her sharp claw. It was an unfortunate reality that gut string only lasted so long. And now, it was time for her to do her duty. A mixture of somber feelings of guilt and elation that she had the chance to show her beloved treasure the care and attention it deserved.

And so she began to sing. Jaunty and quiet. Equal parts in celebration in tempo to the tone of a lullaby.

Over the hills and through the dale,

We lift upon our silver vales,

A song oft sung apart.~

Carefully she took the sinew and gut from the spit, pliable and dry. Deft fingers tied it to the base of the metal spit, and she began to stretch it, first in sections, then as a whole.

When the sun is come

And until the day is done

We lift the song alone.~

Her voice lifted some. The worry that the gut would snap as it drew thinner passed, and she grasped the fiber between her sharp teeth, behind her longer canines, and dragged it to tear away lingering meat and coarse fat. Between those nips and drags, she continued her song.

A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold

An evening spent, merchant’s haul sold

And never a night so-cold~

She was happy with her work, with the gut stripped to a proper string, she paused to replace the broken note, she made her treasure complete. Trimming and tuning, twisting the string taut until she heard that familiar songbird, testing it on that same claw that had snapped it earlier in the day. Then came the polishing.

A light rag was dipped into the animal fat coming from her meal for the evening, and gentle as she could, began to buff the wooden surface of her instrument. She cared not to rewind time, to restore it back to the glory it once was. But to give her beloved a glossy sheen, to keep the water and dust off for a time. It glimmered in the firelight, reflected her pearly smile, a satisfied grin that game with a truly warmed heart. Her friend was whole, and she expected no thanks in return.

In reality, she was quietly thanking the mandolin for its time, its patience, and its trust to come back to her. It was settled back on her lap, a few careful plucks to test it. She began her song anew.

This time, they sung together, her beloved tittering songbirds playing along the toads and the frogs and the joyful beating of her palm along the wooden body. As joyful as any long coming reunion between friends, as if they were never apart.

Over the hills and through the dale

We lift upon our Silver Vales

A song oft sung apart~

And when sun has come

And until the day is done

We lift this song along~

A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold

An evening spent, a merchant’s haul sold

And never a night so-cold~

Travelers come from down the road

To sing and dance, unite, unfold

To ale and glee once more~

Never too-long the dawn has come

And til we meet, our work is done

We sing our long farewell~

Never to sad, we’ll meet again

When firelights shine, our heads will spin

‘Neath our Silver Vales~

The moon had creeped out from behind the forest canopy, casting a cool light that barely pushed into the campfire’s glow. Her mandolin was placed back on that spread cloth to keep it from the dirt and ash of her home away from home, and she turned to her dinner.

A Gnoll is many things. Caring, Stubborn, Careful. She is Resolute, Crafty, and Loving.

And for now, with her task done, and care shown to her beloved? A Gnoll is hungry.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The AV Squad

1969-1970.  Big events, Woodstock, the Moon Landing, Kent State, the Beatles break up.  For me, age 11-12. 6th grade.  In school, filmstrips and films were a great distraction to the yearly study of the planets, US history and fractions.  

More important than the content of the films, was the process of seeing the film. Two members of the AV squad, Bryan and John were sent to obtain the projector.  No girls allowed. Where they got it, I have no idea and how many projectors there were at the elementary school is also a big unknown.  

When they returned, the process was always the same.  There was usually some trouble threading the film to get it started.  After it ran for a few minutes, the film broke and some splicing had to occur.  Once the film started up again, you could be rest assured that within minutes the bulb burned out and the projector needed to be stopped.  There usually wasn’t a spare bulb along with the projector and if there was, and it was tried out, it usually was also burned out.  The AV squad would then be sent to retrieve a new bulb somewhere in the building, sometime with no luck.  If they did get a bulb, it usually took some time replacing it.

The AV squad seemed unflappable despite the seeming pressure to complete the tasks.  I wonder if they suffered in silence and years later break out in a sweat when a bulb goes dark. If we made it to the end of the film, the film had to be re-wound.  The re-wind noise was like a helicopter taking off next to you.  The teacher for some reason would use this time to discuss the film and could not be heard.  Sometimes in the rewind, the film would break again and need to be spliced.

