#biker!roman reigns

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (7) - eighteen is dangerous

pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: lots of teenage angst. descriptions of body insecurity. descriptions of alcohol consumption and reckless behavior (getting in a pool while drunk is very reckless, don't do that please!!) consensual underage intimacy (just a kiss!) reader is going through it unfortunately, sorry authors note: this is a flashback. reader is eighteen and roman is nineteen. word count: 7300 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

eighteen is a dangerous age to be alive. all of your almost adult thoughts and ideas and intentions strewn together by wild, colorful imagination, but, at times, for the sake of another. in front of your mirror, picking at your hair and pinching the elastic of a maybe too tight swim suit. the back cut out to reveal skin and your legs thicker now than they were last summer. frustration brimming harsh in your blood so well it's knotting in your throat. tears pricking your eyes. doom in your bones. because, fucking boys and their oh so amazing pool parties. water every place you step and the torment of maybe getting thrown in for shitty amusement. beer bottles floating everywhere and just-finished-with-high-school-teenagers too lightweight to hold their stomachs. not that you're any better. but at least you know that much about yourself. the pool, party and house courtesy of seth and the kegs of beer to come courtesy of dean no doubt. a friend of a friend of his who wants clout with the club so badly that he swiped his card on kegs for underaged leather bound boys. fucking men. 

and seth's guest bedroom is hot. sweltering so much that it nearly leaves you damp with sweat. your fingers undone with a trembling ache as you pull a pair of shorts over your thighs. overthinking on over drive. because he and his cousins and the rest of the "vip's" have yet to make an appearance. the common people waiting with bated breath for their loud, grimy noise filled entrance. a rumbling, chaotic spectacle filled with air's and aura's of a specific importance and nature that you'll always find too high maintenance to keep up with. but that's why eighteen is such a terrible time, despite maybe your exaggerations about the angst of it. this weird refurbishing of the soul. his mighty self importance aside, romans thoughts and opinions mattering now much more than they used to. your eyes yours still, brown and "shaped so prettily", as your mother likes to say, but not really. going about a constant examination for someone else. shaped against your face perfectly but living outside to look inward too. 

because would he like what you've done with your hair? the earrings you've decided on for the night? the way the swimsuit cuts out at the back? toes painted a different color from your fingernails but oddly cute all the same, because you couldn't be bothered with changing the shade. your tummy not as flat as last year and that scar still embedded in the center of your palm. eyes working for you but at the service of another. him. yes. eighteen is goddamn dangerous. 

that sweet silver necklace he gave you sometime ago. eyes all nervous and his fingers shaky as it clasped the lock of it before you kissed him. a warmth to his skin you never knew existed till that moment. the cool of the metal resting on your skin. dipping low a bit more than usual. the swimsuit made with built in cups. accentuating indeed. because swiping for it at the register of the sports store was easy. naomi at your side smiling bright and excited with a matching style in a different color. the try on process quick and sure with a good natured finality because her eyes were different. lacking that air of intense appraisal. a girls girl for you in the truest sense. her eighteen and your eighteen so similar sometimes. her dealings with jimmy like yours with roman. 

a knock against the bedroom, like a warning, before naomi bursts through. red solo cups in hand and a frustration running lines into her face. long, waist length braids, ponytailed up and away from her face. the bright neon of her swimsuit wet, and her legs dripping some on the carpet. 

you shift quick from the mirror. a creeping heat in your cheeks rising till it settles about your forehead. heart hammering before it plummets to your empty belly. the idea of somebody, anybody, finding you amidst such a vulnerable moment of self brought on scrutiny, absolutely troubling. embarrassing even. a damn scary state of affairs that nearly makes all the doubts and uncertainties breathe harder, heavier. with a better purpose. 

"you went to the pool?"

plopping to lay against the made bed. the fluff of the sheets comfortable despite the heat. maybe even comfortable enough to stay laid up against. a decision that feels more and more appetizing by the second. 

she stands just near the mirror where you'd been, setting down the cups to readjust her hair. a strong presence living along with her reflection. unflinching and sure and at ease. "i took a dip. enough not to get my hair wet", she starts. still corralling the long waist length hair. "i was tryin to wait around for you but somebody decided to abandon me last minute to come up here", giving a pointed look through the mirror. slivers of guilt slipping under your skin. but her fuss of it doesn't last very long, eyes rolling as she dips into an annoyance. "they all down there standin around all brainless n'shit, like they need to be told when to get in the pool. half of them is only here just to say they came anyways...". her steps shuffling over the carpet, cups in hand again. "...followers irk my nerves", she groans. eyes dropping quick over your body. "why are your shorts on?" 

you sit up. a quick, abrupt movement. driven by that suffocating air of hesitation you've fought with since slipping on the swimsuit. 

"should i take them off?"

and maybe naomi doesn't understand the painstaking work of such hesitation, or even if she does, it isn't shown. eyes living with all of the opposite actually. "where is this coming from? it was fine when we bought it, it's fine now", her body plopping beside yours. eyes shining with a scrutiny towards you for the first time tonight, and maybe the first time ever. but oddly enough, it doesn't burn the skin, and neither does it make your esteem shrivel. a sigh leaving her. hardened eyes, protective and familiar in their way, like you could have maybe felt them once before in another lifetime. something similar to how a sister looks to her less stronger one. "if you're worried about what he thinks, then forget his ass. he should be lucky you even lettin him breathe your air". 

and your nerves don't fall away all that quickly, but the air is less thick now. breathable. your eyes interested now in the cups she's bought. both filled with something pink, but the smell of it like that faithful burn of tequila. 

"you're right". 

she smiles."have i ever been wrong?"

your eyes rolling playfully. "no"

"exactly". shoving a cup in your hand before bursting up excited. "so sip on this and lets go mingle". 

and maybe you're like your mom about these things but "mingling" is for the fucking birds. an unexcitable process of small talk that does your head in. because no one actually cares about anything real, or different, or new, they just want to make good on first time impressions. all the real things, these scary little bits of air and unspoken moments between the words. something something, if we make the daughter of the vice president of the most infamous, illustrious, biker club in all of florida laugh and smile and twiddle her fucking thumbs, then we've made it to the inner inner ring, of the inner circle. which is a lie and a half. sweaty shoulders rubbing up at yours and the dampness nearly folding over your stomach with disgust as you follow naomi through to a less busy area of the backyard. the heat steeping in and weighing over everywhere. the crowd as idle as she said it was. hesitation in their bones as they wait for some fearless leader to make the first move of jumping in, so they of course then, can follow. 

you sip at your cup, and then nearly guzzle it the rest of the way. a cold, fruity bite to your tongue that helps ease the angst. 

your eyes peering over to the sliding door that connects the backyard and the inside of the house. like a mere gazing over would summon the not so true bane of your existence. a nineteen year old boy with a penchant for unscrewing your nerves loose. your words tongue tied when they aren't soothed into an easy quiet submission by the sweetness of his mouth. groaning little kisses that leave you frenzied and a little dazed and scared. because he has that way about him unfortunately. a lax sort of domineer. flirtatious eyes and quick little phrases that make your skin crawl something horrendous but excellent just the same. you literally despise him. mouth seeking your cup again. already at the end of your drink and feeling the hard rush in of it in your blood. warmth in your belly and a dizzying effect that loosens your anxieties. the type of buzz that asks for more. 

a small little table exists near a group of shrubs. a cloth bag nestled in a particularly thick way of leaves. your hand sticking down and into the bag to pull out a bottle of tequila. because seth said "only my buddies get the good shit", everyone else suffering with cheap beer they bought, waiting for dean and his kegs to arrive.  

 and with a harsh splash of water—some rando a little less than recklessly diving into the pool—does the party finally actualize. bodies corralling quickly in that cold wash of blue and the music a little louder. this concoction of whatever on your tongue and your urges less accounted for. 

surely this is what naomi means when she says "mingle". forgetting about yourself a little and just being. a hard task made easier when tequila doesn't give two shits about what it means to be perceived. eighteen not as dangerous when you've got liquid courage to slot a small battery in your back. 

"samir right?", his name calling sweetly on your tongue. the leaving of it gentle as you make to get closer to him. a tall-ish boy—but certainly not taller than roman—with a rich dark caramel complexion. charming hooded eyes and the cutest nose. his beer clutched for dear life in his hand like he'd maybe pay to be anywhere else. 

"uh, yeah". a cautious sort of surprise. like the possibility of speaking to him was slim to none. "how'd you know-"

"i seen you with yah dad before...", memory working amidst the alcohol. your words a little loose. stepping closer to him to get over the loud play of the music. his cologne nice in your nose. the type of scent made for double takes and "where'd you get it from?" questions. a silent wingman working as a possible conversation opener for anxious girls who maybe don't know that being this close makes for a heavier suggestion of familiarity. an intimate proximity like you know him more than just from seeing him around. "...he brings his car around my pops shop for tune ups n stuff. you look like him", and maybe the smile after that comment with the way you stand next to him implies something more than it should or more than you want it to but you don't notice. the fuzz of your brain winning the 'i dont give a fuck about being perceived' war. 

but samir is smiling and his shoulders are maybe not as slacked and bored. squared now with a new sense of purpose and open and facing you, like he's giving you the space to be as close as you'd like. like for some odd reason, if you fell into him, he'd catch you better, not that there'd be any reason for that but yeah...whatever, and the buzz is so obviously shaping your blood to run with a renewed sense of unawareness of present situations. thoughts roaming off to weird deep ends before they slip back close to where they belong. sipping at your cup again before you peer up to find him staring. a quick wandering of his earthy brown eyes, maybe at the silver of your necklace or the cup at your lips or maybe even a little below where your necklace dips in. 

samir's eyes bug. an embarrassment clinging to the shape. like he's just snatched himself out of the daze of staring at you. a throat clear that exposes the uncomfortableness in his own body at being made. "what're you drinkin?" 

"it's just juice and tequila, fruit punch i think...", taking a sip. "...beers not my thing". 

"s'not mine either", he gives. looking at his beer bottle unsatisfied. "kinda just grabbed it, cuz it's the only thing here". 

and maybe he'd have more fun if he were where you are? loose and slightly adrift. carefree amidst a sea of people who care too much. "if i say where the stash is, you won't tell right?"

"not a soul". 

your head juts, a motion for him to follow. his steps in rhythm with yours and that cologne staining his skin still flirting with your nose. like a light goading. this silent attempt to lure you into something unfamiliar. because all you know is the cool silver of this necklace, strong teasing fingers and that dark rumbling engine. the nineteen year old boy—who you don't think to name at the moment, not even in the secrecy of your thoughts—this not so true bane of your existence, is still, to you, a great big world of an almost man. tall and surrounding and new and the whole of what you feel for him still uncovered. so maybe it isn't exactly smart—even if such a rebellion lives in the name of a not so odd, half baked, tequila born, self esteem boost—to live so deeply in this state of coyness. a realization, or rather a confession, that threatens the carelessness binding your bones. 

eighteen a little dangerous still, playing loose and a little faster in your blood. because the liquid courage gives you this two-fold, uncanny, brazen sort of awareness. convictions flowing strong, parentally charged in a way that makes your ego break against it in bursting acts of rebellion. the midnight summer air sticky against the skin and baiting. the warmth like a second rushing in, a muggy air of defiance living beside the heat in your belly and the sweet flavor on your tongue. 

you push through that grouping of shrubs, revealing the hefty bottle. 

"shot?", a question but not really. more like a soft demand, styled with a smile and inviting eyes. 

the pour of it playing over samir's voice. a near drown out. "sure", he gives. the cup in his hand already before his decision can come into any finality. "cheers", the words slipping off to linger in the air like he's trying out the phrasing. like he's trying to please your excitement enough to keep it there on your lips. 

you take the stain of it on your tongue quickly. a clear burn that conquers easily on its way down. your throat humming to give it some ease but poor samir is reducing more by the seconds into a fit of coughs. the dry dirtiness of the tequila new for him. not yet to be overcome by the looseness it'll give his bones. 

you laugh. a fit of giggles living a little less than controllable. mixing a more digestible drink into his cup. something more similar to yours. "you don't drink too much huh?"

"nah", his face scrunching. expression embarrassed. "not really". 

"here", passing the cup back to him again. "try this". 

he sips at your concoction. face less screwed as the sweetness of it tempers the bitterness in his mouth. "s'pretty good", natural dark eyes a little brighter. a spark struck across them even. surely not made from janky pool lights that work no better than the old neighborhood street lamps. a courage to him that seems to settle in after he sips again. a courage that leaps with fresh legs. "you have, really, really beautiful eyes", tumbling out. unable to be stopped. the thought perhaps always there but now given the freedom to breathe. to walk and run.

"oh". dumbstruck. a load of giggling that bursts abrupt. not malicious, no. just the sort of drunken amusement caught from the suddenness of a thing. untamable almost if not for the fall of his face. making you feel awful, like shit. "i-..."

samir blinks. like he's just been un-dazed from a dream. "that was corny, i'm sorry".

"no, no, no, it's fine, i just-", your fingers trembling slightly. reaching across the little table to touch him. hands in his, to give him surety "i just-i didn't expect you to say that. thank you". 

"i'm interruptin something?" 

the question teasing as it leaves. flip flops shuffling before they flap down, smacking against the wet cement surrounding the pool. an obnoxious, creeping, entrance. it makes your blood more solid. hearing that mocking tone he gives. roman and the forever glimmer of mischief, spread about his eyes and his lips. like he's hinting the possibility of a storm. gaze drifting over your hands, the way they leave samir's, the proximity of your bodies and the ease of it. a knot in your belly, corralling in with a load of dirty little feelings. roman tall and broad. suffocatingly so. annoyingly so. like a tower. like a mountain that blocks the sun to cast a shadow. that burst of brazenness spreading fun under your skin, now tugging itself along to shuffle back into the dark nothing of a corner. but why should you have to cringe and recoil in and from your innocent fun? why couldn't you delight yourself in a little attention? was that so horrible? your arms crossing over. disruption, childlike and eager, running alongside the bold streak. 

"no". your smile tight lipped. voice bright. "just poppin samir's tequila cherry". 

samir chokes. coughs dangerously hard. roman's eyes slitting to narrow. his jaw giving a small clench before he returns your expression. a mirthless grin. "how nice. i hope he enjoyed it". 

"i think he did". 

roman's brows lift. your audaciousness funny. "lets ask". attention directing itself toward samir, who seems to be the most uncomfortable. 

"i uh", his hand setting the cup down. nervous, antsy and it irks you whole. "yeah, it was. it-it was fine". 

roman hums. shuffles up more till he's nearly flushed against your back. the fabric of his tank top blowing with the heat of the slim midnight breeze, hitting whats exposed of your skin. a reminder. your fists clenching. fucking asshole. the necklace at your chest still cool. in agreement with him. his presence this annoying, territorial claim. possessive and unwavering. your belly empty, your head swimming and frustration clinging to your nerves so well that it's stupid. because this is stupid. because annoyance shouldn't live like this, shouldn't find even ground with enjoyment so well. blood hot, something dizzy working behind your eyes. a complicated, rush of a feeling that has yet to be totally deciphered. 

"you're one of seth's buddies right?"

"yeah something like that". samir appearing less tall. shrunken in and a half step from paper frail. less willing to indulge his eyes. the interest in them gone and refusing to meet your face. and it sours whatever unnamed sweetness held for him. your curiosities gone. because allowing roman to destabilize him so easily. unbalanced and too shy for proper confidence. where was the fun, competitive edge, in that? a bold streak of something uneasy and conflicting and tricky. not simply rolling over and letting him win. thats what this was supposed to be. a riot for some damn reclamation. "i'm just gonna go", samir says. your eyes rolling as he gathers himself to leave the small safety of the table. 

you peer up at roman. the source of all this bullshit angst housed in your person. his face soft but angular somehow. tender lips existing as the object of your lingering desires. his shoulders wide and his body thick thanks to home cooked meals and too much football. your fists balling till they ache. tequila dulling the pain of your nails but doing nothing for the baseless frustration. this boy... this man... this whatever he is, so pretty and exacting and sure all the damn time. always testing and making attempts and looking. your skin less like skin and more like metal. like the tinny cold make of one of his many football trophies. and now you feel no better, no greater than samir. shrinking in and your throat tight again. dizzy and trembly. a leaf in the breeze. like you're back upstairs in seth's guest room, peering into the mirror. eyes yours, but more useful for him now. 

hate isn't too strong a word is it? your father says it sometimes. like the word is venom born, made to poison. says it and then kisses your mother anyways. kisses and hugs her and churns her indifference into pretty, wispy noise. rich and thick. honey inspired. so if that works. venom and honey. both thick and useful. then maybe they're the same. 

"you're such a dick", you cut at him. eyes rolling hard. making to step around him. but he's so tall and everywhere. a world and a half. 

and he laughs. like everything is so funny. like you're funny. a joke. sweetened tequila on the tongue. bathing your stomach. fuzzily in the brain. he thinks you're a joke. 

"how would you know, you've never seen one". 

you gasp. your shoulder trying it's hardest to check him. a barely registered move that gets you past him and closer to the pool. "ass", you yell. loud enough for people to hear. 

skin sticky. trembling still. exasperated. your feet a harsh descending as you stalk to the opposite edge of the pool. the beginning steps of the shallow end. dean there with a cup of beer in hand. hair long and already damp. 

"trouble in paradise?" 

your eyes cut. a sharp look to warn him. a deep breath as you breach the water with your foot. trying the cool of it. "your friend is a fuckin asshole", you give. 

he chuckles. like maybe he knows that to be a little true. "what'd he do?" and when you don't answer, occupied with settling into the chill of the pool, he turns his attention over to his friend. chuckling still. "what the hell did you do?"

roman flips his hand. a 'whatever' motion, like he couldn't be bothered to even care. 

your blood boils. loose and on fire. "what doesn't he do?!" loud and irritated enough for dean to hear. loud enough for roman. for seth and the twins and everyone else in between. but it doesn't stop the party. just adds to the air. to the drone of the festivities. to splashes of water, and the splatting smack of beach balls. to good feeling breezy wind and the thumping bass of music. to guys trying to flirt with girls and girls trying to quell their boyish half baked charms with coyness and shooing splashes of water. the party in full effect and alive. pulsing and balanced. and maybe you shouldn't be in the pool, all loose-brained and dizzy feeling. but the water feels good and the distance from roman is a welcomed addition. gets his cologne out of your nose and rids you of the sensation of his body along your back. 

but his mischief isn't done. stretches with a fresh awakened need to stress your nerves. the pull up and discard of his tank top a sensational performance. like he's mocking and poking and punishing you with the gasp and squeals of girls who pry at him with sharp hopeful eyes. his body dipping into the pool on the deep end before breaching up with his hair slicked back and dusting his shoulders. curling up as it meets the air all finger provoking like. 

you hate him. 

feet splashing behind you. dean stepping to sink further and further into the icy blue of the pool. a quick, resolute voice of mediation. "aaalright...", he draws out. "...none of this shitty, sulky, energy". his back to you, arms stretched out and waiting, like a human pool noodle. "hop on". 

but the water is safe here at the shallow end. close to the stairs and faraway from eyes and his prying little stare that grows more amused by the minute as you fight and fail to ignore it. "dean, i don't think thats a good—", your body up ended. water splashing as you panic. a fast jostling maneuver that forces you to grapple him as he lifts you onto his back. "dean!!!", thrilled and pissed and dazed behind the eyes still. arms and legs wrapping tight about him as he treads into the deep end. 

and he's all smiley, the little shit. "you don't got much of a choice unfortunately".

"i can't swim". 

"i know", patting the clinging wrap around of your arm. reassurance that barely makes a full registration about the body. "i ain't gonna let you drown sweets".

"sweets?"

