#dean Ambrose fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joannasteez · 3 months ago

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tanks of blood (7) - eighteen is dangerous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you went to the pool?"

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

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

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

"should i take them off?"

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

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

"you're right".

she smiles."have i ever been wrong?"

your eyes rolling playfully. "no"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"not a soul".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i'm interruptin something?"

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

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

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

"i think he did".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"trouble in paradise?"

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

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

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

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

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

you hate him.

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

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

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

"i can't swim".

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

"sweets?"

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

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

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

"where the party is".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"how federal of you", dean mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"sober yet?"

"almost".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"are we together?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"it's mandatory huh?"

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

"something's gotta be done i guess".

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

#joannasteez #tanks of blood #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader #biker au #biker!roman reigns #original male character #original female character #seth rollins featured #dean ambrose featured #naomi featured #mentions of jimmy and jey uso #teenage angst #black reader insert #something something i have bad history with pools so make it the setting of angst

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livsbrutalitys-blog · 11 months ago

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MASTERLIST AND RULES

Hi guys I’m a new writer here on tumblr and I already have some stuff written and I can’t wait to share them with you! Here are the things/people i write for so if you have any request lmk!

➰-smut ✔️- fluff ➿-angst

• WWE

- Rhea Ripley

homecoming✔️

series

Unfinished business ➿

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 part 4

one shots

rhea ripley x fem!reader ➰

ex!rhea x fem!reader ➿

homecoming ✔️

- Dominik Mysterio

- Damian Priest

one shots

damian priest x fem!reader ✔️

untitled w fem!reader✔️

enemies to lovers?Damian priest x fem!reader ➿

- Becky Lynch

- Bayley

- Sasha Banks/ Mercedes Moné

- Liv Morgan

- Dolph Ziggler

- Drew Mcintyre

- Roman Reigns

one shots

roman reigns x fem!reader

- Jey Uso

- Jimmy Uso

- Trick Williams

- Carmelo Hayes

- Wes Lee

- Roxanne Perez

- CM Punk

- AJ Lee

- Nikki Bella

- Brie Bella

- Dean Ambrose/Jon Moxley

- Baron Corbin

- Shayna Baszler

RULES

Here are some things I WILL NOT write about.

- p3dophillia

- n3crophilia

- inc3st

- non-con (cnc i will but nothing where one party is non-consensual/r@pe)

- any kind of bodily fluid play (bl00d is fine but no golden showers or anything like that)

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jazzyjj · 2 months ago

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Does anyone understand the random absolutely feral desire to reread a fic that has long since been deleted for mysterious reasons. Cause that's me rn. If you were an og discovering fanfiction.net in middle school and have any dearnoattachment fics saved I will literally gift you my first born🙏

#wwe fanfiction #wwe #ambreigns #dean ambrose #roman reigns #fanfiction #fanfic

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anonybaby · 2 months ago

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Better late than never.. right.. right ?!?! lol.

A thousand thank you’s to all my dear readers there is NO story without YOU. 🤍🤍🤍 I hope you enjoy.

#randy orton #cody rhodes #candy #wwe fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fan fic writing #fan fic update #my fic writing #for the candy girlies #oh and the shield too #the shield #wwe #roman reigns #dean ambrose #seth rollins

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little-jey · 1 year ago

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check out my newest fic here!

i spent a lot of time on it lol ^^ i finished this art a hot sec ago and i was just WAITING to post these aahhhh

#jey uso #wwe #main event jey uso #wwe fanfiction #aew fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #jey uso fanart #jey uso fanfiction #wwe fanart #jon moxley x jey uso #dean ambrose x jey uso #jon moxley fanfiction #jon moxley #dean ambrose fanfiction #dean ambrose #jon moxley fanart #dean ambrose fanart #joxley

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smolwritingchick · 7 months ago

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Forced To Believe Chapter 56- Public Displays of Affection

Chapter Summary: The Shield take on Rosa, The NAO and Kane at Wrestlemania 30. Morgan makes up her mind about Ambrose

Words: 9,000+

--------

Kane and Dean start the match while Morgan grips the ropes tightly, still annoyed at the slap she got from Rosa.

'In due time...' She thought as she looked around at the thousands of people in attendance.

She still couldn't believe she was here at WrestleMania 30. Kane and Dean exchange words before they go at it. Kane throws him right into the corner and starts hitting him with punches until the ref breaks it up. Ambrose starts to fight back but gets hit with an uppercut by Kane. He stumbles into Kane's corner as Kane starts to distract the ref. Rosa takes the opportunity to hit Ambrose with a cheap shot as the crowd boos.

"And a cheap shot by Rosa." Cole looked on.

"Never take your eyes off that Hell Cat," King declared. "She's a beauty but boy is she deadly."

"Are you friggin' kidding me!?" Morgan shouted angrily.

Rosa starts giving the fans a show by flipping her hair around, earning whistles from people in the crowd.

"And Rosa isn't listening to a word, Morgan is saying," Cole said as Morgan made a frustrated growl while Rosa blew her a kiss.

"As soon as I'm in this ring with you, I'm gonna wipe that stupid smirk off your face!" The Outspoken Diva shouted and stood on the middle rope before Seth and Roman calmed her down.

Celeste tweets 'A lot of showboating going on by Rosa. But #CanSheBackItUp?'

Billy gets tagged in and hits Ambrose with an arm drag before putting him in an arm submission.

"Come on, Ambrose." Seth supported as The Shield looked on intently.

Billy throws Dean back to his corner and tags in Road Dogg as they start stomping on him. Road Dogg hits Ambrose with a belly to belly suplex and goes for the pin as Dean kicks out at two.

"Come on, boy. Come on, boy. It's time you learned your lesson." Road Dogg taunted and pushed his face around.

"Let's go, Dean." Roman cheered on.

"Go crazy!" Morgan shouted which made Ambrose glance at her. "They don't call you the lunatic fringe for nothing, right?"

Dean punches Road Dogg away, making him stumble back. Suddenly, Ambrose slaps himself in the face.

Nikki tweets 'Oooooo that triggered something. #MorganTheTrigger'

"Hey, that worked. Keep doing what you're doing." Seth praised Morgan.

"Not good enough! Get whacked out!" she exclaimed as Ambrose started to laugh like a madman and hit himself in the face again.

"Morgan trying to motivate Ambrose." Cole looked on.

"You gotta go deeper," Roman said to her.

"Deeper? This is as deep as I can go. What else do you want me to do?" She asked.

Seth and Roman gave her a look and she nervously chuckled.

"You're kidding, right? That's not necessary." She tried to reason as they continued to stare at her. "Why me?"

"Why not?" Roman countered.

"You guys are doing this on purpose." She exhaled and turned her attention back to Dean, who was on his knees after getting kicked by Road Dogg. "Hey! Don't just lie there! Where's that erratic and destructive side of Ambrose I fell in love with?!"