Now the film strip process seemed to be less fraught with danger but a burnt-out bulb was always a high likelihood.  The teacher would handle the film strip process and not the AV squad. The teacher did not seem to trust the AV squad to manage the timing of the record player to move the film strip to the next slide even though the record would beep to tell you to do so.   Sometimes the images were projected upside down or backwards and the class would laugh uproariously at the teacher for setting it up wrong.  At the end of the film strip, the bulb was turned off but the fan had to be kept running so as to make sure to cool the bulb. However, all the cooling in the world seemed to make little difference in bulb burn out rates.

All the other students were impressed with the AV squad in 6th grade despite the high level of failure rate. However, by the time high school rolled around, the AV squad were considered uncool and oddballs.

Life in the 60’s and 70’s. Not all long hair and clothes with fringe. By the way, for those that grew up in that time, Pluto definitely remains a planet no matter what the astronomers say.

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[doiefy]

paper stars // kim doyoung

genre: fluff pairing: doyoung x gn reader word count: 1.2k warnings: language, spoilers for at dawn (would recommend reading it first, or i’ll just tell you who the killers were hehe)

just a short, fluffy headcanon i couldn’t stop thinking about at 3 am, in which doyoung can’t do origami to save his life and reader is stressed for their life. thank you yves for the idea <33

@neonun-au​, as promised!! will also be working on a crack fic for the rest of the characters at some point :D

“You’re surprisingly really bad at this.”

Doyoung sits across from you, his face scrunched up in concentration, stormy eyes filled with nothing but determination as he watches the YouTube tutorial again. He holds the piece of red paper up, his gaze flitting between the origami star on screen and his own handiwork: a sad, unevenly-edged pentagon that folds in on itself when he tries to proceed to the next step. He lets out a frustrated groan, crumpling the paper into a little ball and flicking it off the table like it’s an insect intruding on your time together.

“This is impossible,” he grunts, spinning his chair around like a little kid. When he finally stops, it’s to stare begrudgingly at the jar of origami stars on your desk—a little keepsake of yours that Doyoung’s taken an interest in lately. Quite frankly though, his mission to fill up the last quarter of the jar with shiny stars has been miserable. Though bright-eyed and determined at the very beginning, his resolve is starting to crumble, evident in his failed attempts thrown all over your living room. It’s starting to get a bit ridiculous.

You push your work to the side, snatching the second piece of crumpled paper out of his hands before he can chuck it across the room. “So you’re telling me that you have six PhDs and can solve almost any homicide case in an hour, but you can’t do a kids’ arts and crafts project?”

Doyoung gawks at you. “First of all, I don’t have a PhD in paper crafts, and I don’t solve homicides by folding paper.” He reaches for his phone to rewind the video, then picks up a fresh strip of paper. “Second of all, kids?! A kids’ arts and crafts project? Origami was a prestigious ceremonial practice back in the day—”

“Yeah, and my seven-year-old niece can fold a better paper airplane than you. You’re like, ten times her age,” you joke. He gives you a wounded look from across the table.

“I’ll do it,” he murmurs beneath his breath as he loops the strip around his fingers. “I’ll get it eventually.”

You can’t help but giggle at the way his eyes take on a strenuousness you only ever see at work: the furrowing of his brow and steadiness of his hands whenever he’s deep in thought, trying to crack a case. But you suppose making paper stars is his case to crack tonight. The type of paper, how tightly he winds the strip, the crispness of the folds—he’s subconsciously turned the whole ordeal into an unsolvable mystery instead of just folding the damn paper.

“How are your revisions coming along?” Doyoung asks, and you look back down at your screen. The words of your report are starting to crawl off the screen, shifting in so many directions at once like they're trying to escape your eyes. You sigh.

“I hate going to hearings.” You rub at your eyes tiredly. “The evidence is solid, indisputable probably. But you know what defence attorneys are like. They'll probably pull something out of their asses tomorrow and I don’t know if I’ll be ready for that.”

“Who’s defending?”

You flip through your papers to check. “Byun Baekhyun. Some new guy… Park Chan-something.”

“Byun?” Doyoung questions with a raise of his brow, now setting down his origami to give you his full attention. “I thought he and Lee got into some serious trouble after Seo’s case?”

“That crafty little fucker never gives up,” you groan, and now it’s your turn to slump in your chair, defeated. “He got his name cleared in December and I’m gonna bet he has something up his sleeve for tomorrow. He always does.”