"new nickname for you", he hums. satisfied with the ring of it.  

and you snort. set your head atop of his as he treads the water. because dean—and though it's unusual for him to fail at many things—is unfailing at pleasing his penchant for nicknaming people. you in particular. a little list of moniker's reflecting the growth of your relationship. from 'sis', at sixteen, to 'sissy' at seventeen, and then a very offhanded 'babe' for sometime. a jokey little term of affection you accepted, because the humor of it proved stupid and weird and annoying for roman. always silently bristling about it. these wordless little shifts in his expression. a disapproval he felt was maybe too childish to name properly. but dean didn't linger on it too long. a little razz of a name before moving on back to just calling you by your government. but 'sweets' is new. promotes something, maybe, a bit more delicate than the others. more endearing. 

"cute", you approve. "where are we going?"

"where the party is". 

your arms grow tighter. cinched threateningly at his neck. his little laughs and the edge of his weight against yours not doing much to make your irritations any true problem. but you try anyways. "i swear to God, and Jesus freakin Christ ambrose...", your voice biting. words slipping through your teeth. "...if you take me over to him on some kum ba yah bullshit, i will drown you. i will use all of my weight and pin you to the floor of this pool...", his sputters, chuckles flaming your blood. "...i will end you. i don't wanna talk to him". 

"you two go at it like a fuckin married couple, just—"

your name shrieks across the pool. a drawl of a mezzo soprano voice. pretty and clear like freshly cut diamonds. sing song like and attention grabbing. enough for dean to halt his treading and pivot. curiosities a shitty merging with some low level form of dread. tequila swimming in your stomach, this large, prong attached battery. a careless, suspicious, jolt of energy about your blood as you get closer to chauncey hayes and her mini crowd of personality destitute friends. and no, the dread doesn't spring off from some shriveling form of a fear absolute, but rather the regular anxieties of interacting with a girl too boy obsessed to think straight. because chauncey still roams free and ditsy-like in the halls of tenth grade socialization. a shark of a particular caliber. too small to be truly frightening but existing large enough to annoy already poorly wired nerves. tonight is not the night for this. tonight is not the night for chauncey hayes. 

"just the girl i wanted to chat it up with", she smiles. a little looser than tight lipped. like the work of ingratiating herself to you is a goal but not a top priority. sincerity casting bright for some seconds as she drops her eyes. "hi dean".

"ladies", he gives, to her and all her friends. polite and smirky like. their reactions amusing. 

"what's up?", you ask. ready to get it over with. your arms and legs clinging to dean still. less vexed. seeking comfort. 

"so um...", a faux bout of rumination. her eyes a light bright warm brown, glowing to contrast the cool blue of the pool. a summery colored bathing suit fitting her skin and her hair loose and curly. "...you're cool with the twins right?", her eyes flicking to jimmy and jey. reverential, bordering needy and crazed even. naomi atop jimmy in a similar fashion to how you cling to dean. but her body proves less anxious, more affectionate. the boys cornered and laughing gut deep with roman and seth. "like...deep family connects and all that good stuff?" 

"how federal of you", dean mumbles. 

and yes, blame it on the alcohol. spirits saturating your veins. curiosities fortified and blindly misguiding. so much so that your clues as to where this might lead are a bit blurred. a nameless teenaged ruin. oh yes, just blame everything on that fruity, semi-acrid taste steeped into your tongue. "i guess you could say that, yeah". 

"so whats the status on them then? ... like, i know jimmy and naomi are connected at the hip but roman specifically...", a rushing in where words intend to flow. heat and blood. the inner parts of your ears muddied with an ill feeling. a disruptive sensation. fingers alive with these little twitches. belly swimming. nausea maybe. a well, wet with liquor and a deep vexing. because what the actual hell? "...like what's his deal? is he taken?" 

dean laughs. from the base of his gut. abrupt and ill-controlled. amusement full in his cheeks. "oh young and the restless, eat shit, this is magic", he barks. 

"dean. shut. the fuck. up", you cut. tongue sharp like obsidian. shifting along his back. re-hooking your legs and focusing your eyes from that loose daze. for what? better posture maybe? a maneuvering perhaps that gives one of your arms more reach, more freedom. a reason unknown really. but your human pool noodle takes it as a sign to tread a step backwards. like he knows something you don't. "why do you ask?", your eyes slitting. no less curious, but the anxieties are fallen away to leave a spark of something vicious feeling in it's wake. an unchallenged sensation housed in your chest. a beating, a pulse. the pump of it venturing out to the center of your forehead and the tips of your toes. a thorough spreading about till you're filled with the brutality of it. a dangerous feeling. whole and sweet and grimy. 

"i mean...what do you mean why?", chauncey flicking her shitty little eyes over to roman. a dazzling appreciation in them that aches your teeth. "have you seen him?" 

you grin. mirthlessly. "what makes you think i'd know what he likes?" 

"you're always hanging around...", a patronizing go of words. her eyes rolling, the thought of it sticking to her odd and unwanted. like your proximity to him is more of a nuisance than a fulfillment of his own wants. of each others wants. "...i figured you had a little insider information". 

and the way your arms wrap around dean for stability, fingers clutching nails into his pale skin. anger attempting to be tempered but proving formidable and real bitchy. his throat grunting as he feels the violence of it. "ouch...", he pats your arm for reprieve. to draw you back off the ledge. that resolute voice of mediation coming back in full stride. awkward and stuttered. "...ok uh, so i think maybe...maybe in the spirit of pool parties and um...buoyancy? ...yeah that sounds right... that we should do a breathing exercise...y'know just something to chill us out—"

you cut off his rambling. "is this you trying to be funny?", his hands digging into your thighs to keep you up as you press forward. "your town cryin ass is always ten steps ahead on gossip but you don't know him and i are together?...", voice louder than before. erupting till its bouncing off pool waves to ripple out to the deep end. "...have been together?" 

she scoffs. fighting not to shrink. "he doesn't even talk you up, i—"

"ok, ok, wait!", dean calls out. bewildered at chauncey's nonchalance. treading back.

"girl are you fucking dense?", you yell. 

"ah shit", dean mumbles. backing away slowing. bones heavy amidst the water. 

but you keep going. laughing with teeth. a mild mannered hysteria. "do you not like your life?"

"are you threatening me?", chauncey shrieks. trembling but warring against it.   

"you know who i am", you give. amused and loose blooded. 

"ok, i think thats enough magic for tonight", dean mumbles. his thumb rubbing into your knee as he holds and carries you to the stairs resting at the center edge of the pool. 

the metal curve of the stepping rods cold to the touch. your bones tired and heavy. skin wet. an empty, drained, sensation coddling terribly well everywhere. that short bout of hysteria dead. the party goers unsure of when or how to resume. awkwardly existing under the torture of your fire. the buzz once sizzling your blood, growing neutral and ill-suited for this new lane of emotion. a merging onto something quiet and dejected. the thump of the music never returning to it's former glory, even as your feet press forward into the house. tracking in wet, an untouched collection of dry towels hanging near the entrance. your hand snatching one up, making a b-line for the other side of seth's house. his kitchen scarce of teenage bullshit—apart, of course, from your own—and the loud song of too trivial chatter. the large towel wrapping your body, a tender lean against the counter, trembling softly, waiting for the chill to stop. 

a gut wrenching sort of enervation plays dutifully under the skin. on cue and terribly in the pocket. a grimace worthy rhythm. it makes a disgusting, beautiful, cruel tune out of your nerves. bursting and wild, like the roar of an old iron made engine. a rumbling orchestra, dirty in its symphony, those residuals of anger oh so noisy in the body. feeling mighty and familiar. a fire and grime inherited surely. because who are you that it'd pass you by without troubling skin and bones and the thoughts made ready to leave your mouth?  and sure, maybe in her mischief, chauncey deserved to be dug into the ground, her knowing bright eyes filled with wanting to tear you apart for the fun of it, but not with the easy mean speak of your father. she didn't deserve the grime and blast of that tough leathery part of his nature. at least not from you. being a vessel, holding this much in the same way, it hurts too badly to keep in. hurts more letting it go. 

and roman is light footed as he steps into the kitchen. silent but full in presence. shaping the room to his body. but then again, everything looks quite too large for understanding when you've gone under such a quick, awful diminishing.

"sober yet?" 

"almost". 

he huffs through his mouth. a deep, amusing breath. "it's always the lightweights causing all the trouble", leaning up against the island that runs parallel to the counter. his eyes stitching to your skin. sewing in and binding themselves. "you gave the normals a show though, they'll have something to talk about for the rest of the summer". 

your eyes roll, turning away from him. opening the kitchen fridge to grab a bottle of water. opening it to take a sip, before the sarcasm drips. "m'so happy i could give your fans free entertainment, apparently the little strip tease wasn't enough for them". 

"takin my shirt off at a pool party is regular shit. i can't help it if girls like the way i look. i can't control how people react...", his face running hot with irritation. his cheeks dusting a faint red. loose curls joining up in his hands as he ties them into a small knot. " ...at least i wasn't baitin nobody. you get a little buzz and forget i exist apparently". 

but samir was an empty rebellion. not forgetfulness. a coup against the self to rid of the overpower of his influence. an attempt at reclamation—of eyes and thoughts and opinions—at not caring and just being. was it misguided? sure, but not malicious.  

"i can't help it if boys like the way i look". 

"you was eatin it up...", he flares. not loud but deep. accusatory and pissed. "...all giggly n'shit, like you never heard a compliment before". his body shuffling closer to gain advantage in your line of sight. "i give you compliments all the time and you act all meek like you can't take it". 

the plastic of the bottle gives a crinkling groan from the grip in your hand. your tired eyes meeting his. those last bits of looseness giving you the wherewithal to speak. "you wanted me to be a dick about it?" 

"have the same energy or somethin", he grits. "you damn near threatened chauncey". 

"she was makin it seem like i barely existed next to you!"

"because...you maybe don't", he breaks. urgent. his shoulders falling, unweighted now. like the thought has lived and shaped well in his mind for sometime. his face closer and troubled. a confusion born from frustration. "you don't want me next to you, you barely want me to touch you, and you hate when i look at you for too long, but you want everybody and they damn mama knownin we together". 

that nausea. dizziness behind the eyes. "thats not true—"

"are we together?" he asks. 

the air feeling harder to breathe. that bottle no longer clutched in your hand but too cold still and your ears flooding to the tips with heat. pressure welling up in your throat too much it starts to ache. fingers gathering to ball, nothing between them but the bite of your nails into the palms. the phantom of a thing they hold against for dear life. eyes prickling with a stabbing pain. the beginning of salty warmth that burns the skin. 

you chuckle. mirthless and panicked. "thats not a real question. you can't be for real right now". 

"you got somethin real to say to me then?" 

and it's all resting palpable at the tip of your tongue. but it lacks the proper brilliance. makes no quarrel with itself of possibly being undigestible. it lives wholly uncomfortable, eagerly so, with a streak of menace. and this, he wants you to spit out? to let fall and burn and weight over the air. displeasure true in the heart of your chest, melted and flamed and dangerous like the inner core of the earth. 

"why you so pressed to hear about what i got to say all the time? always lookin and diggin for stuff that don't matter". 

"if its you, it matters", he stresses. confusion wearing well in his eyes but his words sure. "if it's not, then whatever. i don't care". 

and this must be what drowning feels like. the flail of feet and arms and a hopeless horror. water sucked into the lungs, salty and raging against the palate. sinking the words with an evil diligence. but the body has a way about it. an uncanny, needy, pestering desire to survive. to live. so the drowning is not quick. and you are not overcome quickly. coughing and screaming, skin hot and cold and pale and wrinkling. blurry eyes and a gasp too large to contain for long enough. fingers pushing water to rush it behind, a play at propelling the weight of your bones beyond the surface. to say something, to be asked to speak truth to a wordless dread, is the painstaking performance of drowning. "...you have things... you have the club... all of your friends are my friends... it's easy, you get up one day and decide i'm not what you want, you can just leave". 

"no". an instant thing, thick fingers cradling your face. his eyes frightened and brown and displeased. "no". resolute. always so damn sure of himself. his hands pulling, a soft embrace and gesture, your eyes unable to leave him. frightful of being seen but too weak to leave the meeting of his. "that's not true. and you boxin me in like that, it's not fair". your fingers tired, clutched and nailing into his arms. his face, a world of a thing. freckled and soft and tanned. cutting sharper at the jaw but gentle still around the eyes. mouth and tongue delicate despite the cool edge of him, his nature. "when i said, way back before ,that i gotchu, it wasn't me gassin yah head up. i was being real". 

but he doesn't stop. doesn't drown under the roll in of a tumultuous wave. 

his thumb sweeping your cheek. to soothe the skin. to persuade it of his care. "i'm never lookin at you to find somethin wrong or to find a reason not to look", his eyes a slow wandering pace. brushing smooth over your features. your lips and cheeks blooming with a sensation only admiration can give. "it's hard not lookin at you". chuckling and his eyes rolling. "and yeah the way he said it was corny as hell, but samir ain't wrong. you never not look good to me". 

you can feel his breaths here. the draw of his mouth as his appreciation leads him closer. a bright sweetness on his tongue that quickens your blood. his nose a short dainty nudge into yours. anticipation filling the well of your body. 

"i like being next to you". tall body slipping up calm. closer. surrounding you against the kitchen counter. "i like touching you". thumb skimming along your lips. "ain't nothin awful about all that huh?" 

you shiver. the curl up of it riding along your spine. "no". 

"exactly". convincing brown eyes and an exacting little grin. "and nothin bad is gonna happen either. i gotchu. you're mine".

his words a sweet working spell. lips a teasing slot along yours, but never making the full embrace of a kiss. your desperation for it pure. dampens the odd, dirty, hard to digest ideas. 

he smiles. amused. "i snacked on a mint before i came in here so... you kinda gotta kiss me now".

you snort. slipping your fingers over his arms. holding tighter. the fresh scent on his tongue a gentle persuasion. 

"it's mandatory huh?" 

"yeah cause you been fallin off a lot actually. missin weekly quotas. thats real bad for business". 

"something's gotta be done i guess". 

he hums. planting tender and simple. tiny little pecks that lure you further into the give of his lips. a hand sweeping low, his arm curling about your waist, palms splayed. his fingers there bending and running dull to feel the supple fabric of your swimsuit beneath the towel. touching and testing his limits. seemingly waiting for you to pry yourself away. you breathe into his mouth, the air funneling out of your lungs. teeth a teasing bite into his lip. smiling and falling into him. his other hand meeting the exploration of the first. an unhurried pace over your body, along the line of your back. pressing in as it trails. a gasp melting on his tongue as it sweeps in, holding the tremble of you. "so pretty", he gives. littering your jaw with the affections of his mouth. your everything, feather feeling, weightless, arrested and held up in the strength of him. his smile curving into where he purses into your neck. the rhythm of your pulse playing into his kiss. 

[dear-indies]

i hope you guys have been having a lovely day! i was wondering if i could get some male fc recs for a biker type of vibe? anyone that could be 27+ would work! thanks so much!

Emilio Rivera (1961) Mexican - Mayans MC.

Benjamin Bratt (1963) Peruvian of Quechua descent / German, English.

Michael Irby (1972) African-American / Mexican - Mayans MC.

Rick Gonzalez (1979) Dominican and Puerto Rican.

JD Pardo (1980) Argentinian / Salvadorian - Mayans MC.

Ryan Gosling (1980) - The Place Beyond the Pines.

Brett Goldstein (1980) Ashkenazi Jewish.

Ricky Whittle (1981) Afro-Jamaican / English.

Joe Taslim (1981) Chinese Indonesian.

Boyd Holbrook (1981)

Riz Ahmed (1982) Pakistani - Sound of Metal.

Gabriel Luna (1982) Mexican and Lipan Apache.

Alan Ritchson (1982)

Michael Malarkey (1983) Palestinian, Italian-Maltese / Irish, German.

Chris Hemsworth (1983)

Ed Skrein (1983) Ashkenazi Jewish / possibly English.

Bobby Wilson (1984) Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate Dakota Sioux.

Theo James (1984)

Richard Cabral (1984) Mexican - Mayans MC.

Clayton Cardenas (1985) Mexican, some Filipino - Mayans MC.

Alex Meraz (1985) Mexican of Purepecha descent.

Cooper Andrews (1985) Samoan / Hungarian Jewish.

Martin Sensmeier (1985) Tlingit, Koyukon, Eyak, German and Irish.

Roman Reigns (1985) Samoan, distant English / Italian and English.

Luke Mitchell (1985)

Peter Gadiot (1986) Mexican / Dutch, some French - Queen of the South.

Bobby Soto (1986) Mexican and Puerto Rican.

Robert Pattinson (1986)

Amar Chadha-Patel (1986) Punjabi and Gujarati Indian.

Casey Deidrick (1987)

Uraz Kaygılaroğlu (1987) Turkish - Üç Kurus.

Desmond Chiam (1987) Chinese Singaporean.

Lewis Tan (1987) Singaporean Chinese / British.

Arifin Putra (1987) Indonesian, Chinese, and German.

İlhan Şen (!987) Turkish.

Tyler Lepley (1987) African-American.

Nick Sagar (1988) Afro Jamaican and Indo Guyanese.

Daniel Kaluuya (1989) Ugandan.

Jesse Rath (1989) Goan Indian / Ashkenazi Jewish.

Chai Hansen (1989) Thai / White.

Rob Raco (1989) - Riverdale.

David Castañeda (1989) Mexican.

Kiowa Gordon (1990) Hualapai, English, Scottish, Danish, Manx - Blood Quantum.

Çağatay Ulusoy (1990) Turkish.

Serkay Tütüncü (1991) Turkish.

Alexander Hodge (1991) Chinese Singaporean / Irish.

Tyler Posey (1991) Mexican / English, Scottish, Irish, German, distant French - is queer and sexually fluid.

Danny Ramirez (1992) Mexican and Colombian.

Jordan Rodrigues (1992) Filipino.

Drew Ray Tanner (1992) Chinese, Afro-Jamaican, French-Canadian, possibly other.

Here you go!

[reignsnblack]

can’t wait for someone made a gif of Kevin Owens getting hit by a freaking Golf Car

[adampage]

@biconictrevor

sorry guys ive been mostly offline today will reply to messages tomorrow ive been up til 5 drawing nsfw biker john. im sick of myself 

full image

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

I am begging you to tell me more about the Thomceit human au

What I have so far is mostly just scenarios and very very little plot.

Janus has been assigned by someone to be Thomas's bodyguard.

Thomas ends up in hot water after the funeral of an uncle Thomas never really knew apart from when he was a child. He is a bit confused to why he was invited, but felt too awkward and that it would be rude to decline.

Janus saves him from the situation by skidding to a stop, throwing a second helmet at Thomas and telling him to get on the motorcycle.

Thomas is stressed and afraid, but didn't have much choice then to go with Janus, because if he didn't run he'd get killed caught by the gang that wanted the info he supposedly knows.

Thomas doesn't know if he should trust Janus or not early on, since he haven't seen Janus's face, since Janus won't take off his biker helmet. (He wasn't allowed too give Thomas his name or show his face by the one who assigned him to protect Thomas).

But to make Thomas feel better and help him trust Janus, Janus breaks the rules and tells Thomas to call him J. Which causes Thomas to call him "Jay" like the bird, while also showing him his face.

Cue Thomas getting struck by "Oh shit he's hot" before he manages to reign his heart and mind back in.

Patton, Logan, Roman and Remus, Virgil and the Orange man are all, either on their own or have worked with Janus in the past (Remus currently and Virgil previously) Or are part of other groups that also want the info.

But, Janus, as he get's to know Thomas, starts to care less and less about the assignment and more about the want to keep Thomas safe no matter what. Screw the money he was promised when the job was over, he cares and he will go down swinging if it means Thomas doesn't get hurt.

And Thomas meanwhile is struggling with the sudden threat hanging over his head from the gangs that want whatever the information is, as well as his conflicted feelings over Janus, because sure, he's hot, cute and kinda soft at times, but Thomas have no idea if it is at all genuine or if Janus is just doing it for the money.

What the information is, and what the plot will be is still unknown to me.