That starts to trigger Ambrose into gaining momentum as he starts fighting back against Road Dogg. Road Dogg kicks him to the ropes but Dean comes back and hits him with a clothesline as the crowd cheers.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Seth shouted.

"Could this be the opening Ambrose needs, to make a tag?" Cole asked as Dean crawled his way towards his teammates.

The crowd cheers loudly as soon as the Divas get tagged in.

"Yes! Divas!" King cheered.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," JBL said.

"Let's go! Come on!" Rosa shouted as she got in the ring.

"I'll make sure you can never dance, that disgraceful dance again!" Morgan yelled and jumped over the ropes, landing inside the ring.

The Outspoken Diva runs and spears Rosa down as she starts hitting her with hard shots to the face.

"These two aren't messing around. All the emotion, the attacks, everything these two have done to each other. These two want to destroy each other." Cole said.

Rosa turns them around and starts hitting Morgan with hard shots to the face until the ref breaks them up. Back on their feet, Rosa kicks Morgan in the stomach and slams her back down before kicking her in the stomach again to make her turn face first on the mat. She locks in a camel clutch submission as the crowd motivates Morgan to get out of it. Morgan gets on her feet and rushes backward into a turnbuckle, making Rosa release the hold. She takes the opportunity to perform the handspring back elbow smash but Rosa dropkicks her back, making her fall back down on the mat.

"Rosa has been studying Morgan, lately." Cole looked on.

She drags Morgan to the bottom turnbuckle in a corner and starts choking her with her boot.

"Come on Rosa! Get off of her! 1! 2! 3! 4!" The ref shouted and she released the hold at four.

Morgan manages to get up and tries to fight back but Rosa kicks her in the midsection and drops her with a swinging neckbreaker. She quickly goes for the pin but Morgan kicks out at two. Rosa bangs on the mat and glares at the ref.

"Come on!" She complained and started arguing with the ref.

Melanie laid on her back and looked up at the ceiling to rest for a moment. She wanted to make sure to make Milena look good as her character, Rosa Mendes, and it looked like things were going quite well in their match. The fact that they were wrestling here at Mania and in front of her cousin Chyna made her heart soar. She was beyond grateful and couldn't wait to perform the planned spots for the match.

Milena went back up to Melanie and gripped her hair, making her stand up.

"Okay, like we planned. Throw me across the ring by my hair," Melanie murmured to her with her hair in her face.

Roughly gripping her hair, Rosa tosses her across the ring, making Morgan grunt loudly and hold her head.

"I am the freakin' Costa Rican!" Rosa yelled at the crowd and put her arms out as the crowd gave her mixed reactions.

"Rosa seems very confident tonight," Cole said.

Brie tweets 'Somebody please #ShutRosaUp'

"I want you to watch as I make your baby cousin suffer!" Rosa pointed at Chyna while Chyna looked unimpressed and narrowed her eyes at her.

"And Rosa with the trash talking," Cole added.

She grabs Morgan by the hair again but gets punched in the midsection. Morgan runs to the ropes but Rosa counters with a tilt a whirl backbreaker and goes for the pin. Morgan kicks out at two as Rosa starts to get more frustrated.

"Come on, Morgan!" Seth cheered.

All of a sudden, Morgan hits Rosa with the backfire out of nowhere.

"There you go!" Roman clapped.

"Stay on her," Dean advised.

As the divas get up, they start punching each other back and forth. The crowd cheers 'Yay' for Morgan, and 'Boo' for Rosa until Morgan hits her with a few clotheslines and one leg dropkicks. Rosa manages to throw Morgan to the ropes and tries to go for a clothesline but Morgan slides down on her knees. She gets back up and quickly hits Rosa with a roundhouse kick, and pins her until Rosa's mom grabs her ankles, pulling her out of the ring.

"And look at Rosa's mother getting involved!" Cole exclaimed.

"I knew something like this was going to happen," King said as Rosa's mom tried to look innocent while The Shield was not happy.

"Son of a..." Morgan mumbled but all of a sudden, Jane jumped over the barricade as the crowd got excited.

"Where is Jane going!?" King asked in a high pitched voice.

"This has gone far long enough!" Jane shouted and tackled Rosa's mom down as the two of them began rolling around, fighting each other.

Celeste tweets 'The moms are going at it! Sweet! #MamaWars'

Rosa gets out the ring and kicks Jane off her mother. Before she can get her hands on her, Morgan and The Shield stand in front of Jane while The Outlaws and Kane stand in front of Rosa's mother.

"Back it up. Back it up, now." Ambrose threatened while Morgan checked on her mom.

"You back it up! Check that woman. She isn't supposed to be out here." Road Dogg pointed.

"And what about her?" Seth pointed to Rosa's mother.

"Are you okay?" Morgan asked with worry as she helped Jane.

"Oh hush, I'm fine. But I still want to get my hands on that witch." Jane replied. "I'm staying at ringside to make sure there is no more funny business."

Morgan nods and gets in the ring to tag in Seth while Rosa tags in Billy. Seth begins to take control by hitting him with one leg dropkicks. He kicks Billy in the midsection and strikes him with three suplexes. Billy crawls over to the middle ropes where The Shield is. While the ref was trying to calm down Rosa's team from protesting about The Shield's offense, Morgan decided to kick Billy in the face, getting a positive reaction from the crowd.

"Hey! Hey! Ref! Did you see that!?" Rosa shouted as she started to argue with the referee.

Billy begins to fight back before Seth hits him with an enzuigiri. They both crawl to their teammates as Morgan and Road Dogg get tagged in.

"Come on Morgan, you don't want to do this. You're gonna regret this. Just leave the ring." Road Dogg said, amused, but Morgan shook her head. "I warned ya,"

They circle around each other before locking up. Road Dogg clotheslines her and begins doing his little dance as he goes for the elbow. But Morgan moves out the way, making him hit the mat as Chyna smirks in satisfaction.

"Good..." Chyna said under her breath, nodding in approval.

"Looks like Chyna's been telling Morgan some secrets," King said.

"Morgan has said that she has been studying The Outlaws for the past few weeks," Cole added.

Road Dogg narrows his eyes at her and turns his attention to Chyna, understanding the situation.

"I see how it is..." He retorted and stood up.

They lock up again and he tries to go for the DDT but Morgan counters it with a kick in the midsection as Road Dogg starts to look annoyed.

"And Road Dogg does not look happy," Cole said as The Shield looked on with amusement.

"It's like she knows what moves he's going to do," JBL said.

Road Dogg starts arguing with the ref, and Rosa takes advantage by attacking Morgan from behind and hitting her with the Gory bomb as the crowd boos. Rosa gets back on the apron and looks at her nails while Road Dogg grins.