Doyoung reaches across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. And when that doesn’t seem to alleviate any of your stress, he rolls his chair over to where you’re sitting, readjusts his glasses and leafs through a few of your papers. His arm comes around your waist when you drop your head onto his shoulder, and he pulls you a little closer to him while he reads.

“Taeyong’s getting what’s coming for him,” he says at last, gesturing at your carefully-prepared notes and the speech you’ve started typing out on your laptop; while you don’t intend on memorizing everything you’ll say, writing it down definitely helps. “Whether or not you’re confident in what happens tomorrow, they can’t let him walk. They won’t. Just give them your statement… and don’t overthink it.”

Still, despite his words of encouragement, you can manage only a sigh before curling up closer to him and burying your face in the soft fabric of his sweater. He smells like lemongrass and lavender, and a hint of the delicate floral notes you’ve learned are unique to the FVA house—they remind you of the candles in the room where you first met, the library you spend nearly all your time in whenever you visit, the shirts he occasionally allows you to steal from his wardrobe. And as comforting and grounding as it is, having him next to you, your skin is still crawling with anticipation for tomorrow.

Almost six months after Nakamoto Yuta’s arrest, the investigations at LTY have finally come to an end, and with enough to lock Taeyong away. If only it were as easy as throwing his pretentious ass into a prison cell and throwing the key into the Han River; if it were as easy as skipping testifying in court. Jaehyun will be suffering alongside you, but at least he’s good at public speaking. You, on the other hand, always feel like a hot mess of fumbling words and unsatisfactory arguments—contrary to the opinion of all your colleagues.

“There’s no need to be so nervous,” Doyoung says softly, pulling you away from your anxieties and back into his arms. “I’ve heard you speak at hearings, and you’re always much more well-spoken than you think. You were amazing at Yuta’s.”

“Gross. We don’t talk about him,” you grunt, making a face at your new coffee table. Doyoung gives a laugh, pressing his lips to your forehead in gentle apology.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against your skin. “But I mean it, you were good.” He glances at his failed stars. “Some might even say… stellar.”

You flush with embarrassment and swat him away, pushing his chair back to the other end of the desk so you can get back to work without distraction. “Okay, back to your stupid stars. They’re not gonna fold themselves, you know.”

He throws one at you.

The next morning, you find a neatly-folded star in the pocket of your dress pants—perfectly puffed up, perfectly cornered, with a lopsided smiley face drawn on one side. There’s a small arrow drawn where one edge of the paper disappears into another. Confused, you unravel the star to find a quick message scribbled along the length of paper:

Be clear, concise. Relax. Don’t slouch.

“You ready?” At the sound of Jaehyun’s voice, you slip the paper away, accept the cup of coffee he offers you. Despite how early it is in the morning, he looks energized, determined. You focus on that, readying yourself with the words Doyoung left in your pocket and his encouragement the previous night. You nod, smiling.

“Yeah. Let's get this fucker.”

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[jpat82]

Turn Back The Clock: Duckingham Palace

    Let's rewind the time, before you married your beloved Tom, before the endless amounts of feathers floated through the house. Wade was a tiny thing, chirping up a storm, and angrily hissing up a storm anytime Tom would come near the brooder you had set up into the bedroom.

   The day after you had called the bird sanctuary and found out they wouldn't take the tiny ball of feathers you had set about learning everything you could about the upkeep and care for ducks. What you hadn't planned was how fast the duckling would grow, and as of now Wade's head would poke above the edge of the brooder and nab anything in close enough proximity.

    He had you in panic one day when you saw a bit of red in his poo, Tom was sitting on the edge of the bed talking about an film he was going to be doing two months from now. Your heart raced as the slightly feathered bird chirped and chirped at the corner of the brooder by Tom who was ignoring the duck.

   "Tom, there's red, red in his poo, red in the brooder." Your voice raised a notch as you searched for the reason. Tom stopped talking and looked down to see what you were talking about.

    "Could this be the reason why?" Tom asked, slight annoyance in his voice as he held up the end of your thick fuzzy red blanket. Bald patches in the corner, the fluff stripped from it, you looked back at the precocious bird, eyeing a piece of red fluff in his beak. He had stopping making his usual ruckus to look over at you, before turning his head and taking a nab at the blanket.