[inagetawaycarxo]

Hell Or High Water; 1

Pairings: Jax Teller x Reader, Mob!Boss Roman Reigns x Reader [Eventually]

Featuring: Jax Teller, Y/n [reader], unnamed service attendant.

Summary: Y/n escapes the grasps of her husband a ruthless mob boss of Florida. Seeking salvation in Charming only to fall in love with the SAMCRO president. Y/n realizes she can't escape her past. Jax would do anything to keep her safe, while Roman will do anything to find what's his.

WARNINGS: Fluff, shameless flirting, errors I missed.

The windows of your car were rolled half down. Causing your hair to blow with the wind. You let out a sigh of relief as you passed the Charming sign. Glad you made it this far without any problems. Or him finding you.

Continuing to drive till you reached the town centre. The fuel gauge was close to being empty. You quickly found a gas station. Driving into the gas station. Parking near the bowser. You put your car in par. Turning it off. as you put your handbrake on. Getting out of your car. You opened the fuel flap on your car. Untwisting the cup. You grabbed the nozzle handle. Putting it in. You looked around your surroundings, as you filled your car up, seeing a motorbike. Your heart leapt into your throat. Maybe it was just a random biker, but your mind still wandered into dangerous territory.

Surely you made your death believable. He believed you were dead. At least that's what you told yourself to calm your nerves. You finished filling the cars gas tank up. Putting the nozzle back in the fuel bowser. Putting the cap on the fuel tank. Closing the flap.

You grabbed your wallet. Walking into the gas station. Lucky the biker wasn't at the counter yet, so you could get out of this gas station quickly, and retreat to your friend's house.

You smiled at the gas station attendant. As he rang up the total of your fuel. You quickly took a glance around you. seeing the back of someone. Your eyes widened as you saw a gang patch. Making you advert your gaze back to the attendant. Wishing he would just hurry up.

The guy must have felt your gaze, or he found whatever he was looking for because you heard heavy footsteps making their way towards you. Your heart pounded in your ears making it hard for you to hear. The attendant called out the amount you owned but you didn't hear him. Frozen in fear. You felt a hand grab your shoulder making your body jump. You heard the sound of a chuckle beside you. You gulped. "Don't let him see how scared you are," You scolded yourself in your head. He will use it against you. You looked over your shoulder to look at the biker. He was beautiful. His blue eyes staring deeply into your e/c eyes. A smug smirk on his face. Before taking his bottom lip in between his teeth. You titled your head to the side. Your eyes noticed the president patch.

He nodded his head to the attendant.

"You going to pay?" He asked. His voice sending a pulse in between your legs. mind thinking sinful things. He must have picked

"Or do you want me to?" He spoke. Giving you a sinful look.

Fuck. You thought. You could drown in those blue eyes. You gave him a forced smile, while he just smirked, eyes raking down your body.

"I can..." You gasped out. Like you forgot to speak. He just smirked. You quickly turn around. Opening your wallet. Fumbling for the money. In the process dropping some. How embarrassing.

The guy behind you just smirked. taking out notes of cash, and putting it on the counter, with the items he got. He cast you a smirk. Making you even more of a shuttering mess. He winked at you. As he paid. Like he was your sugar daddy or something.

"You didn't have to," You spoke. As he handed you the receipt. Both of you walked towards the door.

"It's okay," He spoke, as he held the door open for you. Mainly so he could look at your ass as you walked out the door.

"At least let me repay you I feel bad freeloading from you," You sighed with a heavy heart.

"It's really not a problem, I don't mind, plus if I got to save a damsel in distress," He spoke. You blinked at him like he had three heads. Did he really just call you a damsel in distress.

"I feel bad," You argued.

He thought of it for a moment. Stopping in front of his motorbike.

"If you want to repay me, I can think of other ways," He smugly spoke. Making you narrow your eyes at him. Of course, he was one of those men. You rolled your eyes, as his eyes scanned your body hungrily. Like you were a tall cold glass of water.

"It's Jax by the way," Jax spoke. Still smiling smugly. You threw the cash you owned him at him. Lucky he caught it.

"Ugh..." You grunted. Storming towards your car. You angrily ripped the car door open and got in. slamming it shut. Angrily putting the keys into the ignition. Turning the car on. Putting the handbrake down. Pressing your foot down hard on the accelerator and speeding off. Glaring at him as you drove past him. Jax smirked. Finding your reaction amusing.

He knew he would get you in his bed, he just hoped he saw you again...

FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED!

WANT TO BE ADDED TO THIS SERIES? MESSAGE ME!

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

2020 - archived

[18+ advised ] This is going to be long af. I’m going to do my best to put everything - all my writing on this blog, in one goddamn place, but I make no promises, so forgive me in advance. Below the cut is everything I’ve written and posted, for every single wrestler I’ve written for so far.  If its’ not linked, then I haven’t posted it yet or it’s a placeholder. If it’s bolded/has an m out beside it, it is most definitely mature and only meant for a mature (18+) audience. If there’s an asterisk (*) out beside the title, it belongs to or is part of something else that I have on the blog.

If you want to be on the taglist for my writing, you can find that [here]. If you want to know what I write / how often I write and stuff like that, my faq/about post is [here]

adam hangman page | take you home | spring | mature.

adam hangman page | baby fever | winter| mature.

adam hangman page | darlin | summer | mature. 

baron corbin | right now | winter | mature.

darby allin | the sound of silence | spring | mature.

drew mcintyre | somebody watching me | spring | mature.

drew mcintyre | alpha | winter | mature.

ethan carter iii | worship you | winter | mature.

jon moxley | duality| summer | mature.

jon moxley | allnighter | summer | mature.

jungle boy | touch myself | winter | mature.

jungle boy | unnamed as of yet | summer | mature.

kevin owens | morning | summer | mature.

kyle o’reilly | backseats and phone calls | spring | mature.

kyle o’reilly | the quiet game | winter | mature.

mjf | dessert first | winter | mature.

mjf | sweet | summer | mature.

mjf | morningafter | summer | mature.

roman reigns | alpha | winter | mature.

sammy guevara | dirty dancer | winter | suggestive.

sammy guevara | cheater | summer | mature.

trent beretta | blackout | summer | mature.

trent beretta | sneaky | fall | mature.

adam hangman page | whatcha gonna do by hinder | angst / comfort.

adam hangman page | push my buttons [ suggestive] | 

adam hangman page | i’m erasing myself from the narrative | i’m putting myself back into the narrative | may you always be satisfied | the story of tonight. 

adam hangman page | second one to know |  dancing around an open fire | | 

adam hangman page | dreaming of a wedding dress | | 

adam hangman page | the love boat || | 

adam hangman page | sweet cherry pie || that dress is begging to come off [ virgin oc; mature af } 

adam hangman page | | honey on my table suggestive | motion of the ocean - cruise romance au, mature | 

adam hangman page | alone among the couples | 

adam hangman page | im yours - alphaverse au | won’t you stay with me alphaverse au |  bathtub mermaid - alphaverse au/suggestive | 

adam hangman page | she’s a nutcracker | 

adam hangman page | virginia on my mind, angst | fuck you and the horse you rode in on [ an au of what ifs second chapter, holy shit mature]  | | punishment pretty please, goes with wildside/whatifs holy shit mature | pour some sugar on me, mature | | 

baron corbin | everything you can do i can do better | 

baron corbin | follow me | prince not so charming | 

baron corbin | love on the rocks | 

curtis axel | | | boop [  mature ] | be kind rewind [ roommates au, mature ]| 

curtis axel | discount chocolate day | | 

drew gulak thoughts of yesterdays | august rush | lost in your eyes [ suggestive.]

drew gulak | he loves me, he loves you not [ miiild suggestive, alphaverse] | | leave her wild [ suggestive alphaverse..kinda] | 

drew gulak |once upon a dream [ soulmate au] |  starcrossed lovers and other strangers [ suggestive ] |

drew gulak | valentines day episode | 

drew mcintyre | marionette | | just between me and you | 

drew mcintyre | burnt homemade chocolates [ conclusion to my alphaverse short fic, suggestive and fluffy ] | 

edge x ofc x christian | seeds of unrest | 

elias samson | couples costume contest | 

elias samson | waiting on your friends to leave 

ethan carter III | winners remorse | rewrite history [ a retelling of w.r] | |

finn balor | after an endless dream | 

jay white | graveyard smash | punch drunk princess [ vampire au; mature] | it should’ve been you [human version of vampire au]

jeff hardy  | it all started with glow paint [ suggestive; bordering mature ] | 

jeff hardy | do i look lonely |  my lips are up here [suggestive]

jon moxley | hurt me so good | if I loved you less I could talk about it more | can’t find a better man [mature].

jon moxley | bloody valentine | 

jon moxley | your days are numbered | spared but not forgiven | nature adores a virgin [mature]

jon moxley | all the guys want cheerleaders | ps i lo- | no more almosts | warm desert wind | | dark as night [ roommates au / suggestive ] | 

jon moxley | siren song [ soulmate/pirate and siren au | 

jungle boy | sweet boy | 

kyle o’reilly | can I see through you | | death of a bachelor | 

mjf | did you just grab yourself on tv | 

mjf | candy hearts taste like chalk | 

pete dunne | you jump i jump jack | | you can’t win | I’m melting

pete dunne |bitter bite alphaverse au |  aftershocks suggestive |

roderick strong |  trying not to smile | 

roderick strong | kisses like cruelty [suggestive,borderline mature] | | | 

roderick strong | walking the line | put ‘em up | 

roman reigns | patchwork heart | 

roman reigns | slow roasted | 

roman reigns | anorgasmia | 

sami zayn | farmers market | moonbeams on pumpkins

sami zayn | heart and soul |

sami zayn | reflecting light | 

zack ryder | rough rider 

12 Days Of Christmas Masterlist 2020

My entries for the 12 Days of Christmas on both my writing blogs can be found on this post right here.  [ merry christmas clicky ]

Halloween

Thanksgiving

Christmas

New Years

Valentines Day

Other Holidays / Special Occasions

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS I HAVE / USE TO WRITE

original character, Adeline x | 

original character, Kasey x | 

original character, Violet x | 

WRESTLERS ONLY DOWN BELOW

adam hangman page x [m] | x - soft hangman | x -hangman does halloween | x hangman on your first date [ fluffy,suggestive]|  x [soft] | adopting a dog | enemies to lovers | roommates to lovers | softly mature | more halloween hangman | 

buddy murphy x [ mature, sex life] | 

cash wheeler x [ suggestive ] | 

chuck taylor x [soft]| x more soft | 

damien priest x [ mature ] | 

darby allin x[soft] | x [mature] | 

drew gulak x | 

drew mcintyre x [ mature ] | 

eddie kingston x | x | x mature | enemies to lovers | 

elite x celebrating Halloween with the Elite | 

ethan carter iii x [m] | 

finn balor x [ m] | x [m] | 

heath slater x | 

jeff hardy x[m] | sick female!SO [pms mentioned briefly] | 

jon moxley x [m] | x [m] | 

jungle boy x[food/cooking] | x [ actual! jungle boy in love ] | fall softness | 

kenny omega x [ suggestive ] | x | x [halloween] | 

kevin owens x [m] | 

kyle o’reilly x [ mature - werewolf!kyle ] | 

luchasaurus x[mature+soft] | 

marko stunt  x soft and mature | x mature | x soft | x daddy kink of sorts |

matt jackson x [m] | x more m | enemiest to lovers -suggestive | 

nick jackson x [suggestive] | losing a basketball game to you | x mature/soft mix | 

orange cassidy x [lowkey m] | 

Pac x [suggestive fluff] | 

pentagon jr x mature | 

pete dunne x [ mature ] | 

prince devitt x mature | 

ecw era raven x [soft ] | x [m] | x[halloween] | 

roderick strong x [ adopting a kid with ] | 

roman reigns x!HeelRoman, slight nsfw | 

sami callihan x [ music preferences ] | 

trent beretta x [lowkey m] | x [ soft ] | x [ more soft ] | 

tyler breeze x [ enemies to lovers, polyamory hinted at | 

undertaker x [ gender neutral baker / biker taker SO] | 

wardlow x [ m ] | x [m] | x [ soft] | x[ halloween] | x mature | x Christmas with Wardlow | 

AEW;

- adam hangman page [ f s v ] | o i d | c m x | k l | 

- cash wheeler [ i l s ] | [ m o r ] | c s u | 

- chuck taylor [ j m w ] | [ a d l ] | [ c  v ] | i k w | n u x | 

- darby allin [  k o t ] 

- jack evans [ b t h ] | 

- jon moxley [ a k r ] | 

- jungle boy [ d m o ] | 

- matt jackson [ k q w ] |  [ b d e ] | f i o | u y | c j v | 

- mjf [ s k v ] | b m u | 

- nick jackson [ a b g ] | [ m o ] | c i o | 

- orange cassidy [ f h x ] | [ o ] | [ i p v ] | [ k w ]

- pac [ d m x ] | [ i p u ] | [ f o s ] | 

- santana [ a o q ] | 

- trent beretta [ j m u ] | 

- wardlow [ d j w ] | [ k u ] | [ b m r ] | [ a o v ] | c i p | 

WWE NXT;

- chad gable [ b o u ] | 

- damien priest [ d i v ] | 

- drew mcintyre [ b e d ] | i p w | 

- jinder mahal [ g i w ] | 

- roman reigns [ c u m ] | 

- timothy thatcher [ c j y ] | f k | d | 

- tyler breeze [ l x y ] | d j u | 

TNA;

- heath miller [ b e d ] | 

NJPW;

- jay white [ d f k ] | k u m | b j w | 

AEW;

WWE / NXT;

AEW;

WWE / NXT; 

[identybeautynet]

Black In Fashion 2021

Black In Fashion Only black is the new black: a cultural history of fashion’s favorite shade When the group Time’s Up encouraged all actresses and actors who would walk the Golden Globes red carpet to dress in a show of solidarity against sexual harassment of women in Hollywood and other workplaces, the color it asked them to wear was black. On Jan. 30, a group of women in the US congress followed their lead, donning black for the first state of the union address by president Trump, who has himself been accused by numerous women of sexual misconduct. There is nothing about black that inherently signifies protest, but really no other shade would have sent so clear a message. There’s a reason country legend Johnny Cash also chose to wear black as a reminder to Americans of the everyday injustices in their midst. Black clothing has an undeniable power. Unlike red or green, which represent specific wavelengths of light, black isn’t exactly a color; it’s what we see when an object absorbs all visible wavelengths, putting it in a category by itself. Its singular darkness has a unique visual potency, and its adaptability has long made it open to interpretation by the numerous groups that have adopted it. Black connotes seriousness and diligence, as in the black worn by religious orders. It can be sinister or rebellious, like the black cloaks of witches or the black leather jackets worn by biker gangs. In many cultures, it’s the color of mourning. But it can simultaneously be the epitome of chic and sophistication, yet charged with eroticism. All these qualities have given black a distinctive position in fashion enjoyed by no other color. The Little Purple Dress is not famous. “Yellow tie” is not a recognized dress code. Only black will ever be the new black. Black is in Among the endless variety of colors and combinations that fashion retailers stock, black is a perennially popular choice. In a recent analysis of more than 183,000 dresses retailing online in the US, retail technology firm Edited found that about 38.5% were some shade of black, making it by far the most common color available. Only about 10.7% of dresses came in the second-most popular shade, white. EDITED Edited’s representation of the dress colors currently retailing online in the US. At the moment, black’s popularity also appears to be surging. According to Edited’s data, black dresses sold out in far greater numbers in the first few weeks of January 2018 than during the same period last year. Edited did point to Time’s Up having an effect, though it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what’s fueling the trend, since an increase in the availability of black clothing online predates the movement. From the third quarter of 2014 to the same time in 2017, Edited found that black clothing for women grew substantially at a number of fast-fashion brands—by 269% at Boohoo, 145% at Zara, 114% at H&M, and 89% at Forever 21. Katie Smith, the firm’s retail analysis & insights director, attributed it to the brands “using black to try and establish longevity of their ranges, and appeal to a wider customer base.” The numbers speak to the breadth and endurance of black’s appeal. It works with every skin tone, every body type, and is generally a safe choice for a purchase—because even if demand for it ebbs, it never goes out of style. AP PHOTO/FRANCOIS MORI Naomi Campbell in classic black on the Louis Vuitton fall-winter 2018 runway. A cultural history There’s no official start to the modern popularity of black in European and American women’s fashion. Historically it’s been a signifier of grief, dating back to at least the ancient Greeks. But it has also been widely coveted for its appearance. In his book The Story of Black, critic John Harvey notes that, though the Romans principally dyed clothing black for mourning, there are indications they prized it for its stylishness. In the 16th century, there was a vogue for black clothing—then notoriously expensive (pdf)—among Europe’s wealthy, from Spanish nobility in the south to Dutch merchants in the north. But a convenient turning point in black’s more recent reign arrived around the early 20th century. That, Harvey writes, is when black “came to centre stage.” The spotlight fell squarely on it in 1926, with the introduction of Chanel’s famed little black dress. THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART/MARTIN SECK An array of Little Black Dresses from the Museum of Modern Art’s “Items: Is Fashion Modern?” exhibit. Just prior to that period, black was the standard uniform color for domestic servants and the “shopgirls” who staffed retail shop floors. Social norms, however, were losing their trappings of formality. Sportswear was beginning its rise, and hemlines already climbing higher, as young society women moved away from eras of lavish, restrictive gowns. Shelley Puhak describes in The Atlantic how the upper classes co-opted the easy, modern shopgirl style for themselves. “By the early 1900s, socialites who wanted to appear especially youthful and edgy donned little black dresses,” she writes. When Vogue put a sketch of Chanel’s simple, practical black dress on its cover in 1926, calling it “The Ford” of a woman’s wardrobe, it seemed to make official a new era in women’s clothing. It also promoted black as smart, elegant, attractive. AFP/GETTY IMAGES Coco Chanel lounging in black in 1944. In addition to fashion, black had another powerful force helping it to stand out: film. “The other great promoter of the Little Black Dress was the camera, especially the movie camera,” art and costume historian Anne Hollander wrote in her excellent 1984 essay (pdf). A novel world of entertainment, romance, and movie stars was opening up to an eager public—all in black-and-white. The brilliance of black Black’s effect on the eye gives it an irresistible visual appeal. “A black dress seems to make the body neater and smaller and to unify the parts,” Hollander declares. “Since many bodies are not slim and lack either perfect harmony or absolute coordination, a black dress can help give them that delicious resemblance to a stretch limousine that seems so desirable in the present fashion climate.” Yet black has a remarkable tendency to be distinctive without overshadowing the wearer, in a sense amplifying the person. Hollander points to a scene in Anna Karenina, where Anna attends a ball. Tolstoy describes another woman, Kitty, remarking on her black gown. She realizes that Anna could not have worn lilac, that she was most alluring when she stood out from her clothing. “And the black dress with luxurious lace was not seen on her;” Tolstoy writes, “it was just a frame, and only was she seen.” While it’s not exactly analogous, a recent study of male birds-of-paradise reveals an intriguingly similar power in their black plumage. The birds are well-known for their bobbing courtship dance, but according to the researchers, it’s actually their coloring that determines their success in mating. The mostly black birds raise their wings to form a light-absorbing field, causing their other colors to appear all the more brilliant. “The juxtaposition of darkest black and colors create to bird and human eyes what is essentially an evolved optical illusion,” explained Harvard University evolutionary biologist Dakota McCoy. “This study shows us that black makes us glow.” On male humans, black is often seen as dignified and levelheaded. In his Book of the Courtier, a sort of guide to life in the aristocratic courts of Renaissance Italy, Count Baldassare Castiglione states that black is the preferred color for a man, or at least something dark. Harvey points out in The Story of Black that black has been the standard for men’s evening wear since the 1810s, in large part thanks to the advocacy of Beau Brummell. The name may be familiar to some men. He’s widely considered the inventor of the modern men’s suit and a sort of founding father of contemporary menswear. AP PHOTO Sean Connery on the set of the James Bond movie “You Only Live Twice” in 1966. Black’s hold on high-fashion AP PHOTO A black chiffon cocktail dress from Balenciaga shown in 1957. In the decades since Chanel’s compact black number graced Vogue‘s cover, numerous designers have adopted and elevated black for their own purposes. Cristóbal Balenciaga used it for his elegant, architectural silhouettes, and Yves Saint Laurent for his androgynous “le smoking” women’s tuxedo. In the latter half of the 20th century, it became closely linked to fringe groups and rebellion. Bikers and beatniks donned black. Then, the Japanese design wave of Issey Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto, and Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons made a new art form of the black look. Fashion journalist Suzy Menkes asked Yamamoto what was behind his well-known predilection for black in a 2000 interview for the International Herald Tribune. Yamamoto’s response has evidently summed up the feelings of black’s devotees so well that it has circulated for some time on social networks such as Tumblr and Instagram. ”Black is modest and arrogant at the same time,” he said. “Black is lazy and easy — but mysterious….Black can swallow light, or make things look sharp. But above all black says this: ‘I don’t bother you — don’t bother me!'” Given black’s adaptability and allure, it’s little wonder it remains a popular choice for all sorts of styles today. Black-obsessed artisanal menswear designers deploy it for their exquisite leather jackets. Designers such as Ann Demeulemeester have gravitated toward its romanticism, others like Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing to its sleekness. Black colors fancy cocktail parties, and goth kids match their clothes to their black eyeliner as readily as socialites thrown on black for a night out. By all indications, its attraction isn’t diminishing. We’ll be flying the black flag for years to come. Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion, Black In Fashion Read the full article

[hecohansen31]

MASTERLIST:

(*) Means that there are sex scenes!