"What did you do?" The ref asked as he looked down at the pained expression on Morgan's face.

"I wasn't doing anything. I was just minding my business." Rosa replied while Billy Gunn agreed.

The Shield start trash talking to the Outlaws and Kane while Road Dogg starts taunting the crowd. He turns to Chyna and kicks Morgan in the stomach, making her groan in pain. Not liking the assault, Chyna clenches her fists and gives him a sharp look.

"Are you mad?" He provoked and slid out the ring to where Chyna was sitting. "She's a waste of space in this company! Seeing her reminds me of how terrible you were back in the day."

"Uh oh," JBL said as Chyna slowly stood up from her seat as the fans looked on with interest.

She punches him in the face and jumps over the barricade to start unloading on him with punches as the crowd goes wild.

"What is she thinking!? She's assaulting Road Dogg!" JBL shouted.

Celeste tweets 'Whoa! Did not see that coming! #ChynaStillGotIt'

"She's not assaulting him! She's giving him justice!" King exclaimed. "Go Chyna, go!"

"Chyna wasn't going to stand for the disrespect," Cole said.

'You Still Got It! You Still Got It!' The crowd chants as she ruthlessly attacks Road Dogg.

Morgan watches her beat him up with a satisfied expression. After all these years, she's still a hard hitter and never backs down to the men in wrestling. It was one of the things Morgan admires about her, and why she looks up to Chyna for wrestling.

"What is she doing!? She's not a part of the match!" JBL exclaimed.

"I don't care! Chyna's still got it! Woo hoo!" King shouted excitedly.

Rosa begins yelling at Chyna from the apron, annoyed at how she interfered in the match. Billy Gunn quickly gets off the apron and grabs Chyna off of Road Dogg.

"Hey! Hey! What are you doing? What are you doing?" Billy exclaimed and released her as she turned around to face him.

"This is some reunion. These three have so much history together." Cole informed as Chyna and Billy faced off.

The crowd begins to boo once the ref manages to break everything up. Chyna sits back in her seat with an angry expression on her face while Road Dogg tags in Billy Gunn to take on Rollins.

"I don't think this is the last we'll be seeing of Chyna. The crowd will not be disappointed." King said.

"Can you believe her?" Road Dogg glanced at Chyna while Kane chuckled to himself, remembering the beating he received.

Meanwhile, in the ring, Seth hits Billy with a snapmare and tags in Morgan as she connects with a shining wizard.

"Nice takedown by Morgan." Cole complimented as she tagged in Roman.

Roman begins to take control of Billy before hitting him with a Samoan drop. He tags Morgan back in, and she gets on the top rope.

"Morgan's going sky high." Cole looked on.

She does her taunt, earning more cheers before hitting Billy with a moonsault.

"Beautiful moonsault by Morgan. I love it when she flies." King praised.

She tags Seth back in as he starts taking control of Billy. Road Dogg starts arguing with Seth after he hits Billy with a springboard diving knee to the head. Road Dogg decides to get in the ring but gets kicked in the midsection and thrown into a corner, following Billy Gunn running into him in the corner by Rollins.

"Quick tags by The Shield. Smart move." JBL said once Rollins tagged Morgan back in.

Morgan gets in the ring and hits The Outlaws with a handspring back elbow smash, making Chyna smile.

"That put a huge smile on Chyna's face!" King said while Morgan tagged Roman in.

"Not a lot of communication between Ambrose and Morgan tonight." Cole observed.

"Don't talk negative." JBL snapped. "They'll be okay. They'll work together in the match. I'm sure he's still resting after the offense he's taken, earlier."

Roman gets caught in an arm submission by Billy and starts to get worn down. Billy hits him with a suplex, and Rosa takes the opportunity to tag herself in. He holds Roman up and she hits him with a few slaps in the face.

"Rosa adding insult to injury," Cole looked on.

"I'm surprised she's in the ring with Roman Reigns of all people. She's lost her mind." JBL said as Rosa taunted the crowd again, earning mixed reactions.

She blows Morgan a kiss, which triggers The Outspoken Diva's annoyance.

"Oh, don't worry!" Morgan stood up on the middle rope. "I'm gonna wipe that dumb grin off your face! You're gonna get it! I promise you!"

"Shut up, you little brat!" Rosa shouted back before tagging in Kane while Seth and Dean calmed Morgan down.

"Now Kane is in the ring. Roman desperately needs to make a tag." Cole said.

Kane picks Roman up and hits him with a throat thrust, wearing him down even more. The crowd starts trying to motivate Roman as he gets thrown to the ropes. He manages to spear Kane out of nowhere and goes for the pin.

"Spear! Spear!" Cole shouted.

"Yes!" Morgan cheered.

The Outlaws manage to break up the pin just in time but then Ambrose gets in the ring and drops them with a double clothesline, before unloading on Road Dogg. As soon as he turns around, he gets dropped with a big boot by Kane.

"What a boot by Kane. Ambrose is out." King winced at the impact.

Kane turns around and gets hit by Roman's superman punch, making the crowd get louder. Meanwhile, Rosa decides to get on the top rope.

"What the-what is Rosa doing now?" Cole asked with an amused tone.

She does a loud battle cry and lunges herself at Roman, only to be caught by him in a powerbomb hold.

"No! No! Let me go! Let me go!" She screamed as Morgan started to smirk and climbed on a top rope.

"Uh oh, Morgan is searching for that dark place. That smirk means bad things." JBL said.

People in the crowd stand up and are in shock as they watch as Kane manages to lift Roman up for a powerbomb hold as well while Roman continues to lift up Rosa.

This spot was insane but they all were hoping it would be successful for this match. Butterflies were in Melanie's stomach as she waited for her cue to attack. She truly hoped she wouldn't miss.

"Now this is a WrestleMania moment!" King exclaimed

"Oh my gosh, Rosa! Get her down, Roman!" JBL shouted.

"Look out!" King shouted in a high voice.

Seth jumps on the ropes and dropkicks Kane while Morgan jumps off the top rope, giving Rosa a clothesline. Everyone drops down and lands on the mat. The roar of the crowd got louder as they start chanting 'Holy shit'.

"Oh my gosh, these competitors may be broken in half!" Cole shouted.

"This is insane!" JBL yelled.

"Oh my gosh! Is Morgan okay!? Is Rosa okay!? Are the divas all right!?" King shouted as the crowd chanted 'This is awesome!'.

Morgan lies on the mat, face first, breathing heavily while the ref checks on all the competitors.

'Niiiiice.' Melanie praised herself for a job well done while loving the loud cheers.

"No one is moving!" King looked on.

"We need to see that a couple of times," Cole said as the titantron showed the replay of the big move 5 times, 2 in slow motion.

"The reckless nature of some of these competitors can be a thrill to watch," King said as everyone started moving and crawling their way to their corners.