   "Naughty little duck, you were caught red beaked, weren't you." You giggled as the panic you felt eased away in an instant.

   It was at that point you had both decided that it was time for your feathery companion to live outside full time. His feathers had molted and his adult feathers had come in (mostly). Tom ordered a dog run, the set up to keep the predators out and way from your little friend. He made sure to get one with a canopy to keep hawks and other flying critters at bay.

    So in the mean time Tom set about leveling a corner of the yard, it was hot back breaking work but he didn’t complain to loudly about the desk at hand. And before long Tom was shirtless, sweat dripping down his back in the summer sun. Being the gentleman that he was he refused to let you help him, plus he knew where you went the tripping hazard, err duck, was sure to follow.

   "Tom, are you sure you don't want any help?" You asked, taking a sip of your iced lemonade as you stayed under the shade on the deck.

    "I'm sure darling." He replied stopping for a moment, wiping a tip of sweat that was forming at his brow. "Though I will take a sip of that lemonade."

   You smiled sweetly as you stood, taking care not to step on the energetic ball of feathers. You came down the steps on the back porch, eyeing the box that the large dog run came in. You were slightly worried, the box didn't seam like it would be heavy enough to hold the run and the cover but Tom had assured you multiple times that it did.

    "Looks like you got the area leveled, I'm guessing that's next?" You asked, hooking your head the box with the words Lucky Dog stamped a tossed in.

   Tom nodded as he took a big drink from the cold glass. Wade bustled about, squawking and hissing at the flowers blooming next to porch. He lifted his little wing, feathers taking flight before he karate chopped downward causing the bright purple flower to spring back and hit him in his bill. Wade fell backward in shock, his little webbed feet kicking in the air.

“Yep.” He took a deep breath as he wandered to the box and started to rip it open.

You walked over to the prone animal. He stopped moving for a brief moment and cocked his head at you.

“That mean ole tulip got you good, didn’t it?” You cooed at him as you picked him up. Wake started squawking louder as he nestled into your arms.

You turned around to see your boyfriend. Tom had pulled the contents of the box out onto the lawn and paused for a moment. You stood there biting down on your lip when you noticed just a little bit of metal and a tarp. No chain link, no longer pieces of metal. This was obviously not everything, looked like it was just the top. But you managed not to say anything as you sat back down under the shade of the tree with the ball of feathers who at this point has quieted down.

“Darling.” Tom sighed as he putting his hands on his hips. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and typed away.

“Yes, Tom.” You replied sweetly.

“I think I will finish this tomorrow.” He stated as he looked over at you. “I think I’ll start building his castle first at then put the run together.”

“Sounds like a marvelous idea.” You chuckled lightly as Tom went to the pile of lumber.

Hours passed by, in that time you had weeded your garden, pulled Wade away from Tom, plant flowers along the fence line, pulled Wade away from Tom, started to prep for dinner, pulled Wade away from Tom. By the time dinner was ready to put on the grill Tom had stepped away from what looked like it was supposed to be a dog house with a turret.

However the turret looked like one good gust of wind would knock it over, and the walls were uneven. The roof sloped to the left and the door was already falling off. He stood looking at it with his hands on his fist, Wade hissing the awkward looking castle. Or at least that’s what Tom told you he was going to build. He looked up pictures on the internet claiming how easy it would be to build.

He knelt down after grabbing one more screw, mumbling something about the door when Wade swung his feathery butt around catching the door with his mostly bare rear. The door swung back harshly catching the man in the face. You rushed down the steps as the avian cocked his head at Tom before waddling over and rubbing his head against the man’s chest

“Tom, are you okay?” You asked kneeling down next to him.

“I’m fine darling.” He said pulling his hand away from his face looking at his palm. He had an angry red welt between his eyes and nose but nothing seemed broken. He blinked a couple times and then looked at the bird who was currently try to snuggle on him.

“You know Tom, I was thinking.” You bit your lip as you looked down at your boyfriend. “Maybe Wade could live inside with us.”

Tom took a heavy breath and looked back at the falling castle and down at the mischievous bird. He shook his head as he sighed out.

“Two against one, not fair.” He remarked before looking up at you. “Alright, but only till I can built a better house for him.”

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