Hope you will enjoy it and as always, if you want to give any kind of feedback I am here for it!

MICHAEL LANGDON:

“Little Love Notes” (Outpost! Michael+ Ex-Secretary! Reader): (*)

“A Change Of (H)air & Other Things” (Outpost! Michael+Short Haired! Reader) (Also in this little thing there is no proper smut, but it’s full of references to it, so be aware, lovelies!).

“A Little Pick Me Up” (Fire & Reign! Michael+ Reader) (*).

“Preying On You” (Vampire Sojourn! Michael+Human! Reader) (*).

“A Cure For Unrequited Love” (Hawthorne Michael+Witch! Reader+Cordelia) (*).

“From Eros To Filia” (Hawthorne! Michael+Virgin! Reader) (Will be a three part series): (*) 

-“A Little Loss Of Innocence” (*).

-”A Little Loss Of Dignity” (*).

-“A Little Gain of Her” (*).

“Terrible Thing” (Hawthorne! Michael+Scorned! Reader): (*)

“The Tomboy & The Model” (Model Michael+Tomboyish! Reader) (*)

JIM MASON:

“Just Ride” (Pro Biker! Jim+ Mechanic! Reader) (Just missing the epilogue):

PART 1:

PART 2:

PART 3: (*)

“A Truly Wicked Plan” (Jim Mason+Reader, School Musical AU, “Wicked”)

“Hey Gorgeous” (Jim Mason+Insecure! Reader)

DUNCAN SHEPHERD:

“Communication Is The Key” (Older! Duncan+Younger! Reader) (Mentions of Sex+Awful and Toxic Friends) 

“The Girl in The Red Dress” (Older! Duncan+Younger! Reader) (Mention of Sex and Nudity)

“Not Of Age” ( Older! Duncan Shepherd+ Apparently Younger! Reader) (I planned another chapter of this… but I need to actualy finish it…):

“More Than You Bargained For” (Post Prison! Duncan+Camgirl! Reader) (*)

“A Remedy For The Stress” (Older! Duncan + Younger! Reader): (*)

“ANGEL” series:

Post Prison! Duncan + Reader

Hawthorne Michael Langdon+Apparently Innocent! Reader (*)

BILLY HARGROVE:

“A True Brat” (Billy Hargrove+Bratty! Reader) (*)

AXEL CLUNEY:

“The Sun Is Shining Just For You” (Axel Cluney+Reader).

OT3:

DUNCAN SHEPHERD+FALLONG CARRINGTON+READER:

Sugar Daddy! Duncan Shepherd+Sugar Mommy! Fallong Carrington+Reader (Headcanons): (*)

MICHAEL LANGDON+DUNCAN SHEPHERD+READER

“Of Superhero And Superassholes” (Special Agents and Superheroes AU) (Left a bit behind but I have a few ideas on how to continue this, so… IT IS NOT OVER).

PART 1:

PART 2:

IVAR+READER+ROMAN GODFREY:

“Relationship Alphabet Headcanon” (Werewolf! Ivar+Reader+Upir! Roman Godfrey) (*)

“I’d Play It” (Every Night) (Werewolf! Ivar+Reader+Upir! Roman Godfrey) (*)

That is all folks!

I really hope that you will enjoy this!

[suckthatskittlebiiitch]

I posted 5,355 times in 2021

345 posts created (6%)

5010 posts reblogged (94%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 14.5 posts.

I added 265 tags in 2021

#mayans mc spoilers - 106 posts

#aew dynamite - 43 posts

#roman reigns - 25 posts

#wardlow - 19 posts

#my monster - 13 posts

#richard cabral - 13 posts

#jon moxley - 13 posts

#whew chile - 12 posts

#florian munteanu - 11 posts

#mayans mc - 10 posts

Longest Tag: 76 characters

#all i see is me crawling on the floor ass naked while hes looking down at me

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

"Just ASK! Me!"

A/N: YALL I am in NO WAY a writer 😭 but this is just something thats been on my noggin and just HAD to bring this baby to life!! Again I suck at writing but hey why not?? Lol

Summary: Coco has been watching the same porno over and over, he wants to try something with you but to scared to ask.

"Hey baby I'm home!!" You walked in carrying groceries that you just bought from Walmart and sat them on the kitchen table. "Daaamn Mami what'd all you get?! You say you were only getting shit for tonight!" He peeked in the bags one by one. "Yeah well figured I'd get some for tomorrow night too!!" You pecked his lips and started pulling stuff out. While doing so coco barely looked at you.

"Something goin on with you baby?" You leaned against the counter staring at the mayan.

Coco scratched his head "nah?"

"Oh you lying to me now? Woooow ok come on cruz I know you better than you know yourself talk to me." You wrapped your arms around his waist kissing his exposed chest.

Coco sighed now finally looking at you with those big brown chocolate eyes that melted your heart. "Ok so I was watching this..porno..and um.. baby you know I love our sex life you be putting it DOWN Mami like that thing you do with your tongue in my..." you stopped him before he could finish. "Daddy I know how much you love that you usually show me all over my face" you giggled. "Now tell meee" a slight whine came out.

Coco bit his lip looking at the ground then finally at you. "So next time your riding me or I'm fucking you from behind..can...can I put a finger in your ass?" Once it finally came out he looked back at his feet. You stared at him just waiting to see if there was more but when nothing else did...you laughed. Which of course cause coco to mumble something in Spanish and roll his eyes "Know what just forget I even asked I knew you'd make fun of me" he turned to walk away but you grabbed his arm stopping him.

"My coco I'm not laughing at you!! Hell yeah you can stick a finger even two fingers in my ass!! I'm definitely down you know how nasty I like it daddy" He smiled looking relieved "yeah? So so why you laugh?"

You bit your lip trying to stop the giggle fit. "Because!! How is it your a big scary biker who can take apart then reassemble a gun in under 15seconds, cross the border while carrying heroin and SHOOT a guy between the eyes no hesitation...but your scared to ask if you can stick a finger in my ASS?!!"

At this realization coco bubbled with laughter along with you.

"Thats pretty fuckin funny but you know what? Mi dulce?" coco picked you up throwing you over his shoulder heading toward the bedroom "What?" You questioned while kicking your legs a little

"That ass aint about to be laughing in a minute" with a hard slap on the ass to drive his point home, coco showed exactly why all. Night. Long.

42 notes • Posted 2021-04-07 16:09:41 GMT

#4

Nestor got all THAT HAIR IN THEM BRAIDS?!!!!! OH MY LORD!!!

42 notes • Posted 2021-04-28 03:08:09 GMT

#3

Yall we need to have a serious, actual conversation about how attractive roman is. How does a man like that just walk this earth and be REAL?! This isn't even a thirst post I'm generally concerned on HOW FUCKING SEXY HE IS??!!?!!

50 notes • Posted 2021-07-19 04:33:06 GMT

#2

This man DONT MISS!!!! whew lord 😍😍😍😭😭

@luvelygyal @honeychicana

73 notes • Posted 2021-08-26 19:34:36 GMT

#1

Um just a heads up the person running this blog is 12yrs old..I repeat 12YRS OLD. block this person from yalls blogs, most of my mutuals are 21+ but anyone 18+ yes blog this baby. And ima say baby because that's what she is. Idk why tumblr @staff even let her get on this site.

85 notes • Posted 2021-08-19 04:50:25 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[joannasteez]

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!!

[wrestlem4nia]

‘Mania 34 Predictions.

01. Andre The Giant Memorial Battle Royal:

Bray Wyatt is going to win by eliminating Matt Hardy. That Hardy Boyz return last year feels a LONG time ago. You could probably get a few other returns and debuts, I reckon you might see Dean Ambrose or Samoa Joe, they may just be saved for Braun later in the show however.

02. Women’s Battle Royal:

Bayley is going to win by eliminating Sasha Banks. It’s good that everyone gets a match on the card, it’s just a shame that for Stephanie to get a match some of the real workers get dumped in this match.

03. Cruiserweight Title Tournament Final: 

Cedric Alexander vs. Mustafa Ali

Personally I think either of these two would make good champions but Mustafa Ali makes more sense right now. 

04. United States Title Match: Randy Orton (c) vs. Rusev vs. Jinder Mahal vs. Bobby Roode.

Is there anyone more over in WWE that isn’t Braun or Bryan? Probably only Rusev. Whilst Randy has only just won the title I’d think WWE should move the strap to Rusev and let him loose. Sadly I don’t think they have the best track record when it comes to Rusev, he should have beaten Cena years ago. Randy will retain.

05. Kevin Owens & Sami Zayn vs. Shane McMahon & Daniel Bryan

I’m kinda gutted that Bryan got cleared to wrestle in WWE. He’d have happily returned to the indies to get his wrestling fix. Hopefully he switches to a more mat based style to prolong his career as he has several must see matches still in him.

I can’t imagine this match is going to be good but I can’t see anything other than Zayn & Owens winning.

06. Raw Women’s Title Match: Alexa Bliss (c) vs. Nia Jax.

Whilst everyone is expecting Nia to win I just don’t think there’s any rush to crown 2 new Women’s champs on the same show, with Asuka winning it’d make sense for Bliss to retain. Nia will win, but probably by DQ.

07. Undertaker vs. John Cena

If this match does happen it’ll be a shame, Taker’s been a shadow of his former self for a long time, his retirement last year felt overdue. Coming back for a match with zero build with very little at risk makes no sense. Taker has to win or his legacy will be further tarnished.

Personally I hope he returns to the biker gimmick, just so he can get to the ring quicker!

08. Intercontinental Title Match: The Miz (c) vs. Finn Balor vs. Seth Rollins.

I’m thinking this will be the match of the night and I can only see one outcome. Finn pinning Seth for the win. Considering after this PPV all shows will be cross brand I can see this being a feud that could run on in some form until the Summer.

09. Raw Tag Title Match: The Bar (c) vs. Braun Strowmann & TBD.

Braun’s tag partner is the draw of the match which is a big shame, he should have been in the main event without question and this feel’s a bit of a demotion for him. Making the whole tag division look weak has been a consolation for him but anything other than The Bar retaining due to Braun’s partner is a bad move. 

I think guessing Braun’s partner is just a big a prediction, so I’m going to go with The Rock!

10. Smackdown Tag Title Match: The Usos (c) vs. New Day vs. The Bludgeon Brothers.

The Bludgeon Brothers need the titles more than the other 2 teams and after the way they’ve been pushed in recent weeks they need to pick up the win.

11. Smackdown Women’s Title Match: Charlotte Flair (c) vs. Asuka.

Asuka is winning this match, the company must be planning on having her remain undefeated to face Ronda next year.

12. WWE Title Match: AJ Styles (c) vs. Shinsuke Nakamura.

AJ retains. I just hope this match is half as good as the one they had at Wrestle Kingdom a few years back. Nakamura hasn’t really done much for me on the main roster, hopefully this will be the match to prove he belongs.

13. Ronda Rousey & Kurt Angle vs. Stephanie McMahon & Triple H

If I wasn’t watching the show live this would be the match I’d fast forward to the finish. It’s just a bunch of part timers and someone who’s yet to have a match. I have low expectations and anything less than a Kurt & Ronda win is a waste. Then we all thought Sting was beating HHH.

14. Universal Title Match: Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Roman Reigns.

Reigns is winning, either by turning heel, having Heyman turn on Brock or just by him doing what he does week in week out. I don’t care for this match all. Modern Brock just hits suplexes and does very little else and whilst Reigns is better than he was, he still bores me with his style of wrestling.

TLDR version.

Bray Wyatt, Sasha Banks, Mustafa Ali, Randy Orton, Nia Jax (No Title Change), Undertaker, Finn Balor, The Bar, The Bludgeon Brothers, Asuka, AJ Styles, Ronda Rousey & Kurt Angle, Roman Reigns.

Let us know your predictions and thoughts

[inagetawaycarxo]

Hell Or High Water; 1

Pairings: Jax Teller x Reader, Mob!Boss Roman Reigns x Reader [Eventually]

Featuring: Jax Teller, Y/n [reader], unnamed service attendant. 

Summary: Y/n escapes the grasps of her husband a ruthless mob boss of Florida. Seeking salvation in Charming only to fall in love with the SAMCRO president. Y/n realizes she can't escape her past. Jax would do anything to keep her safe, while Roman will do anything to find what's his.

WARNINGS: Fluff, shameless flirting, errors I missed.

The windows of your car were rolled half down. Causing your hair to blow with the wind. You let out a sigh of relief as you passed the Charming sign. Glad you made it this far without any problems. Or him finding you.

Continuing to drive till you reached the town centre. The fuel gauge was close to being empty. You quickly found a gas station. Driving into the gas station. Parking near the bowser. You put your car in par. Turning it off. as you put your handbrake on. Getting out of your car. You opened the fuel flap on your car. Untwisting the cup. You grabbed the nozzle handle. Putting it in. You looked around your surroundings, as you filled your car up, seeing a motorbike. Your heart leapt into your throat. Maybe it was just a random biker, but your mind still wandered into dangerous territory.

Surely you made your death believable. He believed you were dead. At least that's what you told yourself to calm your nerves. You finished filling the cars gas tank up. Putting the nozzle back in the fuel bowser. Putting the cap on the fuel tank. Closing the flap.

You grabbed your wallet. Walking into the gas station. Lucky the biker wasn't at the counter yet, so you could get out of this gas station quickly, and retreat to your friend's house.

You smiled at the gas station attendant. As he rang up the total of your fuel. You quickly took a glance around you. seeing the back of someone. Your eyes widened as you saw a gang patch. Making you advert your gaze back to the attendant. Wishing he would just hurry up.

The guy must have felt your gaze, or he found whatever he was looking for because you heard heavy footsteps making their way towards you. Your heart pounded in your ears making it hard for you to hear. The attendant called out the amount you owned but you didn't hear him. Frozen in fear. You felt a hand grab your shoulder making your body jump. You heard the sound of a chuckle beside you. You gulped. "Don't let him see how scared you are," You scolded yourself in your head. He will use it against you. You looked over your shoulder to look at the biker. He was beautiful. His blue eyes staring deeply into your e/c eyes. A smug smirk on his face. Before taking his bottom lip in between his teeth. You titled your head to the side. Your eyes noticed the president patch.

He nodded his head to the attendant.

"You going to pay?" He asked. His voice sending a pulse in between your legs. mind thinking sinful things. He must have picked

"Or do you want me to?" He spoke. Giving you a sinful look.

Fuck. You thought. You could drown in those blue eyes. You gave him a forced smile, while he just smirked, eyes raking down your body.

"I can..." You gasped out. Like you forgot to speak. He just smirked. You quickly turn around. Opening your wallet. Fumbling for the money. In the process dropping some. How embarrassing.

The guy behind you just smirked. taking out notes of cash, and putting it on the counter, with the items he got. He cast you a smirk. Making you even more of a shuttering mess. He winked at you. As he paid. Like he was your sugar daddy or something.

"You didn't have to," You spoke. As he handed you the receipt. Both of you walked towards the door.

"It's okay," He spoke, as he held the door open for you. Mainly so he could look at your ass as you walked out the door.

"At least let me repay you I feel bad freeloading from you," You sighed with a heavy heart.

"It's really not a problem, I don't mind, plus if I got to save a damsel in distress," He spoke. You blinked at him like he had three heads. Did he really just call you a damsel in distress.

"I feel bad," You argued.

He thought of it for a moment. Stopping in front of his motorbike.

"If you want to repay me, I can think of other ways," He smugly spoke. Making you narrow your eyes at him. Of course, he was one of those men. You rolled your eyes, as his eyes scanned your body hungrily. Like you were a tall cold glass of water.

"It's Jax by the way," Jax spoke. Still smiling smugly. You threw the cash you owned him at him. Lucky he caught it.

"Ugh..." You grunted. Storming towards your car. You angrily ripped the car door open and got in. slamming it shut. Angrily putting the keys into the ignition. Turning the car on. Putting the handbrake down. Pressing your foot down hard on the accelerator and speeding off. Glaring at him as you drove past him. Jax smirked. Finding your reaction amusing.

He knew he would get you in his bed, he just hoped he saw you again...

FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED!

WANT TO BE ADDED TO THIS SERIES? MESSAGE ME!

[franchisewars-blog]

WrestleMania 34 Predictions Challenge!

Here are the rules for this predictions challenge: 3 Points per correct title match prediction, 2 Points per correct non-title match prediction. The winner gets to pick the viewing material for the loser to discuss on next week’s episode.

Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Roman Reigns (Universal Championship)

Hopper: Roman Reigns, because they’ve telegraphed and spoiled this thing for over a year.❌

Condor: Roman Reigns❌

AJ Styles (c) vs. Shinsuke Nakamura (WWE Championship)

Hopper: Shinsuke Nakamura, so that Daniel Bryan can chase him for gold❌

Condor: Shinsuke Nakamura❌

Kurt Angle & Ronda Rousey vs. Triple H & Stephanie McMahon

Hopper: Rousey / Angle✅

Condor: Rousey / Angle✅

Charlotte Flair (c) vs. Asuka (Smackdown Women's Championship)

Hopper: Asuka, ‘cause the Streak.❌

Condor: Asuka❌

Daniel Bryan & Shane McMahon vs. Kevin Owens & Sami Zayn

Hopper: Bryan and Shane, with El Genericos arriving in the WWE soon after.✅

Condor: Kevin Owens / Sami Zayn❌

The Miz (c) vs. Seth Rollins vs. Finn Bálor (Intercontinental Championship)

Hopper: Finn Balor❌

Condor: Finn Bálor❌

Randy Orton (c) vs. Bobby Roode vs. Jinder Mahal vs. Rusev (United States Championship)

Hopper: Oh man, I can’t help myself! RUSEV DAY!❌

Condor: Randy Orton❌

The Bar (c) vs. Braun Strowman and ? (Raw Tag Team Championships)

Hopper: Braun Strowman (+ repackaged Bray Wyatt for bragging rights)✅

Condor: The Bar❌

Alexa Bliss (c) vs. Nia Jax (Raw Women's Championship)

Hopper: Nia Jax. It’d better be, at any rate. Ignore the temptation, Vince!✅

Condor: Nia Jax✅

Cedric Alexander vs. Mustafa Ali (Cruiserweight Championship)

Hopper: Cedric Alexander✅

Condor: Cedric Alexander✅

The Usos vs. The New Day vs. The Bludgeon Brothers (Smackdown Tag Team Championships)

Hopper: Bludgeon Brothers✅

Condor: Bludgeon Brothers✅

Women's Battle Royal

Hopper: Becky Lynch❌

Condor: Becky Lynch❌

The Andre the Giant Battle Royal

Hopper: Baron Corbin❌

Condor: Elias❌

EXTRA BONUS: John Cena vs.... Biker Taker, but only in a tease and brief brawl for next year.