Morgan rolls out the ring and rolls over on the back, exhausted. Jane checks on her, comforting her in a motherly way. Seth and Dean roll back over to their apron and rest, while the Outlaws roll over to their apron to rest. Rosa rolls out the ring on her side and rolls on the front of her body, exhausted from the impact as her mother comforts her.

"I hate to see these wonderful divas get so extreme against each other during this match," King mentioned.

"Who are you rooting for?" Cole asked.

"I love them both, I can't choose!"

Roman and Kane are left alone in the ring again as they start hitting each other with back and forth punches. 'Yay' for Roman, 'Boo' for Kane until Roman connects with a leaping clothesline. He throws Kane to the ropes and connects with a Samoan Drop before tagging in Rollins.

"Here comes The Architect," Cole said as Rollins began hitting Kane with multiple kicks and landing a kick to the back of the head.

Kane stumbles to the turnbuckle as Rollins runs and hits him with a big splash. Rollins continues the assault by giving him a reverse STO into the middle turnbuckle.

"Is there a camera on Rosa or Morgan? Are they still down?" King asked with concern and a camera showed them still down and out. "Oh man, this is not good!"

"Calm down. They are strong women. They'll survive. Stop your whining," JBL retorted.

Brie tweets 'WWEMorgan101 isn't moving at all. I hope she didn't hurt herself badly.'

Celeste tweets 'Morgan! Get your butt up and show the guys how it's done! Don't just lie there! Get up and fight my grape monster!'

Kane manages to fight back and tag in Road Dogg. He hits Rollins with a clothesline and gives him the Shake, Rattle and Roll. He throws Seth to his team and starts distracting the ref, making Kane and Billy strike him with cheap shots.

Dean starts pacing on the ropes while glancing at Morgan who is still down and out. He was contemplating if he should check on her or give her space because of their strained relationship with each other. Part of him wants to check on her, but the other part of him thinks she will push him away. He decides against checking on her, knowing her fighting spirit, and leaves her to recover on her own. She could handle herself and was not going to give up so easily.

"She's okay," Roman reassured him after watching him glance at her occasionally.

"I-I know that," Ambrose murmured.

As much as Ambrose tries to hide his emotions, part of him is full of grief for the mistakes he's made in the past while Morgan suffered. Even if Morgan said she forgave him, it wasn't enough for him. He started to think negatively about her answer, thinking that she just said it so he could stop apologizing. He thought she did not mean it. The words 'I forgive you' weren't enough for him. She would have to do something stronger to prove to him that she forgave him for everything.

Those words she said to him ran through his head again. Did she mean it? Does she still love him? Does she trust him again? Did she say it so he could back off? Did she say it to leave her alone? Did she move on from him? More negative thoughts went inside the Lunatic Fringe's head.

"Dean. Relax." Roman put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Stop beating yourself up. Everything is gonna be fine."

He let out a breath and nodded. "All right..."

Meanwhile, back in the ring, Seth finally gains momentum by kicking Road Dogg in the back of the head as the crowd cheers loudly.

"This may be Seth's opening," Cole said.

"Hey, what I miss?" Morgan smiled, standing right next to Ambrose on the apron.

Ambrose snaps his head to the Outspoken diva right next to him and smiles at her, keeping his cool.

"You're about to kick their asses." He replied.

She let out a laugh. "I like the sound of that."

She turns her attention to Rollins who tags her in as she gets in the ring while Rosa gets in the ring as well.

That smile she gave him...was it genuine? Dean shook his head, trying to get the negative thoughts out of his head. It was starting to drive him insane as he tried to keep his composure.

"Ambrose is showing a lot of emotions tonight. One minute he's calm, the next he's irate. What is going through his head?" Cole wondered.

"I don't know and honestly, I don't want to find out," King replied.

Morgan connects with three clotheslines, a left kick then a right kick, and a roundhouse kick to the face. The Outspoken Diva throws Rosa to the corner and connects with a handspring elbow smash. Rosa falls down face first, and Morgan traps her in the Breakdown submission as the crowd gets hyped.

"Uh oh, Rosa's in trouble!" Cole said as she tried to fight her way out of the hold.

Without the ref looking, due to the distraction of Kane, Billy kicks Morgan in the back of the head, making her release the hold. He quickly got back on the apron while the ref turned back to the women.

"Ow!" Morgan shouted as she stood up, rubbing the back of her head. Turning to Billy, she frowned. "Are you kidding!?"

Taking advantage, Rosa manages to kick Morgan in the midsection and throws her across the ring by the hair once again.

"Rosa is playing very dirty tonight. I love her feisty attitude," King said.

Rosa mocks Morgan's cocky curtsy, earning some loud boos from the diehard Morgan fans. She turns to The Shield and starts taunting them before walking straight up to Ambrose, giving him a stinging slap in the face, which surprises the crowd.

"Whoa!" King shouted.

"Is she insane!?" JBL exclaimed.

"That's for being a stupid fool!" Rosa yelled at Dean.

"The hell do you think you're doing!?" Seth shouted as he and Roman looked at her in disbelief.

"Shut your mouth, two tones." She put her hand in his face while Ambrose tilted his head to the side and rubbed his cheek.

Naomi tweets 'Rosa is funny. I love it. #TalkToTheHand'

Brie tweets 'Don't think that was a wise move LaRosaMendes. #NowIsTheTimeToRepent'

Celeste tweets 'So! When is LaRosaMendes' funeral once Ambrose gets his hands on her? #GotMySpeechWritten #HereLiesRosaMendes #DeadWomanWalking'

"This!" Rosa flaunted her body around with a smirk. "This is what you could have had! Remember that."

Ambrose starts to seethe while Seth and Roman calm him down.

"Control that hot head!" JBL pointed out.

"Rosa, obviously upset at the fact that she's still not with Ambrose after their confrontation months ago," Cole reminded.

Rosa gets on top of Morgan and starts unloading on her with slaps and punches.

"I'm going to embarrass you in front of the whole world!" she screamed and got off of her.

She throws Morgan to the ropes before hitting her with a sidewalk slam, making Morgan groan in pain. She goes for the pin but The Shield's girl kicks out a two.

"Rosa has been very aggressive these past few months. It's starting to become a good advantage for her." Cole said as Rosa put her in a cross armed surfboard submission from behind.

Morgan makes an aggravated sound effect. "Let go!" She screamed.

"Tap out!" Rosa screamed back and leaned back more.

"Don't break her back! She's bending her in ways that she shouldn't bend!" King said with concern.

"Morgan! Do not tap out! Come on!" Roman yelled.

"Come on, Morgan! You got this! Do not tap out! Don't!" Rollins shouted and began stomping on a steel step, trying to motivate her with the crowd.

"Come on, sweetie!" Jane banged on the mat for support.

