#biker!tony

[punk-mistive]

Decided it was time for me to post here

[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. 

[cottongery]

[flowersock69]

Valentine's gift for @jannetiscool <3

[belthegore]

dump (+ shared canvas w/ @mystic-vibeszz and a friend)

[fanartka]

[alexxness]

suddenly I know how to draw animal heads lmaoo 💥

[starker-sorbet]

Biker au

[roughridingrednecks]

Tony

[iamaburnedgiftedartkid]

Run, Chapter 6

Warnings - Mentions of Past Physical Violence, Physical Injuries, Minor Injury Description

You go to the shop and get bored and have a customer act weird because of your injuries. You help Wanda out and find out her brother is expected back tomorrow.

Sorry it's been so long I wish for no more curveballs. I'd just like to say thank you to anyone who still stuck around waiting.

You make your way into the bathroom, quickly changing into a gray henley and black jeans. You avoid the mirror, every bruise, cut, and burn threatens to drown you and drag you back to the moment they were inflicted. You try to avoid the cuts on your arms even as the sound of the beer bottle striking your face fills your ears with your heart beat, deep breath, focus. You pull your sunglasses out of your jacket pocket and slide them on. They don’t completely hide your face but they do hide enough to elevate some of your anxiety. You steel myself with a deep breath and head back into the bay. 

When you enter you see Bucky, Steve, and Wanda all talking quietly together, you can’t hear them but their bodies are tight with anger. You slow down, not sure if you should go to them but Steve looks up at you and straightens. You slump your shoulders, I probably left a bad impression with that customer. Everyone turns to look at you and you look toward the ground as you get closer to the group, “Sorry”, you say while fidgeting with your fingers. 

“Why do you have sunglasses on?” Bucky asks while crossing his arms over his chest. Wanda’s hand reaches for yours, stopping you from tearing at the skin on your fingers. “What happened up front earlier?” Wanda gently asks while rubbing circles onto your hand. Wanda tugs  at your hand and you look at her. “Why didn’t you tell me what that asshole said to you?” Wanda pry’s. You look back down unable to fidget, “it’s my own fault, I shouldn't have been up there. I-I just didn’t want to bother you while you were on the phone so I went up front. I’m sorry.” Steve lifts one of his hands to his head and sighs, you start trembling and take a step away from them, “I’m sorry I di-didn’t mean to mess anything up.” You frantically get out while raising your hands in surrender.  

“Hey.” Bucky says coming toward you and  grabbing your shoulder causing you to squeak out a panicked sound. Your eyes shoot to his in fear and you try not to cry but your breathing picks up, “Hey” Bucky says in a gentler tone while rubbing circles on your shoulder. “You did nothing wrong Doll. That guy is a dick. You can tell us if something like that happens okay? We’re not going to get mad at you or balm you.” Bucky finishes. 

You're shocked, “You’re not mad at me?” You glance at all of them, Wanda and Steve shake their heads. You look back at Bucky,”No I'm not and nobody else is.” He  says softly. The air whooshes out of you and a bit of hysterical laugh comes out, “I feel like I’m crazy.” You say quietly to yourself but in a quiet garage you might as well have shouted it. Bucky looks behind him to everyone else and Wanda, her eyes to yours, “I think you’re just traumatized, we can work on it.” She says. You're so taken aback by everything that is going  on you just shake your head in agreement. They all share another look and Wanda steps up to you, “Alright now that, that is all sorted. Me and you are headed back to the clubhouse to make lunch and take a break for a bit.” You look at Steve and Bucky and they both nod, “We’ll be there in about an hour for lunch.” Steve says, giving you a smile. 

“Alright” you say looking back  toward Wanda, who beams at you and excitedly drags you toward the back exit to where they park their bikes. You know Steve’s and Bucky’s bikes which just leave the Harley Davidson Sportster in burgundy that has runes on the tank that spell something out you can’t read. Wanda sees you eyeing her bike, “It says ‘Scarlet Witch’, it’s a nickname I have.” She says with a grin. You Smile back at her as she walks over and puts her helmet on. You wait for her to gesture for you to get on the back before hopping on behind her.

The ride back to the clubhouse was the same as last night. You and Wanda pull up and you see Chuck working outside. You get off the bike keeping your head down and following Wanda, when you glaze in his direction he looks at you in pure anger. I look away and follow into the club house. 

Wanda and you head into the kitchen where she starts talking excitedly about her brother returning tomorrow. “Where was he?” you ask a small pulling at your lips at her excitement. She pauses in pulling food out of lunch before turning toward you and stepping very close whispering in your ear, “you can't tell anyone.” she pulls back to look you in the eyes and you nod. She leans back into you, “He’s been undercover with a rival gang.” she whispers before turning around and continuing to excitedly talk about his return tomorrow and how there will be a party. 

You stay frozen  for a moment before your mind and catch up to the whiplash in the change of her talking. You walk up to her at the counter, “What are we making for lunch?” you say with a smile. She smiles  back at you, “Since we’re having a party tomorrow we will keep it simple with sandwiches, salad, and soup.” She says while pulling out what has to be 10 pounds of bread. She goes into what will be known as ‘mission mode’. She directs you around the kitchen with ease  even though you are a bit clumsy. She is right there to help you along with encouragement. Before you know it people have started coming into the kitchen and you and Wanda are done. You smile excitedly at one another before Wanda has a wooden spoon in her hand and in directing everyone like she was the first night you got here.

[girlbloggerman]

Hotline Miami Mashup

[achillei]

[cottongery]

[moonamite]

Sigh. Sigh. You wouldn’t get it. I love him. Ugh. I love his little greaser biker gang leader vampire-killer short king punk tough guy bisexual pompadour-mullet combo Italian New Yorker smoking British-kissing hot headed tsundere ADD having ass.

[zhobot]

This post has been sitting in our drafts since 2015?????? I DON’T KNOW WHY. 

IT’S JUST US GOOFING OFF IN HOTLINE MIAMI COSTUMES???

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Bonus: This is the song we were listening to/dancing to in the gifs.

[pandagirl45]

Tony: made you a helmet white wolf *grinning*

Bucky: you didnt-

Tony: *shows a bike helmet with a fuzzy covering that looks like a bear fur with ears* :) you like?

Bucky: *blushes with a smile putting it on* thank you tony

Tony: even better, your ears emote

Bucky: *blinks in surprise making the ears stand up*