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (8) - muddy coffee & supermarket cake

pairings: biker!dean ambrose x june (plus size black!oc) | biker!cody rhodes x black reader (fluff) | biker!roman reigns x black reader (mature/explicit) warnings: mentions of criminal activity. descriptions that imply stalking. story dialogue that implies suicide, but not from any of the in-universe characters, reader being a little needy and making selfish decisions? unsavory language concerning addiction (cigarettes) which isn't present much but is mentioned with a one off line. description/talks of reoccurring panic attacks. authors note: multiple pov's in this chapter and intro-ing new characters! some world building. this chapter might take a long, thorough read, which is a bit time consuming BUT i think, for whoever reads it, you'll be thoroughly satisfied by the end... i hope... HAPPY READING! word count: don't get me started (17k) tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @sortudademais

only at june's house, does this spooky, overworking buzz come. a dizziness. an undulation. like being caught up in the ripple of vigorously treaded water, but behind the eyes. the pull out before that tall, wavy, rush in, crashing over him in the morning. a float in his bones, in the body, his head drifting a ways away from him. from arms and legs and that grimy, nightly fearsome sense that sticks to him like thick summer air.

warmth covers deans face and his feet give an easy take to the floor boards. steps so light it's like he's hovering over. and fuck what a feeling it is. a feeling that yes, happens to only be a morning thing. a too bright summer daylight happening. gently giving a stir into a mug. having the type of patience and attention for such quiet work here that he teems with too much energy. almost like he can't hold the softness of it.

coffee thats not too light but not too dark either. an even brown with hints of sugar. because june likes it like this. likes the curtains peeled back to let the sunrise in. likes to nest under pillows and have her breakfast at her bedside. likes to wake up too damn early before her rush to leave the house because perhaps she'll cave under the pressure of the day if she just doesn't soak in that morning glow. 

the waft of the coffee curls up at him. blows in thick and homey. steams white over his bones till they ache from the weight of having to carry him up whole. brewing and lazying under the sunrise as it comes, a ritual he'd miss once upon a time to beat it entirely. a barely heard departure before the shutter of his car engine broke over the early morning day air. his walkings and his doings and his business better suited sunless. before june could ever have the chance to come from that sleep of hers.

but now he stays. stirs coffee filled mugs. bones and brains like feathers. high off that terribly spooky feeling that sweetens the blood just too much. makes everything sharp. the mint on his tongue. the emptiness in his belly. the break of light pass the window. that earthy coffee smell that pulls in strong. it's all just a little more here. the boldening of usual thin lines. a filling in, a filling over, till it's doubling to spill and flood and consume. only in the morning though, and only at june's house. 

"we playin house now?" 

june holds sleep in her voice well. so good that it makes dean shiver. like old, tired, almost too sad jazz. warm to him. cradling and soothening up against those dirty strong bits of resolve. an easy persuasion for him to come in further and further till he's setting down the cup of coffee and claiming her full soft cheeks instead. his lips trying to savor the life of this good sort of troublesome, spooky little whatever that rattles him whole. tongue unable to perform fast or deep enough, because this is june's house and dean can't work now, with the same ease and finesse that he uses on his bike when he's roaming about and doing club related business.

yeah, no, not on this street, in this house, where his precious little june stays. and she hates that name. precious. but he loves it. her body taking a smooth glide up and over the muscle of him till he's nestled under her and laying against the sheets. silently arrested. his fingers at her nape, running over short, tapered, coiled up hair, her touch curling into his chest. like carving into him to open him up wide. he groans, like he's content to rest here for sometime, moving and pushing against her till they lay parallel. pecking and licking and teasing at each other. 

her lips thick and gentle. meshing and pulling and the air that rolls out between them accented with bright thin sounding short caught up breaths. 

his chest does away, a hint of inconsistency. a beat that skips. fingers strong, curling into the warmth of her skin. her eyes so dark, they're near black, even when living amidst that spill in of shine from beyond the windows. eyes like the night, like the ether. 

dean nestles into her neck. nose running to get it's fill. something sweet with hints of spice. far too earthy to be wholly summer inspired. a groan lingering there as it escapes his throat. that swimming sensation behind the eyes still rocking with great force. lulling and caressing and coaxing him in. his tongue slipping over his lips. athirst. 

his teeth nip into her neck. fingers finding a home in the bend of her knee till they shift one of her thighs to fall over his waist. "this is premium domesticity", a mumbling sort of purr. oozing off the tongue like it'd been aching to leave him. mouth pursing to litter affection along that column of skin. "white picket fence, house on the prairie shit". reaching over to grab the mug he'd spent too much time stirring. because june hates when those bits of sugar remain at the bottom with the coffee dregs. her round cheeks grimacing, mouth full of unmixed sugar and coffee sediments. and dean doesn’t like the unhappiness of that expression. the way it casted over to rule with an unsavory air about everything. "two sugars and a splash of cream". 

june sits up from under his hard body. the sheets joining her to cover well as she rests against the headboard. eyes like obsidian. sharp and with a means, if hot enough, to cost him terrible ruin. cutting over him without delay. "this is a ploy", she gives. a smile thats all knowing. wry and anticipatory. "i'm gettin buttered up for grade A fuckery". 

he chuckles. palms running over thighs under the sheets. "fuckery requires plots and schemes and a whole lot of trouble honey. i got a maybe simple question for you at best, but nothing worth that look you givin me".

the air stutters. that dreamlike glow it'd helplessly soaked itself in dimming abruptly. june blinking. like the waking up from a daze. a blank destructive stare over the rim of her mug. like she's just gotten a mouthful of grainy sugar and those coarse grounded sediments. the porcelain of the cup clacking hard against the nightstand as it rests, a hardening of the eyes. this grand assessment. "so what?", she starts. a flare in her nose before it settles. "you couldn't inquire about nefarious little bullshit before sticking your dick in me last night?..." her fists balling and retracting. an edge to the voice, even in the permanence of its softness, these jagged corners about her words, shaped in a way as to mimic the dangerous work of shards of glass. a cutting sort of quality that pierces better than it should. better now than it would've some months ago. the natural dregs of him muddying her morning. something she has never been too fond of. "...and again after i woke up earlier?" the sheets ruffling, flipping over at the expense of such sudden anger. 

and dean is lost. dizzy still, like that ugly forceful jolt the body takes after an abrupt wake up. because they'd had a delicate passion before early daylight. something tender and skin burning. but this was not that. this was the beginning of its end. that harsh final moment of a dream, knowing the body will break and become alive again out of all that made up, distorted greatness. june's body naked now as she plucks up a robe to cover herself. giving the loose belt of it a mean, swift knot tie. 

"that's not what—"

"thats some wierdo shit ambrose", she cuts. a snarl of words that itch his skin in a bad way. and then they take on a smallness. like the low affections of their existence is too much to say loudly. "that doesn't feel gross to you? like—like a transaction?"

dean's palms grow damp. a slipping off sensation. the morning light stabbing his eyes. that lulling little swim behind them calming to a terrible stillness. like the receding pull in before a storm. "well...thats just wrong...", dazed and his words failing to meet strong. confusion forming still. because they were fine. wrapped up in each other and such. "thats not what this is". 

june scoffs. shimmy's into a pair of slacks that form over her legs just right. refusing to meet his eye line. the stark feel of something vicious in his chest, a pang that works so well he might bruise from it. going on with a greatness that he refuses to acknowledge the full brunt of it. 

"you have impeccable fuckin timing then", her voice gritting out. cold and loud. a steel impact.

and then comes a deep wavering, like the silent, disruptive ask for a reprieve. and this is no sign of some humble defeat no, but a tactical retreat meant to benefit them both. a fluid lift up off the bed to garner more space. to breathe in full, till the air encompasses his lungs enough to settle nerves. counted breaths. maintenance of a once piss poor disposition at the arrival of—of inadequate communication. the shock of her voice, the pitch and the height of it, jostling his belly. cold eyes a terrible opposition to how cute and full her cheeks are. but this abrupt elevation does him a shitty bout of violence. harsh bellows and mean crackling smacks against wood dirtying his ears. his fathers older brother, making it everyone's business to know of his wrath. memory working cruel. 

"hey", dean gives. eyes flitting up. the semblance of a warning. "lets keep it at an eight AM volume alright?"

"yeah keep your bullshit at an eight AM volume". 

"june...", dean sighs. restless in the space he's created. a cautious stepping up into her semi-walkable closet. fingers reaching for a touch. for that tender slip of skin that makes him feel high. 

she shifts hard. snatches herself away. "don't touch me". 

dean is grateful, he hasn't eaten yet. belly whirling about ridiculously. something akin to fear silhouetting already dark eyes. the hesitation of it cruel all on its lonesome. like she's unsure if her denial is sin. a punishable offense. the way his body holds up the space of the door, looking to envelope without any initial regard. like that way of being is something of a second nature to him. sewn into fabric. but dean steps back. releases the tension without much delay. closing in and crossing up his arms for good measure. "listen", watching her button up a collared shirt. "i'm not checkin in on you weekly and layin it on you raw just to tease little bits of information from you. i could do that with anybody that calls themselves a lawyer. especially greedy ones looking for a little extra cash—" 

"but you just implied—" 

"i misspoke, alright? i don't got the way you take coffee committed to memory cause i'm lookin to gain something. it's cause i like remembering stuff about you". 

june does that blinking she likes to do. assessing and reassessing. blank stares and wordless little evaluations. 

"look, lets drop it. i don't have shit to ask, ok?" 

"ok", she relents. meeting his eyes wearily. 

"can i touch you now?"

hesitation plays. performs in the fingers as she fiddles with the buttons of her shirt. mulling over the request. testing the weight of his desire to be near her—dean is sure—to see just how true it feels to her. something she does often. a short shuffle up to his hard body. peering up just under her feathery lashes. a gentle resignation she won't rest in for too much longer before her uncertainties take her again. because it's in june's job description to question and nitpick and pry and pull. but the tug of her lip under teeth is evidence enough of some wiggle room being granted in his favor. a chance to remedy. her own release of tension made despite poorly placed words and odd timing. 

"yes". 

stalling isn't dean's game. never has been really. the boots he wears too thick and loud to ever hesitate on anything. the vice president's patch on his kutte silver and too prideful about how long the stitching has lasted. a forever condition made by that earned worn leather, so surely theres nothing stopping him here. no hindrances in his spirit or ill skittish feelings that leave him unable. palming june's cheeks to kiss her firmly. lips meshing quick to dampen all that unwanted, shaky, shilly energy binding her up stiff. and when she's melting into him again, albeit slow and half committed, fingers running up his arms and her breathes short and pitchy, he peaks his tongue out for good measure. lures her into the beginnings of a dazing distraction. the wet slight of it along her full lips, drawing up a moan from her throat that sinks into him cunningly. like it's been formed and made as a counter to his own ministrations. her palm sweeping low. over the end his hard belly, just near his-

"how you gettin to the office?", thumbs over her cheeks. 

she pushes. slots her lips over again for delicate takes of affection. pats his arm dearly, a smirk playing as she steps back into her closet for shoes. "you're taking me. call it premium domesticity". 

"touche". 

but this all feels too easily done away with. surely the other shoe will drop soon. she'll rear back with something else. proclaim him guilty again of poorly chosen words given at terrible times. revoke her affections. point to the leather hanging over her dresser messily . cast a darker hatred over it. 

...nefarious little bullshit... as she so nicely put it. 

"hey", dean calls. that sensation in his hands again. a grief the palm feels after something has been dropped from the safety of it. "i'm sorry".

she hums. consideration. packing an accordion briefcase., with documents and slimmer folders. "it's noted". 

he dresses. a quiet efficiency. those harsh rays of daylight falling away to hide behind the build of the house to give his eyes neither that stabbing pain or the accentuation of some swimming daze of a dream. it leaned into neither extreme, but suffered the room to live as it did any other. with a normalcy. like the coming together to meet in the middle, the compromise of violence and a dream. because that's all there is to anything. violence and dreams. 

he plucks his leather off her dresser to put it on. the material heavy and singing in that odd scrunchy way that only leather can. eager maybe to fill the air. to attempt to conform to it, or have it be conformed to. who knows? 

"i'll be in the car when you're ready".

and remember? stalling isn't deans game. boots too thick and heavy and dark and worn and terrible to be anything else but sure footed. so why does his step falter, making to leave the bedroom, the house, foot hitching like it means to stop and retrace. waiting for another word of something to lighten the damn air. just a little something to re-brighten the room. restore it to former glory. an unrests of movements that usually live with a predetermined motivation. and he hates this. a calculated silence isn't it? punishment. torture. for letting the night in during daytime. for not keeping his boots and his leather far enough away from her bed. 

the summer breeze is as thick and mean and chill-less and disgusting as its ever been. the crown of his head performing dramatic like it's already been hit. like the other shoe has already dropped. something about his chest squeezing so odd, enough that it's troubling. the car air blowing hot and gross as he waits for it to cool. that inconsistency again. a skip near where his heart beats before its plummeting sorely into his belly. laying at the base there, spreading about to undo him messily. 'it's noted'. what the hell does that even mean? like she'd taken his sincerity and scribbled it on some feeble piece of loose leaf. words in the breezeless wind. the summer heat singeing the lined paper till it's a palms worth of billowing ash. 

...nefarious little bullshit...

..."its noted"...

he wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. feel it bluntly till that sweet swimming sensation is given back to him. 

the passenger door opens. a settling in accompanied with a long, thought filled sigh. like she's prepped for the ride. prepped to deal with the silence she's so graciously ushered in to sit between them. 

"what was your question?" 

dean can see the brown in june's eyes. curiosity fragile and warm. and he rather her eyes be darker, blacker like in the safety of her house. an unmitigated replica of nighttime. piercing him whole and sharp and without delay. but not this, an earthier blooming of a softer color. he doesn't like it.

"june...", like a plea to stop. 

"just ask". 

his throat thick and the words forming solid, almost cruel like. which is odd, silly even. because didn't there always live an intention to pick her brain? to ask? to meet at that middle place of a sweet dream and the reality of some always alive, waiting in the shadows violence. dwell in it for a moment before the easy retreat into a too beautiful thing. her lips and her skin and her hair and the smooth aching take of her words over his skin. a simple question that she'd answer without wait or overthought. a done up finely concession. dean huffs. his thumb and pointer squeezing to pull at his nose. a reprieve frustratingly sought after, in vain. 

he'll settle for a minimal thing. broach with a less worked curiosity. 

"had a car come by the shop recently. i think the plates on it might've been a clone. know anything about that?' 

she sighs. words cautious as they give. "i've heard some things, a few cases...", her lip skating to pull from under her teeth. mulling over her phrasings. "...charges for speeding, drag racing, red light runs. stuff like that...and then just clients disputing the fines, fighting charges...". her fingers pulling to press a scratch into the roots of her hair. brows pulling. everything of her unsure. a display dean's yet to witness till now. "...the cloning stuff, it's not new but, it's a bit more dialed for sure".

"ok". 

finally the air in his car blows cooler. rushes out hard and fierce. like it means to ache him quickly. 

"why'd you wanna know?" 

june's eyes are not so dark like obsidian. beautiful still but no, they are not colored with a nighttime darkness. june's eyes are burnt umber brown. an old, earthy, fine, warmth. it would be terrible wouldn't it? to ruin them. 

"don't make me lie to you". 

suffocating. roman is got-damn suffocating. a terrible issue since you were sixteen. hitches in your breath and small tremblings under the skin. and yeah, it was petulant then. a little gross in how full of adolescence it was. excusable behavior though for a young girl who'd never been touched by the crazed, racy desire of a boy. but this? this is stupid. that tight, airless feeling in the lungs still, after so much time. stifled and choking and helpless and weak. his mouth soft and his hands too strong for the body to do anything within them but succumb to that exacting tug and give. and yes, you were exhausted from work, delirious even, but it didn't mean you were supposed to like it. like the lazy slip of his tongue and the grip of his palm at your neck. his groaning and the flex of taut muscle under the pull over of your nails. teeth sinking into your lip to prick mean, like he was forcing you to remember him, to acknowledge the weight of his existence. his body tall and wide and fastening you to the wall and—

it's all your father's fault really. because kendrick greggs was a picture taker. kept memories stilled forever like any enthusiasts of a thing would. aimless photos of wheels and fenders and chrome, till the interest grew. his camera everywhere, clicking at everything. at his biker brothers, and his wife. so it didn't take long, for his lingering eye to catch you wrapped up in the arms of a boy amidst the reveal of the viewfinder. but not just any boy. roman and his fingers filled with finesse. mouth inching close and sneaky and faint. like that lewd twist of a kiss would give up everything. 

"don't pussyfoot around with my kid. if you gon kiss her, then do that shit with some balls!"

he'd made a fucking spectacle of it. the both of them did. KG smiling mischievously behind that metal little camera, clicking away as roman smothered your mouth whole. stealing the air from your lungs and humming. 

and he hadn't said much then after. your nerves split raw at the seams, waiting for him to draw up ballistic, because you'd heard the menace he could fall into. could feel even the darkness of it settling in, roman pressed into your body waiting just the same. but your father had only ever tugged a smile onto his mouth. something small. an acknowledgment that lived minimally. enough for recognition and nothing more. 

"i'll allow it", he'd given. turning to leave you be. 

it was enough for roman then. at seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty and then at twenty one. it was enough for him to grow eager in how breathless he left you. and the time, the distance, did nothing to change it. 

it's a haunting really. something like a repossession. a mixture of both. the way he'd held at your nape, breaths cascading, like he'd meant to drape himself over you. it'd only been a week, but the impression of it stuck. nestled it's way to live in already terrible dreams. his presence troubling your sleep, rattling an imagination with a penchant for disturbed things. because the busyness of new york had done well in drowning out the older, terrible, unspeakable things. things riddled with blood and bones and dust that not many knew about. but your old house and the hot florida air and roman's everything, have all managed to fall into one another with this painful compliance of tearing you apart. a violent undoing that leaves you to break awake, sweaty and looking for air. 

you're sure, your heart would trouble itself with a dramatic rupturing if it were any weaker. 

and your phone bursts alive. a blaring little ringer and it does your head in. the morning's here at your parents' old house, too quiet. pin drops like the awful droning tumble down of an avalanche. 

but the number is unknown. (850) 201-7794. "hello", your throat dry. scrapping together to give weakly into the phone. a heavy breath plays. like it only means to listen. like it's waiting. "hello? who is this?" a growl gives. performing in the background. the snarl of a dog maybe. surely. disgusting, curt, barks echoing to punch into your ear. 

"who the fuck is this?", you grit. a small shake in your hands. a weariness from poor sleep and the disturb of this.

movement goes over the line. those heavy, painstaking breaths again, before an abrupt, nervy "fuck", is left, the dread of an accident already done, just before the drop of the call. leaving you alone to deal with the aching swim in your gut. a war of a headache at the forefront of your skull. pain just behind the eyes. 

8:22 AM. all this bullshit at 8:22 AM. 

a tired breath blows. surrendering to that sluggish, restless nag coddling your bones. a grogginess that leaves the eyes dazed and your hands slow. reaching for your phone again to tap at the screen. leaving it to ring in your ear. bottom lip tucking under your teeth as you wait for him to answer. and it's new york all over again. slipped under the cool of those too grey sheets, laying up in the bed of a cramped apartment amidst the dreary, rainy, bustle of the city. the drone of it lulling you in and out of a hazy sort of sleep. flashes of dreams but nothing sticking well enough to settle with a true definition. the disjointed blur of something awful, taunting. your hands shaky and unsure, the drag of your phone against the bedside table, a terrible fog behind the eyes as you make to call. looking for that thing, for him. for the sweetness in his tone and the warmth of whatever words would come with it. 

but that was then, the distance making it hard to reach him. clinging only to his voice, begging for it to settle your bones, and the aching cold growing over them.

now though, now is something else. something a ways more liminal and undefined. 