She manages to fight her way out by breaking free of Rosa's hands, only to be beaten down again by her. Rosa stands up and throws her to her corner. She starts to distract the ref while Road Dogg kicks Morgan in the back of the head.

"Son of a..." Morgan grumbled as she held the back of her head.

Ambrose snaps and starts to growl as he gets in the ring, lunging himself at Road Dogg, and making them fall out of the ring.

"And Ambrose has had enough!" Cole looked on as all the guys started fighting outside the ring, with The Shield getting the upper hand.

Back in the ring, Morgan gets on her knees but Rosa strikes her with a hard kick to the face, making the crowd 'Oh' at the impact. Morgan falls back down on her back, holding her face in pain. Rosa starts to evilly laugh and looks in delight at her pained expression.

"This woman loves pain, doesn't she?" JBL assumed.

"Rosa is just stalking Morgan now," Cole observed.

Rosa walks over to the ropes while The Outspoken diva tries to get up in the middle of the ring.

"Bye bye Morgan!" Rosa screamed as she ran towards her and gave her a nasty swinging neckbreaker as the crowd 'Ohs' at the impact.

"Gosh...I think Rosa knocked Morgan out. This may be it." King said as Jane started to look concerned.

Rosa's mother starts cheering and jumping up and down. Rosa gets on her hands and knees as she looks down at Morgan, laughing at her.

"You see Morgan!? I'm better than you! I'm gonna beat you! I am gonna-"

"Seth Rollins!" Cole shouted as Rollins stomped on the back of Rosa's head, hitting her with the Peace of Mind, earning loud cheers. "Seth Rollins! He just came out of nowhere!"

Celeste tweets 'Hahaha! Now THAT was funny!'

"What in the world!?" King shouted.

"That's what you get!" Seth shouted and got hyped up.

He drags Morgan on top of Rosa's body as the ref goes for the pin. Billy Gunn dropkicks Seth out of the ring and quickly breaks up the pin. He waits for Morgan to get up before hitting her with the Famouser.

"Famouser on Morgan!" Cole exclaimed.

Billy drags Rosa on top of Morgan as the ref goes for the pin. As soon as Billy turns around, he gets speared by Reigns.

"Spear!"

Roman grabs Rosa's leg and pulls her off of Morgan, breaking up the pin. Rosa glares at him and stands up, slapping him in the face.

"Who do you think you are!? Don't you dare put your hands on me!" She screamed.

Suddenly, Roman picks her up in the Samoan drop hold.

"No! No!" She screamed as she started kicking her legs.

Roman roars and drops her down for the Samoan drop and drags Morgan on top of her for the pin. Road Dogg gets in the ring and clotheslines him as he rolls out of the ring. He breaks up the pin and hits Morgan with a big boot.

"Jeesh! How many kicks in the face is Morgan going to receive tonight!?" King exclaimed as Road Dogg dragged Rosa on top of Morgan for another pin.

Seth manages to break up the pin and hits Road Dogg with an enzuigiri, making him roll out the ring. As soon as Rosa gets on her knees, Rollins hits her with a diving knee to the head and drags Morgan on top of her. The ref begins to count while Kane connects a big boot to Seth's face. Kane breaks up the pin and grabs Morgan, preparing for the chokeslam.

"Oh no, don't do this! Don't!" JBL exclaimed as Kane raised her high up in the air.

"Chokeslam!" Cole shouted as he dropped her down and dragged Rosa on top of her for the pin. "These two divas are like punching bags, getting hit with all these finishers."

"1!"

"2!"

Seth and Roman quickly break up the pin.

"And The Shield stay alive! Amazing teamwork."

Ambrose gets back in the ring and attacks Kane as they roll outside the ring. They start hitting each other back and forth with punches before going over the barricade.

"Where is Ambrose going!?" King wondered.

"I got a bad feeling about this. This reminds me of Elimination Chamber." JBL added.

Meanwhile, Seth and Roman get beaten down at ringside by The Outlaws as Rosa recovers in the ring. Roman gets thrown into the barricade and back in the ring, Morgan is hurt as Rosa stands in a corner, watching her every move. The Outlaws get on the apron and Kane starts walking back to ringside.

"Wait, where's Ambrose!?"

Celeste tweets 'As I feared...'

"Looks like The Shield has bigger problems," Cole said as Kane got on the apron.

Morgan gets on her knees and exhales.

'All alone...' She thought to herself.

Rosa's team gets in the ring and Morgan goes after Kane but gets grabbed by the Outlaws as they hold her down for Rosa.

Rosa fixes her boot. "You wanna bleed on your face, again!?" she scowled.

"Oh no. Déjà vu from The Wyatt Family match." King remembered.

All of a sudden, Seth jumps in and strikes Kane with a knee to the face and kicks the Outlaws out of the ring while Rosa looks on in shock.

"Thank goodness for Rollins." JBL praised.

"Seth," Morgan called out in surprise.

"Until the end, Morgan. I'm never going to leave you, again. Never again will I leave you just like that night..." He said and helped her up, making her smile and thank him.

"Wait, where's Dean?" She looked around.

"Dean Ambrose is still nowhere to be found. I'm getting worried." King said but then Seth and Morgan get ambushed behind by the Outlaws.

They beat up Seth out of the ring while Rosa hits Morgan with the gory bomb. Rosa laughs again and starts taunting the crowd as Kane and the Outlaws are all in the ring with her. All of a sudden, Ambrose runs back through the crowd as Billy Gunn waits for Morgan to get up.

"Ambrose is back!" Cole exclaimed as the crowd exploded.

He attacks the Outlaws and Kane while Rosa quickly goes for a pin. With the Outlaws and Kane thrown out of the ring, Dean breaks up the pin at the last second as the crowd explodes again. Rosa looks at Ambrose in disbelief as she stands up.

"Are you kidding me!?" She shouted and shoved him but he didn't move an inch.

He gives her a cold, hard glare in response. Morgan recovers and looks up at Ambrose while he is in the middle of the two divas. Ambrose glances at Morgan and then Rosa.

"There is so much tension between these three," Cole said.

"You chose me over her in January! But now you want to pretend that what we had wasn't special and did not mean something! Can't you see she's toying with your emotions? Giving you mixed signals? I wouldn't do that." Rosa shouted.

"You need to shut your mouth. You don't know a thing about me and what we've been through together." Morgan replied angrily, pointing at her.

"Here comes Morgan being the victim! It's ridiculous. Dean, why are you so persistent for this piece of crap?" She spat and pointed to the Philly Diva. "She never gave a damn about you in the first place!"

"Unbelievable..." she retorted and stood up.

"So choose. And choose me. She's your past, I'm your future." Rosa grabbed him and caressed him.

Celeste tweets 'Ah...#TheFirstLoveAndTheFling. Not a hard decision. You better choose wisely Ambrose.'