"yes?" a tired, deep drawl to his voice. skating delicate, seeping in, unfurling hot. 

you hum, nestling into it. "did i wake you?"

he's groaning in your ear and shifting about, the rasp of it taking you in whole. a small smile pulling even as you tug your lips still with your teeth. imagining all that taut muscle moving about. pale gold and herculean. the shine in his sky blue eyes and the slipping take he gives with his tongue over his teeth—

"i gotta get up anyways, s'fine", his throat clearing. trying to get away from the sleepiness of it. "you alright?" 

"yeah...", reaching over to the nightstand for a loose torn piece of paper and a pen. "yeah, i'm good", writing out that number from moments ago. "can you stop by before headin' in today?" 

"what's wrong?" 

a sudden shift into readiness, into urgency, this endearing little work that makes the nasty remnants of sleep and terrible dreams less awful and a little further away. phone tucked in to hold at your ear. rising up to throw on thin shorts and a loose—just on the precipice of too worn—flannel. tucking that piece of paper into the chest pocket. 

"might just wanna see you. is that allowed?", you play. 

"you'll see me then". 

the call drops comfortably. the air less thick. moveable, though remaining in it still is that almost silence. a just barely perceptible chord. this dull, bass filled, strumming hum. the compilation of everything far and deep and odd and unknown. the graceful taunting performance of a foreboding thing. or maybe you just need coffee. a bit of fresh air. some sun. the quiet of the house too quiet. from your bed to the bathroom, and then from your bathroom to the kitchen, a heavy stillness that is just too surrounding to live well enough in without the self given threat of going mad. but that's always been a condition of the house. the creaky hardwood floors and the walls and the air forcing you to fill in it's silence. to save it from itself. from the emptiness given to it. 

a light, sweet, melodic tune plays, setting an old record onto the player your father kept in the living room. 

...the deep rumble of his humming, taking against the air feather like. soothing and tender. his body sitting leisure on the floor, tall and upright against the couch. your mother tucked into his side. their fingers folded, one into the other...

fifteen and wondering then, slowly creaking in from that long stretching hallway, to watch them sit in silence. the florida nights not nearly as hot as they are now. the house smelling like lavender and leather and little bits of tobacco. sticking so well into the build of the walls that it still lives here. like a stain of fragranced oil on the skin.

there are remnants of it still. that lavender and leather and tobacco. earthy and old and thick in the nose. filling up the lungs like the rising in of a well. seeping into the cracks till its soaked to the core of that strong brick. and this is what that light, gentle work of the melody does faithfully. it fills in. brings life to dead things. folds over to embrace with tender touches, humming a soothing, ache-less song. carries over in the air like a breeze with sure directions. 

and kendrick greggs loved music. loved his wife, his daughter and his motorcycle. but God did he love his coffee. would pour out great, disturbing heaps of it to be filtered into water. a muddy, thickness to it. the smell filling up the house whenever he decided it was a good time to return. his palms holding the cup strong, despite the scars from old wounds over his knuckles painting the skin and etching in permanent like white inked tattoos. his silver rings clinking nearly everything they touched. leather over his shoulders like it'd been sown into the skin beneath it. the grays in his beard more white than gray and his eyes a mahogany brown that lives richly enough still to haunt your dreams. sipping his coffee and staring over everything. his kitchen and his couch and the walls cluttered with too many pictures. the patterns of the floor boards and his old record player and your face. 

sipping muddy, sugarless coffee, his eyes forlorn, prickling your skin.

"...you look like your mother...", he'd said. "...and i ain't all that pretty so...that's a good thing...".

you'd smiled tight lipped. sipped muddy coffee with him and dealt with the silence together. formed a thousand questions and had them die on the tongue before you ever mustered the courage to ask. because if you looked like her, enough for his sorrows to drown him whenever he looked up to meet you at the eyes, then it was true, you'd wind up leaving like her too right?  

the percolator rumbles to life. begins that process of making too strong, muddy coffee. the knob of the front door twisting as the lock clicks. heavy boots trying not to be too heavy. 

"it's me!"

the domesticity of it all runs a skitter under the skin. a comfortable feeling. 

"kitchen!", you throw over your shoulder. pulling draws to bring pots and pans up onto the stove. 

his approach is cautious and gentle. rounding the island as you maneuver about. his hand giving a squeeze to your arm, "good morning", before he's pecking your cheek gingerly. the touch of it safe and quick and not enough. 

"i got up, so i guess so right?" 

you wrangle a number of things from the fridge to set them aside. a line of a shiver drawing small down your back. those sky blue eyes trailing, and digging softly, looking. you can feel them working. cody's voice less horse from sleep but sure moving still. tired and sweet and low. 

"talk to me". 

"s'nothing...", trying to abate the mess of the morning. the aches and the shivers from unknown things. "...just a bad dream"..., turning to face him. "...it kinda fucked me up a bit but i'm good".   

"you shouldn't sleep in that room", his arms folding up to cross. a regard filled with concern. too much concern. "my mother sleeps in their bed still, says she can feel him at night, can smell him. thats not easy to deal with". 

"m'still cleaning up the others...", eyes squeezing tight. your hands slipping over your eyes and cheeks, as if it'd wipe away the full, overwhelming warmth stored there. "...it's a whole process". 

"cause you're refusing help, my help". 

you sigh. "i need to do it for me cody". 

"i hear you". 

and this, here with cody, is different. something like the deep pull of an inhale. tired muscles, tired still, but that faithful pulse of an ache, wavers. conceding for a moment. a strong, fine, tenderness that can only be made in the stillness of this liminal space. all the words of sharply defined things left to be nestled on the tongue and at the back of the throat. lodged for safe keeping. waiting to live and be spared from their silence, even if they're made to leave a little sputtered and awkward and graceless. and of course it's no different from that terrible suffocation, just as adolescent feeling under the skin. a frustration there too. like maybe you should have more finesse about this. not be so hesitant and artless. 

you reach for him. pulling at the fold of his arms, bringing him in to close up all that dead, needless space between the two of you. "be closer". 

he leans a hand against the counter, peaks of tattoos drawing up the arm, exposed by the scrunch up of his sleeves. fingers adorned with silver rings that used to be his fathers. his body leaning in so well that it fills the air in your nose with the spiced smell of his leather. his other hand pulling up under the baggy fall of your flannel, thumb nestling where the line of your spine ends. a shiver and a hum playing as you move to cradle his face. closer till he's nudging his nose and skimming his mouth to tease. his jaw cutting sharp, but the skin soft. your touch playing in delicate circles. shuddered little breaths that grow sore in wanting a better fullness. 

the splay of his palm, pushes in. brings you to flush against him. "m'following your lead on this. i don't wanna overstep and it takes us somewhere we don't want to be". 

you smile. "such a gentleman". 

"so i've been told", words licking into your mouth with the slight of his tongue over his lips. taking a small little taste before he's on you and pulling tender. warm lingering kisses that leave an essence of mint in your mouth. his throat humming again, deeper this time. not like contemplation, no, like satisfaction. like the enjoyment of this is too much for words and all his body can spare is the buzz and rumble of that noise. 

and then he sweeps in wet. teasing like. a sharp, fierce, excitement. lapping at your tongue in a thick, languid fashion that forces you to inhale. to breathe before pushing in for more. a purr bleeding hot and easy from your chest till it's alive in your fingers. clutching at the silver skull buckle of his pants. nipping his mouth and smiling delirious into his touches as his palm lowers and presses in. long fingers curling in at the fat of your ass. smothering there then with a kneading touch that makes you pulse between your thighs. 

another deep breath as you part to look at him. fingers having traveled into his hair. holding him so you can see that hot glimmer amidst all the soft blue in his eyes. "the coffee is almost done. you should stay for breakfast". 

"can't". apologetic. a short kiss to your mouth. then to the corner of it. "gotta be in on time. a lot of stuff to handle today".

your touch plays persuasive, drawing down his arms till you're guiding him to hold you closer. impossibly closer. hugging him in.

"you're handlin now". 

he chuckles. perfect teeth and all. a thumb of his raising to catch at your lip. your lips tender and swollen some. "i'd love to take care of you, i really would, but i can't stay that long". 

you kiss his thumb. short lingering little pecks. "that long huh?"

"it's been a while, a lot of ground to cover. i need time". 

"good to know". 

he sweeps your cheek. a gentle little strum along your face before it's meeting his other hand to rest comfortable at your hips. making a home out of the heat teeming there. "am i seeing you later?" 

a dramatic breath huffs, the evenings events forming back into a shapely remembrance. not just any welcome home celebration, but a bloodline welcome home celebration. the night bound to hold some fuckery to it somewhere.  dropping your head into his chest. "i don't have a choice", you grumble. "i was told to make a cake. m'being reeled in by naomi for hospitality duties". 

cody chuckles. rubs up your back. consoling. "like you never left. this is a good thing".

"is it?"

he takes your face. cradles it firm. forces your attention on him. "yes. stop worrying". stepping away to walk heavily towards the door. "walk me out". 

you follow. that spiced leather smell trailing in towards you still as you step behind him. the slim take of an emptiness growing in your belly, like a slow paced simmer, where the warmth had decided earlier to bloom and spread at the touch of his fingers and mouth. need. it's need. the same need that worked and curled in your voice with bits of persuasion to get him to stay. to get him keeping his mouth on you and his touch as firm as it was. the same need that fluttered your chest to live amidst the heavier morning aches and pains. that twisting in your belly after breaking awake hard and the unease beneath your skin after the strangeness of  that phone call—

"wait", pulling his arm to stop. his body standing tall in the doorway. "forgot to give you this". pulling out that torn piece of paper from the chest pocket of your flannel. giving it for him to take. "got a call from this number earlier...it was before you got here. something felt off, weird. look into it maybe?"

his eyes don't break from the paper. and he doesn't move in the doorway. giving short hard blinks. like he's gathered his thoughts away from you to be else where.  

"cody, is everything—"

he moves. quick. abrupt. out of his head. a firm peck at your cheek before he's stepping down swiftly to his bike just in front your house. "i'll see you later". he mounts. swings his leg over and secures his helmet. that playful, teasing air to him gone away so well, it's like it never was there. "call if you need anything".

the engine roars to life, a rumble forward till he's gone and disappearing down the street. 

sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, jitters all up in your skin from the slyness of him. that breathlessness of yours and those sweet bouts of trembling, nearly half his height way back when, just where his chest puffed out strong, but always having to look up to take him in. little flinches away but tugs to his belt loop to bring him closer too. hitches in your breath before that melt into the softest sound. a drawling, helpless little moan of a thing. like your needs and wants were playing too well against each other, warring and laying waste enough till there was nothing much left for you to do but grow weak and breathy for him. all the noises charming his ears. and it's natural isn't it? eventually growing out of all that unruliness in the body. being able to take the force of him without losing yourself. hell, by twenty four, trembly and overworked or not, you became real good about accepting the finesse of things. him handling your inner thighs and the hot whispers in your ears. his tongue pressing into your neck and his teeth pulling over your lips. the weight of him blanketing over. sounds he'd never heard before, sounds he fought to remember. 

but no, the unruliness of it all, that part of you is still there. a permanent housing that makes his chest swell. 

there in the bathroom of the clubhouse, grazed and bleeding and depleted of a long standing control, roman had done a not smart thing. throwing away nearly a decades worth of resolve and patience for ancient feelings. like the buzz of a taste after being faithfully cold sober. that slipping chill that courses the body. a too friendly reacquaintance.  

it was one of the dumbest things he'd done in a long time.

"can we see each other later?" a working there in giana's voice and in the run of her fingertips. gentle circling motions that attempt to root up a deeper intimacy. a leg thrown over his waist and her lips laying to kiss him. fingering with his beard and snuggling in closer every second. all this delicate allure draping over her, a thin veil to cover that growing necessity for other things. hooded eyes trying to claim him to a focus. a reel in from those far away thoughts—you— that plague him brutally in the mornings. "we could have a part two of last night", purring smooth and slipping over to straddle him more. her warm legs spread over him and her lips taking him in for another kiss.  

sharp quick flicks of tongue. exacting. like with the make of it comes too much method. too much forethought. like maybe it's all meant to please him. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche. 

your face, the taste of your mouth, and the way your tired body surrendered with a faithfulness in the small corner of that clubhouse bathroom. memory sore as it corralled back into place under your skin. one image and then another, till he could hear and feel you too. his belly tight and his breath shuddering in that disgusting way. stuttered and weak and all consumed. loud and messy and lax all over. subdued and—

it was dumb. caught up in whatever throes of passion then, just last night, with a beautiful woman, with giana, but thinking about another. his everything haunted and possessed. crawling from the ground these undead things, pulling his muscles up taut to yank and prop and puppet him. his tongue curling in giana's mouth to find that taste again. holding her tight, and moving and doing, and these dirty little whispers in her ear, just the way you always liked it. a secret just for the two of you alone. shivering delicate in his hands so good, so sweet, that he'd kiss you sloppily from the drunkenness that came from him being all wrapped up in your embraces. nails in his skin, just deep enough there to make him groan and shake—God!— 

roman shifts, slips out of the sheets. the bed too hot and his chest racing. blood pulsing about the lightening draw of his veins, thundering hard there after. 

he slips on a pair of sweats, baggy and black and sitting low at his hips. fingers combing and tying his hair up into a knot. something untidy and loose and rushed, much like that curling feeling beneath his skin. eyes else where. trailing and cutting up and away and skating along but never meeting giana really. like coasting the borders of the bed where she lays still. beneath fluffy sheets all content and comfortable. 

his bedroom connects to a bathroom. flicking the light on quick. everything in his body, pressing out with a particular speed. that leather over his shoulders, resting over thick and black and absorbing, can't come fast enough. the rushing wind from the drive of his bike and the blurs of lights and bodies along the street. 

water over his face. a splash that chills the heat over his cheeks. his routine as efficient as it is hasty. like the time in the day here, in this bed-connected-bathroom, is passing too slow, forcing his bones to form over with metal. weighty and tougher to carry. a swirling in his belly, mint on his tongue and his eyes fresher now. is it horrible to leave her here like this? to deny her requests for something a little more? not extra, no, but more? padding back into the bedroom for a t-shirt. white and bright against the sun. plain but contrasty against that old, worn, black, grimy leather. 

this ugly little stomach feeling, it isn't new. no it's old. has upturned, pretty little defying eyes and a sweet mouth made just for him to feel. it presses his gut and roughs his nerves hard. almost like it's daring him to do something about the way it's living again to oppose him and all the progress he's made living without it. and so be it then. so fucking be it. 

"there's a thing happenin' tonight...", he gives. words working against that continuous twist in his belly, but against the other hesitancies as well. a war with many armies. "...one of our guys just got out, s'like a little welcome home party...", black jeans pulling up to rough along his legs. eyes flicking to giana in the large dresser mirror before he's moving and skating away from that lingering regard again. "...i'll be tied up there for the night if you wanna—but...", stopping hard to break course, because she doesn't want that. it's not really in the bounds of their situation, "...chillin with the club ain't all that appealin to you—"

"should i bring something?" 

no one ever really wins, when the war has too many armies do they? and if all the battles are within him—the work of keeping you undone from him, from his blood and his brain, something like the greatest brass shield and keeping giana's curiosities from lingering too far into a dangerous territory, like the finest double edged sword—housed in his belly so that it tatters him raw, then he becomes the only one to triumph and be defeated yes? right? a win and a loss just the same. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche.

"a dessert or whatever...", looping his belt through his jeans. the buckle of it a snake. the head eating the tail. the silver metal of it so cold it tingles. looking to her finally. expectant, hooded eyes. "...nothin over the top, and no alcohol. punk doesn't drink". 

"punk?" 

and this is it no? the product of their agreement. a situation. because her eyes always slid over his leather with bits of apathy. flinching in his hold when he touched her with rings decorating his fingers. never remembering the names of his street brothers and cringing at the sweet nasty song of his bike engine. shuffling up to his door step only after the sun had set and leaving just before it rose up. there was never reason to know anything about anything. so yes, this was the product of a pre-determined wish. something she now so suddenly wants to break. to overcome and reset for whatever reason. 

roman sighs. a slight bristling effect in his shoulders. "thats what we call him". 

"oh..", eyes wide. a new understanding. settling into it before that full acceptance. "..uh, ok". 

and he waits after that. sipping coffee with a terrible sensation in his palms, in the fingers they stretch to, holding a mug. fully dressed and his feet begging for the mercy of leaving. for a reprieve. for fresh air and the way his bike cuts through it. waiting for her to ready herself. waiting for giana to leave. but it seems all her maneuvers vie for some form of normalcy. for an air that only settles comfortable with slow sips of morning coffee and talks about the weather. little pan sizzling pops and the steeping in of a heavy hot aroma that clues into the greatest breakfast. but this was not that. could not be that. and damn it, she'd agreed it'd never get there didn't she? so what was this? her lingering? her attitude at the funeral. a little brazen and curious then too.

when giana does go, she parts with a kiss. presses and holds at his mouth dearly. like his mother would his father. a tight look over him like an attempt to keep him hostage. some delicate arresting that never really takes him completely. 

and it irks him. he should want this shouldn't he? move onto something new and let those old failures be? 

the ride to the clubhouse isn't as comforting as he'd hoped it'd be. the air hot, always hot, but it seems that the mugginess of it all just presses into him so that it dirties everything. muddying up already terrible nerves. like that awful, grainy taste of the dregs and sediments left over at the base of good coffee. the goodness of it no longer mattering, because all thats there, sticking to tongue and teeth, are the loose, earthy bits. 

that slipping off sensation living in his palms still. like the dropping of some fragile thing is soon to come. looming to tease with a vicious smile. it flutters his skin when he handles the bars of his bike, hot wind zipping over, and when he bends the corner to enter the clubhouse lot, and even now, never leaving, as he moves to dismount.

and he shuffles up to hard, overworked, wooden steps. the face of the clubhouse like a porch. painted a black once that looks more gray now. a shabby, distressed, unreliable looking thing of a build to the eyes. an outward deception. but that seems to be the beauty of it. the way the wood and the work of it have all managed to survive in spite of. a consistency not known to many, not even to the most faithful of men. but it doesn't do much to help roman. no it makes that terrible grief in his hands worse. 

because it was sure to happen then right? all that beautiful rich color of control and command will wither and distress into a graying one day wouldn't it? ease out of his hands and crash into a sharp breaking. 

the wooden boards of the porch creek. roman caught out of his daze to find cody standing in the corner. his eyes facing out just opposite of where roman is, staring out somewhere far. here but not really. leaning against the banister and his cheeks hallowing to pull from the burn of a cigarette. 

the smell of it carrying over too well, roman stepping up the porch till he's just in front the double doors of the clubhouse. the acrid twist of it, thick in his nose and ugly feeling in the lungs. a grimace tainting his lips, his face, but not from the smell, no. it's from the way cody inhales the plume of smoke. the way his teeth clench to pull it back into himself. unrestrained and needful. like he's looking for a full consumption of it. that slip in roman's fingers again, like he's losing. because this is not such an unusual thing, but old things never are. habits and copings dying so hard they only really lose breath for sometime before reaching up again to feel the fresh air. yeah, roman has seen his before. stood in front the terrible reflection of this mirror. 

"i thought that was done?", roman gives. voice cutting hot, thick, air. 

cody turns. sighs. blue, far away, eyes coming back to the safety of this off-colored clubhouse. taking in the burning end of the cigarette before looking up to roman, "it is. just needed...y'know...something to carry me over till later". 