Dean pushes her away and smirks at her as Rosa shoots him a dirty look.

"You're the present. Morgan's my future." Ambrose responded with no hesitation, pushing her away.

Celeste tweets 'Oh! #Rejected! #DeanAndMorganForTheFuture'

"You've just made the biggest mistake of your life!" She went to slap him in the face again but this time he caught her hand and threw her to Morgan.

Morgan connects with a roundhouse kick to the face while the Outlaws and Kane get back in the ring. Dean and Morgan stand back to back while they are surrounded.

"You see!? They are working together." JBL said to King while Ambrose and Morgan went after Kane, hitting him with a double dropkick.

They hit the Outlaws with a double clothesline. Morgan turns around and does a matrix evasion as she leans back, dodging Kane's big boot while Ambrose hits him with a lariat. Dean leans down and puts his hands on his knees but then Billy Gunn attempts to go for his finisher until Morgan pulls Ambrose back.

"Great save by Morgan," Cole says while the duo hit Billy with a double suplex.

"You okay?" She asked with concern while Dean nodded.

"I owe you." He replied.

"You can buy me grapes, later," she winked and smiled.

Meanwhile, Rosa rolls out the ring and storms around ringside, banging on the announce table.

"This is not happening...this shouldn't be happening...this is not supposed to happen!" She screamed.

"Calm down! Calm down!" JBL shouted. "Don't get mad because things aren't going your way!"

Celeste tweets 'When is LaRosaMendes going to lose her voice from all that screaming?'

Rosa sees Chyna and storms up to her as she stands up from her seat again.

"You think this is funny!?" She snapped as Chyna grinned with amusement.

The crowd looks on in shock and anticipation when Rosa suddenly pushes Chyna's face with her hand.

"Did she just did Rosa Mendes just do the impossible and put her hands on The Ninth Wonder of the World?!" Cole exclaimed, scared for her.

Celeste tweets 'And...you're fucked...#CallingAFuneralHome #NiceKnowingYa'

Chyna shoots her a glare as Rosa's eyes widen and she starts running. She jumps over the barricade and runs through the crowd with Chyna right behind her.

"Don't kill her!" JBL chuckled as they watched Chyna chase her around.

Later on, Seth, Morgan, and Dean are on the apron while Roman is in the ring with the Outlaws and positions them so that they are on the ropes. He slides out of the ring and hits them with a double dropkick to the face. He slides back in the ring and takes Road Dogg down with a Superman punch.

"One more time!" He yelled and punched the mat while Kane slid back in the ring.

"Here comes the sequel!" JBL said but Roman got caught in the chokeslam hold.

Seth hits Kane with a flying knee to the head as Kane rolls out of the ring. Seth attacks him with a dive out of the ring while Billy Gunn tries to go for his finisher on Roman. Dean gets in the ring and starts unloading on him.

"Dean Ambrose's fists are flying like he is," King said as Dean and Road Dogg went at it out of the ring.

"Oh my goodness," Cole said as Chyna walked through the crowd with Rosa high up in the air.

The crowd chants 'You still go it' while Rosa tries to beg for her life. She throws Rosa over the barricade and jumps over it.

Celeste tweets 'This is what happens when you mess with Morgan and her family. #LifeLesson'

Rosa gets thrown back in the ring by Chyna as she gets in the ring as well. Rosa scrambles back but bumps into Morgan's legs as the two cousins surround her like she is their prey. Chyna and Morgan stare Rosa down before looking at each other while smirking.

"Rosa! Get out of there!" King exclaimed.

She stands up and tries to escape but Chyna grabs her by the hair as she tries to beg for forgiveness.

"Too late to beg now," JBL said.

Chyna gives her a hard shot to the face, making her turn to Morgan who gives her a shot to the face. They hit her back and forth until Chyna and Morgan hit Rosa with a double DDT.

'You still got it!' the crowd chants again while Chyna waits for Rosa to get up.

She delivers the pedigree on her and Rosa rolls out the ring as her mom tries to help her.

"And that is the end of Rosa. No getting up from that. Especially with Chyna's strength." JBL said.

Chyna and Morgan grin at each other and embrace as the crowd cheers loudly.

"What a Morgan Moment. Chyna and Morgan working together. I'm sure this won't be the last time these two team up." King cheered.

Billy Gunn and Road Dogg are back in the ring as The Shield surrounds them while Chyna watches from ringside with Jane. The Shield turn their attention to Morgan and give her a smirk as she nods in approval. Road Dogg and Billy Gunn look nervous as they try to escape but get blocked off as Dean, Roman and Seth beat them down.

"What's going on now?" Cole asked as Morgan got help from her teammates to position the Outlaws for a double Morganizer off the top rope.

"No way," JBL said in surprise.

"Yes way! Look out!" King yelled in a high pitched voice as she delivered the double Morganizer to the Outlaws.

"Double Morganizer! Never saw the coming! The Shield are dominating."

Roman turns around to hit Kane with a spear and once back up to his feet, he roars. The Shield set the Outlaws up for a double Triple Powerbomb, making some of the crowd stand up with anticipation while Morgan gets on the top rope.

"What is Morgan about to do? And what are The Shield attempting to do here? Oh man, we've never seen this. Not two men being set up for a triple powerbomb!" Cole exclaimed.

"That's a 100 years of powerbomb right there!" JBL said.

"Look out!" King shouted as Morgan hit the Outlaws with a flying double clothesline at the same time as The Shield dropped them down for the double triple powerbomb.

"There goes the attitude!"

Seth goes for the pin while Roman and Dean stand on the top rope.

"1!"

"2!"

"3!"

The crowd explodes as The Shield's theme blares out in the arena.

"Let's go!" Morgan shouted and embraced Seth as he spun her around, happily.

"Here are your winners, The Shield!" Lilian announced.

Roman gets off the turnbuckle and gives Seth and Morgan a hug.

"This has got to feel good for Morgan, after all she's been through with Rosa," Cole said as she got up on the turnbuckle and taunted the crowd. "The Shield continue its dominance with another convincing performance."

Dean high fives Seth and Roman before all members put their fists out to do The Shield pose.

"This is their yard," JBL praised.

The Shield continue to celebrate, while Morgan is overjoyed with winning the match. She wraps her arms around Dean and gives him a big hug, earning some fangirl screams. Dean hugs her back but moments later he realizes what he's doing and backs away.

"What's wrong?" She asked, taken aback.

"I can't do this." He quickly exited the ring.

Seth and Roman glance at each other, knowing the situation between the two.

"Wait, what? Where are you going?" She exclaimed as The Shield's theme faded away.

"What's going on?" King asked.

"After that hug, Ambrose just walked out," Cole said as Dean started to slowly walk up the ramp.

Morgan looked at the crowd, seeing some saying, 'Go to him!' and 'Go after him!'

She runs her hands through her hair as she starts to remember all the good times they've had together. She does still love him. She knew he wanted to hear that, but would he cheat again? Or will he stay loyal 100 percent? Love isn't perfect. You need to work in the relationship and get through all the odds. She knows what she wants. What she needs. And she isn't going to let him slip away from her.

Morgan gets out of the ring and stops at the end of the ramp.

"Dean! Hey! Stop! Don't you dare walk away from me, Dean!" She yelled but he didn't listen to her.

She sighed and turned to Jane and Chyna who signaled her to go after them as well as Rollins and Roman.

"What is Morgan going to do?" Cole asked.

Dean wasn't stopping. Did he give up on her? Was she too late?

She exhaled and shouted, "Don't let your true feelings for me disappear! I never stopped believing in you! I never stopped believing in us! No matter how much I tried to deny those thoughts of us being together, I still believe in us! And if you just leave, then what am I supposed to feel? Were all these attempts to win my heart for nothing?! Dean, I need you! Dean, I love you! I want us to work this out!"

He stopped walking as the crowd cheered loudly. He stood in the middle of the ramp and slowly turned his head back towards her.

"...What did you just say?" he asked.

Celeste tweets 'AHH! Did she just say what I think she just said!?'

Suddenly, Morgan runs after him as he turns around to face her.

"I love you." She said before grabbing him into a heated kiss as the deafening cheers and fangirl screams surrounded the arena.

Rosa watches on in disbelief with her jaw dropped as her mom helps her up.

"What!?" King yelled in a high pitched voice.

"Yes!" JBL shouted.

"They're back!" Cole cheered.

"Yes! Yes! This is just beautiful! Wonderful!" JBL exclaimed as Roman and Seth looked on in satisfaction, high fiving each other.

Ambrose's eyes widen but kisses her back with the same passion as he wraps an arm around her waist while she holds his arms.

"This is a PG show! They're French kissing!" King exclaimed as the crowd chanted 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'

Brie tweets 'Yes! Yes! Yes! they're kissing! This is what we've been waiting for for so long!'

They end the kiss and embrace each other. Things were going to be OK.

--------

The Shield and Morgan are backstage with Renee Young.

"I'm here with The Shield, huge victory tonight for you guys. A victory tonight, over the New Age Outlaws, Rosa, and Kane, I mean you guys were working so closely with The Authority, and to get this victory tonight at WrestleMania, how do you guys feel?" Renee asked.

"From day one, we said we do things for The Shield. Nobody else. We are our own bosses, we run this yard, we came in, proved a point, WrestleMania 30, The Shield run the show, that's how we feel." Seth answered.

"Let me ask you a question, okay?" Dean asked. "Does it look like we're sweating?"

"Well, your hair is very wet." Renee replied while Morgan chuckled.

"We're not sweating at all because we didn't have to break a sweat to run through Kane, Rosa and the New Age Outlaws. A hot knife through butter, on the biggest stage of them all. The brightest stars shine the brightest and The Shield represent this." He showed his bare fist without the tape. "The new symbol of excellence."

"That's right, you see what happens when you push against The Shield? We pull out secret weapons. Nobody has ever seen the double triple powerbomb, baby." Roman said.

"I thought we were gonna call it the Triple double,"

"It's the double triple."

"Guys, look, the bottom line is we can no, no, no, no, no. Wait-" Seth began as Roman and Dean began to protest about the name of the powerbomb.

"Oh my goodness..." Morgan shook her head.

"The regular one is the triple powerbomb. We put two people up with the double triple POWERBOMB!" Roman shouted, making Morgan laugh with Renee.

"All right, all right, all right," Seth said. "Cool, I agree with you."

"All right, I'm telling you. Agree with me." Roman pointed to Dean with a playful stern look.

"Oh, I agree." Dean grinned.

"Okay."

"You see what I gotta deal with?" Morgan chuckled with Renee.

"Hey, but you love us." Seth grinned and gave her a bone crushing hug with Roman.

"Don't squeeze me to death!" She groaned while Renee giggled. "Jeez."

"Morgan, how does it feel winning this match tonight with your family and friends watching? Especially Chyna?" Renee asked.

"To have her here to support me and guide me is awesome. She's always there for me and she really wanted a front row seat to watch me kick Rosa's ass, but I can guarantee you that my rivalry with Rosa is far from over. And to have my boys with me, by my side, having my back is awesome, too. I love you guys." She replied with a smile.

"Aw, she loves us." Seth put an arm around her and gave her a noogie.

"Hey! My hair!" She pushed him away and began messing up his hair.

"Aye! Hands off the two toned hair!" he playfully pushed her away. He put his fist out while the other members followed him. "Believe in The Shield! Ha ha ha!"

"Congratulations," Renee said as Roman stuck his tongue out to the camera and walked away with Seth.

Renee walked away while Morgan chuckled. She was about to leave but Dean gently grabbed her hand, making her smile and turn around.

"And where do you think you're going?" He grinned.

"To the diva's locker room." She replied.

"Come with me." He smiled and walked away with her.

--------

On Raw after Mania, the crowd gives Morgan and Paige a loud reaction as the titantron shows them hugging backstage.

"I'm so proud of you! Congrats on winning the title." Morgan smiled. "Finally someone put AJ in her place. You deserve that championship. The Diva's Division is totally going to be changing."

Paige wiped her tears and chuckled. "Thank you. I guess you're going to go after this too, huh?"

"I wish but I got my hands full with Rosa. And you never know what she'll do to sabotage my chances. But I'm the least of your worries. Although the Diva's locker room is going to get more competitive now that you're here, you'll breeze right through them. They shouldn't underestimate you." They embrace again and Paige walked away.

The Outspoken Diva smiled and turned around to see the Total Divas grinning at her.

"Hey, Morgan!" Nikki grinned.

"Hey guys." She smiled but noticed the girls staring at her more than usual. "What?"

"Just curious..." Brie spoke up.

The Philly Diva started to look confused. "About what?"

"Ah, forget it. So how's your night been going?"

"Great,"

She had a feeling she was in court, because of the way they were looking at her. Something was off.

"So!" Cameron said in a loud voice, clearing her throat.

"So?" The Outspoken Diva repeated.

"Care to fill us in on what happened between you and Dean?" Naomi grinned as the divas started to look at Morgan intently.

"What do you mean?" Morgan chuckled.

"Oh, you know what we mean. We saw that kiss at WrestleMania. What's up with you two?" Eva asked.

"Yeah! You were all over him last night. What happened?" Nikki asked.

"We saw you leave together after the show." Cameron showed her a photo of her and Dean leaving.

"What the heck, Cameron? What are you stalking me?" Morgan exclaimed.

"Curiosity." Cameron smiled. "So?"

"Can't friends share cars?"