"you sound like an addict", roman cuts. annoyed because the anger becomes real in his belly now. because wasn't this over a long time ago? a fire snuffed out at it's core. "stomp it out. eat something", he roughs. trailing in with heavy thuds of his heel toe. the sound along the floors like a wordless call. like a command to move and do under the eye of his will. and it happened, as it always does. the guys all falling in behind him, wordless or loud or somewhere in between, till the double doors of the church push to their limits, accommodating that great big swell of men. 

the table still a polished perfection, ageless in that way really. the image of a snake carved at the heart of it. deep moving grooves and ridges that make the image of the soul of the clubhouse. 

the ouroboros. the head and the tail. the beginning and the end. one taken into the other to complete a never ending circle. 

roman sits at the head of the table. slips the handle of the gavel in his palm. the shine of it eternal. his wrist giving an upturn before it lays to knock the wood into the sounding block. a hard thwack! that silences the room. a call to order. 

"first order of business, before we get into all the ...extracurriculars...", he starts. eyes falling on him expectant. always expectant. "...we had a brother come out the cage yesterday...", the room erupting with a hasty excitement. fists banging the table and deep, doggish hoots. "...so if you gotta show up later filled with bullet holes and half yah dick in hand then thats what it is, but ya'll better show up. i need to be seein' all of ya'll there...", tone as meaningful as it is serious. "...punk did five for us, so we can take a night off from the shelf—"

the room breaks with a chorus of groans. childish little rumblings. teeth sucks and "boo's", thrown in the air. a semblance of a smile slipping onto roman's lips at the way they mock and scoff. 

punk's ideals were always a little more controversially charged than some others. a faithful way about him when it came to living his life completely dry one hundred percent of the time. 

those firsts taste for most of them, of whiskey or rum or tequila or vodka, as young boys woefully playing as men, like a baby's first ride atop a bicycle. 

"..you killin' me here uce...", jey drags. 

"...no bullshit...", jimmy chimes. 

dean scoffs, laughs, a mixture of both really. "cold sober and listenin' to seth whine about a bullet lodged up his ass for the tenth time this week like it's a day old IUD...", he jokes, fingers at his temple like a gun to pull the trigger. "...mine as well be showin' up with half my dick in hand. could give the people a real show, somethin' to remember".

"only half?...", seth rasps. a wicked sort of smile playing. "...figured you be dickless by now, the way june's got that shit choked up in a vice grip, you're givin' all the beta's with real commitment to the cause a bad name". 

the room "Ooo's". chuckles and grins spread about everywhere. dean flipping seth off before directing his attention back to roman. 

"speakin of june, if this issue we got is real, cloned plates and all, then it's not the first case of it". 

roman's jaw clenches slow. a pressing in that lives to stress that meddling skate beneath his skin. "what'd she say?" 

dean slouches, settling into the creaky wood of his chair. "s'alot of fraudulent games being played...of the vehicular variety of course. spooky petty stuff though", his hand smoothening over the reddish color of his beard, "red light runs, drag racin', etcetera. mostly with ghost cars". 

"rhea got pinched for racin' a while back...", the natural soothed drawl of jey's voice playing. "bad plates too. took the fall for mysterio's boy". 

jimmy chuckles. a wry little go of it. "you still messin' with screamo?"

and little noises of amusement ruffle the air. jey's eyes cutting to his twin brother. "she listens to metalcore dumbass, and we not messin with each other...", his neck maneuvering oddly. awkward. like the beginnings of a secret threaten to inch their way up his nape for some untimely reveal. "...it's just a calm..lil vibe".

jimmy points. "was". 

"was", he huffs. "…a calm lil vibe", arms dropping from that cool, eased, positioning. flustered and flailing down for some strained release. "...we just cool like that, damn". 

roman sighs. the sun breaking through the window behind him to heat up his neck and the leather draping him whole. "make your point jey".

"point being, if it's anybody that knows something about all of this, then it's her...", his fingers twisting the metal rings about his fingers as he thinks. "...it'd probably be better though to connect with priest. whatever the maneuver is, if we get in alright enough with him, she'll follow". 

"set up the meet then...", roman charges, to which jey accepts. "...i want a place and time tomorrow latest". the room falling quiet again. an inching in the air that forwards itself towards the head of the table. carries with it the eyes and ears of all these metal clad, leather born men. an expectancy that itches and delights roman in equal measures. sweetening his blood and aching his fingers. the impression of the gavel there still. always there. "what's the word on nico? he discharged yet?" 

the attention shifts in intervals. those fall of eyes staggering away from roman to cody. his bout of silence being urged to be done away with. 

and roman's words bite along the tongue as he speaks them. bits of a bitterness that form ugly and loose. something similar to bile. like the slip of it, is an admission only now given to live along the air, for, if given any earlier would cause for this taste in his mouth to live longer. breathe and rage and fester and spread and mold over. "you said before that she mentioned nico...", because mentioning nico, to cody no less, means that they'd had moments together wouldn't it? would affirm a fall they've taken, into a sort of vulnerable intimacy, where such unsavory things can be brought into question. his jaw pressing again, beneath his beard, where none are wise to notice. "...did she say anything else?" 

cody clears his throat. his eyes a cold blue. bright and unrelenting. softening at the mention of you. something in roman's belly jostling then as he listens. "i didn't give her anything worthwhile. she took the hint and stopped asking". 

a sharpness in his hand twinges. like the prod of a thousand tiny terrible little needles. that impression of the gavel still breathing to live in the skin. "...this shits gotta be flipped around quick...", his nails digging into the palm there, the ball of a fist that begs for it's own relief. "...i wanna know where this kid eats, where he sleeps, what room he stinks up when he shits, where his burnt skin peels and falls...", that wood and shape so true and longstanding in it's touch that it burdens him. wills roman into something hot and nearly unmodified. "...he's too unim-fuckin'-portant to be this much of an inconvenience". 

seth scoffs. grunts hard as he shifts in his chair. eyes narrowed and harsh and bordering on the promise of some ill-advised action waiting for it's release. "those assholes put a bullet in me. i'm sorry but i need a little more than some street espionage". 

"easy", dean pipes. "you'll get yours soon".

"solo", roman calls. his younger cousin stepping forward. "...the info, get on it".  

solo nods slow. a quiet steady air about him that promises.

the gavel catching up in roman's palm again. swinging to crack against the sound block. a call to order once, now a call to completion. but that usual wholeness of the moment is lost here. the bits of it chipped like too old, too dried up paint. the rich brown finish of the sounding block rubbed away to reveal the inner color of the wood and the head of the gavel slightly splintered with a faint crack. like a small break finally, from time and too much violence. from too many summers and schemes and leather bound meetings. words a little thicker and heavier in the throat and on the tongue. like the finality in them, the way it plays to be sure, is the greatest falsehood. 

"we're done here". 

sometimes he can't breathe. an exaggeration maybe, because yes, he is breathing. he has a pulse. can feel that intake that funnels the air into his lungs. but isn't it just easier to say he can't breathe when it feels like this? and well, he won't say it with his mouth, because no one needs to know he can't breathe. but here in the face of this bathroom mirror, he can tell himself he can't breathe, can rest odd in the terrible restriction of it. an ache in the chest like something there has decided to slowly tear him asunder. a meticulously drawn out clawing up to the surface. shuddered breathes and a running under the skin that goes on long with the fear of being caught. a marathon of anticipation. but this is not the first time this has happened. no, six days before his release he'd told the county jail nurse that his teeth ached and that he couldn't breathe. she said he was having a panic attack. he told her she was full of shit. 

the bathroom sink water rushes out cold. punks hands tight against the counter. for stability. he might fall if he lets go. because the weakness here in his knees, was not a symptom before. it's a new arrival. the toilet untouched. maybe she was right. fuck. maybe she was. 

a knock on the door, and then doom curling under flesh, giving a cold bite to his bones thereafter. his stomach lurching, from this coat of fear that comes with lack of breath and from the stomachs own emptiness. "m'takin a piss, gimme a second", grumbling. the water rushing still. coming down and out too fast, with too much pressure to ever successfully simulate a decent sounding ten-one. but he tries anyways, to hide behind this water white noise sanctuary, till it's no longer the sink of an old, still standing house, but the great pouring down of a waterfall. a flow strong enough that it undoes his feet from the ground and takes him in. takes him away. but that can't happen so swift and as easy as it used to, because it doesn't have to happen anymore. but whose going to tell his mind, his body, that neither need an escape to that drowning sort of safe space?  

another knock at the door. a quick steady pace into the wood. like it means to pry him from the closeting of this bathroom. like a call meant to will him up and out of drowning in that white noise waterfall. 

the door handle twitches. sharp and impatient. a warning before entry. the threat of seizing his space against his will. his shoulders hitching to tighten, squaring off. ready. that tingling in his fingers performing sorely, an exhausted guard that brings itself to work in spite of its age, as he holds his side of the door handle. "you wanna come hold my dick for me or you gonna let me finish?" 

"open the door punk". 

but it's not a command, no. not urgent or mean. it's something far worse. the type of plea that mixes itself in with a concerned sort of compassion. pity. fucking pity. and punk can't fight against that can he? not when the voice of a brother goes on with this tone of sadness. to work and war against it, would only serve to affirm his standing in this low place. so he opens the door. tries his hand at a deep breath. his palm slicking back his hair and the other twisting the knob of the door to open.

randy orton, the sergeant at arms, standing here in all his protective glory. tall and wide and with a look to his eyes that punk decides, leaving the full safety of the bathroom, he hates. the natural low sitting of them, always calling for the anticipation of something menaced and brutish. but they're far too tender for that here. too warmed over and patient as they wait. 

and this means the following in of an explanation doesn't it? his chest aching and the words lodged in with those shallow bits of air, needing to corral something together anyways to appease. to mend the confusion after his sudden disappearance. if so, then how does he explain this weak kneed, heavy chested problem without the exposure of that terrible fragility attached to it? 

"you got a bunch of people out back waiting...", randy gives. the voice of him deep and mellow and too cool to live amidst this awful, silent, ripple in punks skin. in his fingers and toes and about his bones. "...grand entrance out of the hole remember?"

punk scoffs. "oh?...", pulling air tight in his nose. his hands falling over his face to push in there. like if he wipes away at the skin, then the warmth in his cheeks will disperse enough to chill him. but that is not the case. the heat remains, pricks his neck and draws out into his shoulders. "...didn't realize the festivities were in my honor". a mirthless little chuckle. 

"you need another minute to bitch, or you gonna talk?" 

it's evident isn't it? the war, the silent hell in him. metal caged and immovable from the depths of this too low place. the smell of iron stuck in his nose and the repetition of that rattling song. the shuddered knock of the doors pulling to close in on him. "i did five years randy", he gives. hands resting on his hips and his head hanging low. the belief of it never taking him whole till this very moment. 

"i know". 

the darkness is clear. a nothingness that gives no rise for escape. "that's not a hole. holes have air. they have a way out". 

randy leans up against the wall opposite of punk. a resignation into something less protective. that faithful shield of a disposition waning till it's diminished enough for punk to breathe easier. without the threat of judgement from it's weakness. and this simple maneuver has somehow made randy appear less large. his eyes more curious than pitying. searching for the answer too. "what are you in then, brother?" 

punk lets his eyes meet here, and for the first time since his release, they linger. taking on the regard of another despite the turmoil of being seen, of being looked upon and read. "there's a book by this guy, Jerry Mayer, s'called 'the last man', you ever read it before?" 

randy motions with his hand, come hither like, curious to know. "tell me about it". 

"its a collection of short stories written by the last man on earth...", punk starts, fighting hard to hold randy's eyes. because maybe, if he keeps him here long enough, holds his attention, then all the novelty of the moment can be replaced with a question-less understanding. "...and he's just roamin' around. he's got all this air, all this space, but it's just him. nobody to share it with, and no rhyme or reason to do anything but be alone. in the last chapter of the book he digs a ditch. he said,

‘for the first time in a long, long time, i feel the embrace of something warm. the earth smelling strong as i lay, as my fists knock in, power in me once again, commanding the dirt to cave in over head. the sleep is good here, in this low place, and all the words i'd have to speak for how well this does me, stay laid, waiting in my throat. mixed in with that good bitter grain of dirt. finally, i am no longer the last man on earth'

"you remember all that?" 

"yeah", punk sighs, wearily. "i do". 

and randy hums. a slow, low, consideration that eats at the air. at the silence of it. his palm rubbing up at the stubble along his chin and his cheeks. and maybe this is too much. an overshare that unveils the scattered, caked up, muddiness of the mess sitting low in his underbelly. where all the other easy to break things lie. the pit beneath his stomach that rolls over sore, making him hungry and hunger-less just the same. yeah, this type of talk isn't for other ears is it? it's for those lonely, muggy, sheet-less nights. a deep stare into the ceiling as the fan whirls a janky tune. for him alone—

"well...", randy says. a drawling inflection to it like he's concluding his thoughts as he speaks. "...you're not dead till you're dead, and you're not alone". 

"five years...", chuckling mirthlessly. "...what do i have to show for it? gray hairs and shitty tattoos". 

randy smiles. "you'd be surprised, chicks kinda dig the grays now..."

"i'm being serious". 

randy pushes off the wall. standing to full height again. his palms coming up to rest along punks shoulders, as if, at one time or another, he'd been split into two halves. his heavy hands pushing in, thumbs into his shoulder blades, to will the two halves into a whole. and even if this isn't the intention, the burden of his hands and his height and his eyes, all speak for randy like it's true.  

"walk briskly to what you want. run to get the shit you need". 

punks eyes roll. "and what genius said that?"

"me". 

the hallway fills with small, comfortable amusement. punk's breathing not so caught up, and randy's eyes less pitying. 

"c'mon", randy patting punks back. "let's go get some cake". 

an error made by and against the self is the more terrible of the two, the other being, errors made against the self by others. yeah, the latter calling for a rich sort of righteous anger. done up so well in the blood that it draws in delicious. days, weeks, months even, settling to sit in high and justified. but this is not that, no, this is the sharp sickening twist of the former. a disgusting trouble that undulates the belly. makes it swim and swish and roll. because it was a funny little thing wasn't it? a short, sweet, silly little go of comedy to giana. because a guy could have enough morals to be straightedged, but not enough to keep himself out of jail? she needed someone to make it make sense. the store bought supermarket cake weighty in her hands. eyes slipping over the homey decor of the address roman texted her. framed photos littering everywhere, like the house was built to be more of a memorial sight than a living space. 

and the endless stretch of hallway connecting the kitchen to the backyard stands a little too lively for giana's taste. cluttered, maximalist bullshit. photos and paintings and plants. like the regressed, toothy smile, of some nostalgia ridden "remember when" story threatening to break against the air. a flavor so rich it becomes too thick in the mouth to handle. those little jogs to the past are terrible and lengthy, her feet a perpetual skate at the border, waiting for entry. to be folded in. on jokes and tears and old bouts of anger diffused now to underbelly deep bits of laughter. 

but this is the way in right? this is the key that opens the door. that settles her in more comfortably. store bought vanilla icing cake and a toothless smile. and how could she be any worse than him?, than punk—or whatever the fuck his actual name is—if she happens upon hypocrisy just as easily, making the mistake of a self made error. 

the photo at the end of the hall, just before the sliding door that leads to the backyard, works like an old, tired anchor. takes a joyful rusting to her eyes and her skin and the sure breaths in her chest. the patience in her body, stored in her fingers holding this cake, trembling, warming red and chemically undone. a tiny mahogany frame to enrich the delicate form of this memory. teenagers all lined up chaotically, drunkenly even along a sandy beach. the sun beating over harsh. twisted in an endless glee. and roman can't be unseen. his height and his face noticeable anywhere. a cheesy adoration about him. his arms holding a girl like she's his bride, eyeing her as she points to the camera. and he pays the picture no mind. seemingly enraptured and fine with his arrest. 

and the girl is not so unfamiliar. her face similar to the woman giana saw at the funeral some weeks ago. the same funeral she could not wait to escape. the same woman roman could not bother to speak to, but could not bother to look away from. 

surely, the hypocrisy of being here of her own free will without wanting to is no different from a straightedged man going to jail. it's just as laughable anyways. hypocrisy is always laughable. 

but the backyard is lively, loud and full in the ears enough to deaden that taunt of amusement she can't help but to give herself. bodies everywhere and a soft bass bleeding into the short grass so well it thumps into her feet. and this is ridiculous isn't it? the sudden shift. impatience. an appetite for more. feeling odd enough for an uncomfortable suffocation to come about amidst the boundaries she'd created. because they were fine. giana and roman were fine, albeit existing along a blurred line of a relationship in ways. not together but... together. ending and meeting where it only felt viable. so yes, only at night or, only when bored. 

that woman from the throwback photo, from the funeral. giana can see her face more clearly here, as she stares and stands intimately in front one of roman's boys. his hair cut a short blonde and his expression playing with notes of admiration. all of this she gets just next to the sliding door, but to decipher the skitter here in her skin is harder. theres no reason for hatred is there? for disdain towards a woman she doesn't know. but her familiarity is troubling. even as she moves away from him, floating almost and speaking and indulging about the grass and amidst this great guarding fortress of people, with hugs and smiles and those pretty shaped eyes. and God no, giana doesn't want to be her, but the comfortable way she goes about all this is envying. to have to not impress, is it's own nice little thing. 

the dirt and grass and wood chips crunch. roman and a new sort of color to his eyes as he comes up slow.

“you made it". a statement of surprise giana is sure. the way he says it, like he's trying to confirm more with himself than with her. like the possibility is so unbelievable. 

and he looks good. smells better. hair tied into a knot and those stray lines of gray in his beard like some tantalizing decoration. leather over his shoulders. an itch to touch him, to feel the worn texture of his jacket. to have it, for once, not tingle wearily and stress her nerves there in her fingers. but how do you find favor with a dead-lively sort of thing like this. his leather, just a tough little fabric stretching over skin, but the wrinkles and slim distresses like veins full of blood. pumping and beating to give life to something so far beyond her, but connected dearly to him just the same. this sort of urge new. rolling in with her appetite for more.

“i did". 

his eyes flit to the covered dessert. a blink-less stare that doesn't mean to offer anything but the blank of it. and maybe here, for the first time, or the second even, giana can feel it in the pit of her curiosity. this short, fast uprooting desire to know his thoughts. to look past the guard of his eyes and feel him wordlessly. forgoing the usual resignation that befalls her when he chooses to keep things close to the chest and undiscovered, for the sake of course, of staying within those drawn boundaries she'd made. but that was a while ago wasn't it? when she told him the conditions. made it so that they'd only meet to fulfill something lustful. but rules have always been made with the possibility they'd break. right? 

"you bought cake". 

the curt way it leaves him. like she wasn't supposed to. 

"you said to". 

and when the weight of the cake finally leaves her, giana is glad for it. roman taking it upon himself to set it along a table lined with other sweet treats. 

she could very well be wrong about this too couldn't she? those distracted little glances he'd taken at the woman from the funeral, the same ones he takes now, these could all be intricate looks of disdain maybe? a sharpness to his eyes that lends to some deeper hearted vexing. 

the grass and the dirt and the wood chips making terrible little impressions beneath her sandals. the air hot and thick. made thicker by this energy of celebration giana has yet to really settle into. like even the access of it is limited to just breathing. words and gestures too valuable for her to afford. 

and roman is there still, not at the center of the life of this thing but amidst it. orbiting close enough that his importance doesn't go without notice. but he's far away still. captured else where as he smiles and indulges in his own ways. like any president would. 

he's only abiding by the conditions isn't he? the rules of engagement made at giana's word. 

...only when bored, only at night....

giana could very well be wrong. the twirl in her gut. the warm prick at her ears. they all speak wordlessly, saying so with great volume....no, you're not wrong...these are not intricate looks of disdain, but the terrible masking of undead desires. and here, giana feels like nothing more than a bystander. a witness. watching on as roman gives away pieces of himself in the silence to be known to this woman. like a reveal of his hand, a proud little daring statement only made with the way his eyes bore into her. undressing and taking and spreading without ever moving from where he orbits the center of this celebration. 

giana's fingers tremble. the sort of shake that happens after a faithful endurance has waned from holding a too heavy thing. that store bought cake cut up and plated but somehow in her palms still. 

a coarse voice breaks. scrutiny and amusement bleeding. "...what dumbass bought supermarket cake?..." 

because her's was vanilla flavored. brightly colored and pristine in that professionally made way. packaged with the store label and too damn perfect. the other cakes and pies and pans and trays of food, housed in those homey little containers, like they came straight from decades-owned-home-kitchens and into cars and to this hot as hell backyard. 

her rules of engagement and conditions didn't involve fucking home made cake. fingers tingling as she moves quietly to the sliding door, a deep regret running to bed itself into the skin. the type of ruefulness that comes after the fall away from a not tight enough hold on a fragile thing. 

that old, hanging photo just inside by the sliding door, and this too long stretch of a hallway. minutes that feel like hours, till she can get to the front of the house. the air not so thick, not so filled and taken up by that overworking of a celebration she can't seem to break into. her temples pulsing sharp and an itch on the mouth. feeling her way into the bag slung over her shoulder till a box of cigarettes slip in her palm. an opaque orange lighter flickering before it burns the end. her cheeks hallowing for a deep generous pull. white plumes into the air to join the sticky heat. 

that dirt deep bass of the music, bleeding in faint from the backyard to the slab of sidewalk just in front the house, like it means to run under and loom over. have giana remember her failures. 

the front door opens as she drags long from her cigarette. hissing to pull in the smoke of it. hesitant steps that follow a gentle closing click. 

she looks over her cigarette like she would a fresh set of nails—a chilled satisfaction—and then casts a glance over her shoulder.

the woman from the picture, from the funeral. the one roman can't seem to stop eye fuck—

"giana right?" 

her throat clears. wrestling out the inconsistencies for something whole and uninterrupted. "yeah". 

and as she, you, step down the summer warm steps, giana wonders if this is a game. that when you stop at the step just before the sidewalk, do you mean to look down at her purposefully? to make it known without words what the balance of this is. or is this all by chance? coincidences and nasty, tired, angry tricks being played by the mind to ruffle her into some irate storm to punish her for trying to impress the black leather crowd with supermarket store bought cake and a silent disposition. another pull from her cigarette. a simple drag and a flick to watch the embers fall and die. the silence threatening to swallow them up whole less they say something. but giana's already failed once tonight, and never has such a thing happened before. she doesn't wish for that type of emptiness again. 

"look...", you start, shifting terribly odd till your arms cross up. throat clearing in that same way giana had done, to rid your words of inconsistencies. for something sure and measured. eyes carrying a serious weight. regret. "...m'sorry about that...the guys can be dickheads sometimes, but it was sweet what you did. bringing the cake". 

"s'alright". 

"you mind if i bum one?"

"uh..", frozen amidst the heat of the night. giana, of all the things she'd expected, had not expected this. "...yeah, no, sure". the silent intimacy of giving away a measly cigarette and reaching to burn the end of it with her lighter. your bodies so close for these little slip aways of some seconds. the fire of the lighter and your eyes meeting. 

"thanks".

there is no reason to hate you. to grow weary from a stomach troubling sort of disdain. not yet anyways. 

but you don't pull from the cigarette like you need it. small, dainty takes that barely get the end to burn. like maybe this is all for a better establishment of rapport. and giana wonders, as you look to the orange burn of tobacco, if your hands grow tired the way hers did. aching from the weight of supermarket cake. from a try that doesn't hold enough effort. 

giana smiles at all this. amused by your trying. "you don't smoke much do you?"

"i used to...", sheepish. like the call out isn't something worth defending much. "...or tried anyways. i think i wanted the addiction too much, so it didn't really stick". your eyes taking to every part of her. but not like you mean to commit to memory. more like, you're attempting to remember. to sift through the histories to place her face. a look thats unnerving. the way it lingers here. like her face is only good enough for some distant recollection, but not for a readymade decent into remembrance. a bystander on the peripheral too far away to leave a stark enough of an impression. 

"do you know me?" 

"i think i do". 

giana hums. chuckles a little. "is this the part where you ask me who my father is?"

you smile. understanding. "it is".

smoke pulls from that burning orange. tobacco full in giana's nose. "he's done with it now, but he used to make jewelry". 

your eyes light. forsaking your smoke to eat at itself as it burns the paper. "ronny right? simmons?" 

"yeah". 

"he made all my fathers rings... small world". something soft and wistful in your tone. notes of a somberness that cool over the heat in giana's belly. and it'd be terrible to decide on some resolute disdain now, wouldn't it? when you've gone about bringing yourself to the front of the house to mend up that awful attempt of breaking into the seams and vein like distresses of all this ancient leather. giana is unsure of where exactly all this goes. the pleasantries and silent tobacco filled air. adjusting the sling over of her bag against her shoulder as you go to speak again. "...the guys are good people...it takes time, they just—they take some warmin up to". 

the picture near the sliding door that leads to the backyard. how would you know that exactly?

giana's cigarette proves shorter as she holds it up to her lips. a patient pull before release. "how long did it take you?"

"we were all young when i met them...just kids...the history there, for me, is different". 

"so i guess you wouldn't really know then..."

"i guess not". 

"you looked real cozy with him, so i just assumed you and blondie were together", giana gives. "i guess that's why i asked".

"oh?...", pulling the cigarette to your lips finally. a longer draw from it than giana has seen before. cheeks hallowed and that white plume meeting the air with the strain of a laugh that dresses over a minor cough. "...yeah thats...thats complicated". the air in your throat restricted. the bane of every amateur smoker who feigns the need to look professionally verse and addicted. but maybe it isn't the smoke, giving another one of those lingering glances giana's way. thinking and sifting. that pull in of toxic air just a nasty blanket for the dirtiness of words that hesitate—"how long have you and roman been—"

"together?" giana wants to laugh. wants to feel the richness of this reversal in it's fullest fashion. because this isn't a pure streak of kindness is it? it's the heaviness of supermarket cake. that after taste of the too sweet icing thats coated itself on the tongue. the way it vies to impress the palette but fails from overwork. "we're not...it's just. it is what it is with us". a phrase he'd used before, when giana's appetite for more began to simmer hot, abruptly so, from a lukewarm staleness. flicking her cigarette to the sidewalk in what feels like some small victory. because theres room for some contempt now isn't there? "so should we get into it now? hash it all out or do we wanna twiddle our thumbs a little more for the fuck of it?"

"excuse me?"

giana's eyes roll. mirthful. "...we could make a schedule for it...something tentative...", body buzzing over. a frenzy. bliss. that faux clueless light about your eyes darkening slowly. "...we could meet up. exchange notes on how absolutely fan-fucking-tastic the dick it". 

incredulous. "wow, ok". your finger flicking away the cigarette you'd let burn to nothing. 

like you're suddenly unaware of such context. 

like giana is stupid. 

"or am i still pretending thats never happened ever?"  scoffing dirty. an annoyed disgust. "or that he hasn't wasted a second eye fucking you since we've been here?"

and here giana can see the dissipation of all that terribly built cordiality. the complete draw back of the curtain. an amusement to you that aches her belly and heats her blood. standing on that step above her still, looking down. "blaming me because the man you let hit it raw or otherwise has no self control is nasty work. very much, unwell behavior. lets maybe reevaluate who the issue is for you". 

"lets dead the formalities yeah? you thinking you need to play nice". the air hotter than it's been all night. and that grass deep bass of the backyard music finding it's way to her feet again. to pulse and disturb. "i don't need you rollin out a welcome mat, and i don’t need to be small talked 'cause you're all curious, and feel some way about fuckin' my man once upon a time, thinkin' now, that you need to connect with me. trust, it's no sisterhood here 'cause we both happen to know what he tastes like". 

your feet take to walking up back to the door. something wry and rotten spreading a smile on your mouth. "not to be that pedantic bitch but he can't be your man if you aren't together. thats not how those words work". 

this is all so damn silly, isn't it? the smoky burning taste still lining itself at the back of your throat from that cigarette you'd attempted to suffer through out of obligation. and yes, it was out of obligation, out of a sure founded kindness because the guys could be so brutish and exacting and ill-fit to empathy sometimes. just a little too comfortable in their insensitivities when it comes to the smaller, more trivial things. the apology was a nice thing to do wasn't it? an attempt at mending her feelings. to set over a new foundation after the careless breaking of the old one. because she was new and out of the loop on all the nuance. how would giana know that dean was being a dick, but in a simple, amusing, non-threatening way? a rough sort of fun making. no, what you'd done—trying to bridge the gap—is initiative is what it is. fucking initiative. right? right. 

and to think that you'd spared her from the details. eye-fucking is just the tip of the iceberg of whatever mischief she thinks her boyfriend-not boyfriend gets up to. 

a feverish buzzing, helped by the summer heat, sticking to your skin till its beneath it and melting over bones. talk about fucking audacity! being blamed for his lacking in decorum. it's pure bullshit. 

and was it so evil, to hold a bit of curiosity about the status of their...thing? considering roman had put in a sizable amount of effort into blurring the lines of your perception on it all. again...sparing her the details out of kindness. 

but there is another issue to all of this isn't there? a smaller formed thing, that lays at the base, waiting for some much needed uprooting before it can expand to a full truth. takes the burned bitter taste of that cigarette on as it's own till it's painting over your tongue and down low to bruise your stomach. but you were being nice, had left the backyard party with the fullest intentions of—then why did this feel so odd? an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. something impending in your palms. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail—

steps sound over the hardwood floors, inching towards the kitchen from that endlessly long hallway. heavy boots that make no qualms about their heaviness. and you know it's him, can feel it in the way the heel-toe drops into the floor. a patient swagger thats paced only to please himself. a sort of rhythm that conquers the time and space it walks through. 

an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail...

and you'd made it a point to engross yourself in the festivities of the night. break so deeply into the celebrations that you wouldn't have to face him. but now it all seems like a complex task done in vain. his leather dressing cooly over his broad shoulders and his fingers adorned meticulously. hair pulled out of his face enough that you can spot the edge to his eyes as he makes to pass the kitchen, phone slipping from his ear to his pocket. 

but this can't be ignored too much longer can it? someone will have to take a knife to the air eventually. cut through it deep enough for a compromise of the shared space. your arms folded up, and your teeth threatening to bite sharply into your lip as you lean against the kitchen counter just where the sink is. "can we talk?" 

he stops. bringing himself to the edge of the u-shaped counter space to lean over onto it. his leather singing as it bends and adjusts and touches up against the marble as he moves. the kitchen lights yellow and far too dim feeling here, or maybe it's just him. a moment of a drink in to really look at him. the night time rendering the homey space darker than usual even with all the small kitchen fixtures giving off their bits of brightness and warmth. the way they spill above him, shinning his hair but never really catching all of his eyes. a curl in your belly as you watch his jaw shift beneath his beard. like whatever he's thinking can't help itself enough to remain hidden away from his tells. that jaw tick did always give him away didn't it? 

'm'listening". 

"...we're in, maybe? stable situations right now...", fighting to keep that strength of voice. "...you have your person and i have—which...y'know, i'm happy for you", the waver of it just there. amidst the way the words tumble. forming as they air without much forethought. "...an i'd just—it'd be nice to co-exist without all the..."

he sighs. "say what you mean". 

you clear your throat. ridding it of all those nasty, bitter inconsistencies. "it'd be nice if you didn't stick you tongue down my throat again without permission". 

he scoffs. a dirtied sort of wryness to it. "without permission?" 

and maybe your wording wasn't the greatest in the world there. thoughts stuttered by the width of his presence. by the air about him and that ruinous look in the eyes. yes, maybe it'd be better to just have him leave you be all together wouldn't it? conditions of permission aside. a peaceful compromise of co-existence where you don't have to worry about the darker lustful streaks of his intentions. attempting maybe to relive something ancient and far away. yes. it's better this way. for all involved. especially for his girlfriend, whose not really his girlfriend, but wants or thinks the position is assumable off the basis of whatever bullshit she's got cooking up in side that smoked out brain of hers. 

that acrid taste on your palette again. less like burnt leaves and more like bile maybe. a small thing trying to expand to some bigger truth. but thats a worry for later, when you're alone enough to roam freer in all this uncomfortable thought. 

"...i spoke to giana". 

he stands to full height. leather sounding just the same. breathing to take bits of the air with it, with him. "about what and why?"

...say what you mean...he'd said that didn't he?...

"i've taken up so much of her attention tonight, i figured thats what she wanted...", a mirthless spread over your lips. all those former pleasantries and bids for something diplomatic and cordial, shedding off like a fast to slip second skin. because no one wants the niceties it seems, so why should you? "...i guess i didn't realize you fuck girls with no etiquette till now, so yeah, thats on me for trying to be nice". 

you hate his laugh. the way it plays snarky and oddly pitched. too high to be suited to his regular tenor. almost like the unusualness is on purpose. "nice?"

"m'not sure why she isn't, but she should be just a little more receptive when someone makes an effort to—"

"effort huh?", rubbing up along his beard. thumb and pointer tugging and combing through to play at a mull over. for some better take of amusement obviously. mouth spreading for a coarse smile. "you tried to take a big dick swing, i already know". 

"thats not—"

"that toxic nice bullshit". finger jutting out to point. the sharp precision of a dagger. nicking the air to poke at the thickness. like if he wanted, he could give it a less dull slicing for some fuller feel of relief. but he doesn't. heavy boots claiming the kitchen floor slowly. a steady-tempered pace. the patience of a snake. laughing in that way again that shivers your skin. "you played a game and loss". 

"you think everything is a joke". cutting thin through your teeth. 

"you tryin' to play the manipulation game for details on my dick is funny, so yes, it's a joke....", and where did all the light go? all those small bursts of warmth from the kitchen fixtures swallowed up as he makes to creep up closer. a devious streak against brown eyes. "...especially since it didn't need to be done...", those mellow notes of pine pulling in full to swim in the lungs. clinging to his leather for some years. now stretching out for an embrace, making to ruin your sense of—"...it's clear there's a deficit in attention being given if you're so curious". 

this is sixteen and seventeen all over again isn't it? the body outdone by history. that dangerous inability to do or be anything but weak and arrested. "i don't need a damn thing from you—", an abrupt press in. slotting up short to wedge you in place. your arms unfolding fast, fingers bracing against the counter. palms digging into where the edge starts, and his thigh slips out to nudge. breaking in to push between. "don't—"

and he's hot everywhere. his breath and those sly touches. or maybe its the summer air. that saturation of pine. ancient things sweetening your senses. arms like pillars for a fortress, holding the counter at your sides. that small, nasty, disturbed thing welling up so well in the body as it expands, you can feel it in your ears and behind the eyes. dazed and wordless from it. from him. from the way he uproots it. 

"the only thing new york made you is distant and delusional, but i see you. i know you. been knowin' you all your life, and this shit is so shameful you can barely look at me". his pointer curling beneath the line of your jaw to bring your eyes to him. "you left me, could give less than a fuck about what and who i was doing, but now that you're here, you gettin' real bold ain't you?" thumb sweeping in to roll over the soft line of your lip. his sights taken there. but taken at your eyes to. "got the nerve to feel threatened about a position, a space, you gave up" and then that pitiless streak, in his brows, in the firm touch at your jaw. triumph. "you can't get rid of me, and that eats you up bad don't it? because now you gotta remember how needy you used to be. so damn greedy for attention. you still are". 

and theres no fight really. not anymore. all that wrestling for air in the lungs gone and the small buried things you'd hoped saw no great uprooting, fully bought up pass the surface. nerves in disarray and his thumb pulling up to sooth over you cheek. hooking the other fingers under to hold your face. seated in his palm just right. but he had to be wrong. the cigarettes and small talk, it wasn't all a facade. there were bold enough streaks of  sincerity there. you felt for her. felt for that on the outs feeling. but it couldn't be helped. soft, pitched breaths, almost tasting the ginger beer on his tongue. no it couldn't. that nagging curiosity, a terrible need in the pit of your belly. having to know just what it all was between them. it'd make this better wouldn't it? or maybe easier even, to sit in. the desire and the suffocation. 

"i need that permission of yours". 

that dark tenor rumbling into a strong bass. rolling over till you're shivering. 

"we shouldn't—", pushing at his leather jacket. or bracing into it maybe.

"look here", tugging your face. 

a hum like thunder from his chest. meeting him whole at the eyes. a string together of silence to catch those deeper breaths. and you hope this fall into him is enough permission granted. slipping your tongue through to push pass his mouth. slow and languid and slightly messy. desperation corralling sharp in the skin, like all that space and time apart has no use for anything refined and modified. a drawling mezzo of a moan that spurs him into action. palms shaping down the outline of your body till he's pulling at and kneading in. something firm and testy just under the zipper of your jeans. palming to cup there as you grip into his jacket tighter. 

nose knocking into yours. a little more tender than expected. his tongue lapping over into a kiss to savor. "you're still the same", he hums. peeling down the zipper. smiling and so damn satisfied. "still so responsive", fingering pass the thin underwear to glide through slowly. your head falling into his chest. a warm embarrassment in your cheeks. "always been sensitive, right?", hooking in to swirl two fingers against your wet clit. breath hitching at the touch. that firm tenderness old but new. "real nice for me". adulation. his other hand bringing you back into him, cradling your nape to adjust for a lingering kiss. 

you can feel him breathing. stealing all of your air. your body trembling and clenching about nothing but that sweet anticipation. and he knows it doesn't he? smiling and tensing his teeth over your mouth. groaning long and lazy, rubbing sweetly into the tender beginning of your pussy. prolonging and biding time, like it's been made for him. like at any moment all those backyard eyes and ears wouldn't be turned to the both of you. 

"spent the last week wondering if you feel the same. kept dreamin' about it". 

"...please...", your hips twisting into fingers for better friction. clit catching to work along the length of it. lips falling open in that swimming daze. 

his mouth trails over your cheek. kissing and breathing to pull in the scent as he goes. tongue lapping into your neck, the wet slight of it just where your pulse is. a groan breaking through in attempt to mask the deep tremble that takes him. nose roughing in as he suckles and prods wet. "still smell the same". dipping his fingers in easy. gathering the drool of arousal to push in patient till he's nestling in at the base of his knuckles. 

"..ohhfuckk..", a tight breaking out from the throat. rutting into his palm again as he holds, cupped against your clit. a salacious little song playing as he drags out to just the tips of his fingers. stroking in shallow to tease and play before he's slipping in again to the hilt. nudging softly at that sweet, deeper place. resting and sweeping just how he used to. to elicit a more reckless tune. broken little things that just barely form. "..ah—rightthereee.." 

he grunts. scoffs. a mixture of the two and something a little lighter in amusement. taking the grip at your nape and placing it to guide and push into the back of your jeans. shoving off the fabric there to claw in and tuck his fingers where your ass curves under. steering the soft, tight, riding grind of your pussy as keeps his fingers slotted deep. "...after all this time and you still can't take much without makin' all that noise...", mouth breaking from your neck to kiss at your lips again. "..s'pretty though..". messy still and indulgent. but he'd always kissed you a little messy. not like he had no qualms about it, no, more like, he just couldn't help himself. like he couldn't make a more refined work of it, if he tried. 

your body seizes, holds in to clench dangerous about his fingers, nailing into his leather as all the breath you'd lost returns. funneling in fast with that hot take to bliss. the summer heat breaking over your forehead and cheeks and at the back of your neck. hushed little curses tipping off your lips in between the kisses of his. 

the backyard music cuts abruptly. voices carrying in loud. a rush in that breaks the ending bits of all that lingering pleasure. your awareness coming back to you in a less than steady fashion. shaky and drunk still. his hands easing out to let you fix yourself up. 

but you don't miss the way he suckles his fingers clean. like that course of action was somehow more functional and faster than using the sink just behind you. snagging a piece of tissue to wipe his palm before he's creating the distance again. heavy boots thudding against wood till he's out the door.