"Friends. Well played. Friends with benefits?" Nikki raised a brow with a big grin on her face.

"Oh my gosh..." Morgan sighed.

"I bet they confess their love to each other every hour. Oh, Morgan, I love you so much. You're my future, Rosa is my past. I love you, Harley!" Brie exclaimed in a fake male voice, hugging Cameron as she played along while the crowd laughed.

Morgan couldn't help but look amused at the girls as she tried not to laugh out loud.

"Oh, Dean! Dean! I love you, Dean! You're my Joker! I love you, honey!" Cameron dramatically said.

"I don't say honey!" Morgan exclaimed.

"Ah ha! You do have a nickname for him." Nikki grinned.

"You guys are so nosy."

"So, what happened after the match? I want details!"

Santino and Emma walk over to the Divas. "Hello, ladies." Santino greeted.

Morgan mentally thanked those two and took the opportunity to leave.

"I want to know, too. What is going on between Morgan and Ambrose? Did they make up?" Cole asked.

"I hope so. My favorite couple back in action." JBL exclaimed.

"I can't wait to see more Morgan. She's looking great tonight!" King cheered.

-----

'WWE APP Exclusive Video'

Morgan bumped into Orton backstage. "Sorry about that..." She mumbled.

"You're a very popular person tonight," Orton called out.

"I don't mean to be. One kiss can mean a lot of things. And then you're trending on Twitter and causing a lot of frenzy on more social media. It's...interesting."

"I'm sure. Oh, and thanks for nothing."

"Huh?"

"Thanks for not helping me out last night when I needed you." He glared at her.

She scoffed. "You've gotta be kidding. So now you're blaming me for your loss? The Randy Orton I used to know doesn't like having partners and likes to work alone. He gets the job done faster. This new version of you is too soft."

She turned around and started walking away but grunted when he grabbed her forearm, forcing her to turn back away.

"I'm not done with you-" He got cut off when Ambrose interfered and made him release her.

He gave him a stern look while Orton gave them a dirty look and stormed off, mumbling to himself.

Morgan exhaled and turned to Dean, making eye contact with him as she smiled. He was about to open his mouth but was interrupted by a WWE Doctor who wanted to check Morgan's head again to make sure she wasn't concussed from the series of kicks she received last night in the head.

"I'll see you later," she gave Ambrose an apologetic smile and followed the doctor.

------

Later, after being as good as new and being told nothing was wrong, Morgan stretched her legs as the crowd gave her another loud reception. Dean walked over to her with a smile as she greeted him and stood up.

"Hey, thanks again for earlier." She said as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

"No problem." He said in his raspy voice.

She slid her hands up on his chest as he glanced at her lips. He slowly leaned in to kiss her as she wrapped her arms around his neck but then Stephanie ran into them, with her eyes widening.

"What on earth are you two doing?!" Stephanie asked in surprise.

"N-nothing." Morgan cleared her throat, backing away from Ambrose.

-----

Later, all members of The Shield and Kane were in Stephanie's office.

"I don't care what happened between you at WrestleMania. I don't care what happened between you two..." Stephanie narrowed her eyes at the Mad couple. "...at WrestleMania, and I don't care what happened to your brother at WrestleMania." She looked at Kane. "Okay because what really matters, what's really important, is that Triple H becomes the 14 time WWE World heavyweight champion, tonight. And all of you are going to make sure that it happens."

Ambrose held Morgan's hand while looking at Stephanie. It felt good holding hands again and starting over. Their relationship can work and it will work.

"That all sounds great but I really feel like, Kane you're missing some buddies over there," Seth said as Roman chuckled. "Where are the New Age Outlaws, pal?"

"Come on, man," Dean spoke up.

"Oh, Seth..." Stephanie said with an amused grin.

"Come on, we already know. As long as we're around, I don't think we'll ever see them again." Ambrose said with a smirk.

"I also think that personally." Roman chuckled.

"You four don't know that you're on thin ice, do you?" Kane asked.

"Kane," Stephanie warned.

"Triple H sees you for what you are. Nameless, faceless, expendable, pawns."

"Kane."

Morgan narrowed her eyes at Kane as The Shield looked at him weirdly.

"You think you can just go on and beat up Triple H's friends? He thought you learned your lesson."

"Kane..."

"In fact, when I had you decimated on Smackdown, a couple weeks ago-"

"Kane!"

"He was the one who-"

"Kane!"

"Told me to do so!"

"Kane!"

"I knew it..." Morgan mumbled, understanding what a snake Triple H was.

"Listen. There is an injustice here." Stephanie said.

"I'm looking right at it." The Outspoken Diva mumbled, earning amused looks from her teammates as the crowd 'Oohs' and laughed, although Stephanie did not hear it.

"And nobody understands that better than the four of you. That's what you stand for. The yes movement, Daniel Bryan, it's disrespectful. It is an injustice in itself that he is the WWE World Heavyweight champion. You all know that you all want it. You know what it means, to be champion. So tonight, you are all gonna be on the same page because what Triple H, the boss, what he wants. He gets. Do I make myself clear?" Stephanie requested.

"...Absolutely." Kane walked away.

"Do I make myself clear?" She looked at The Shield.

"Crystal," Roman replied.

"And..." She turned her attention to Ambrose and Morgan, glancing at their hands. "I don't care if you two have reunited or whatever, but tonight, the real focus needs to be on my husband winning the WWE World heavyweight championship. Not your public display of affection. And if I catch you two-"

"Whoa, catch? What were you two doing?" Seth asked with a grin.

"Nothing." The couple simultaneously said and left the room, making the crowd laugh.

Seth and Roman don't look convinced and they start to grin out of amusement.

#the shield #dean ambrose #dean ambrose x oc #dean ambrose fanfic #the shield fanfiction #the shield 4th member #the shield fanfic #wwe #seth rollins #roman reigns #wwe oc #wwe fanfiction

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jxtina-86 · 1 year ago

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Temporary Escape - Part 4

A/N: I've added the previous parts to my fanfic links here. As always, this was written far too long ago - Mox is Dean for that reason. Blah blah blah.

To say I am nervous about posting this, is an understatement. I have written some crazy shit in the past but nothing quite compares to this and is one of the reasons I've sat on this for far too long.

I would really appreciate some love to ease my nerves on this - thank you in advance!

This entire part is a flashback - I've only put the first part in italics for reasons that will become clear...

This entire flashback is 10k words so I've split in two - look out for the next part soon...

So... let's find out what happened shall we?

Warning: Smut. To use the old-school term, this is stuffed with so many lemons, you could make a million gallons of lemonade

Rating: MA

Seth Rollins/OC/Roman Reigns/Dean Ambrose (Jon Moxley)

---

Fingers lightly dance over my hips as Seth kisses me, his mouth firm, wanting. I breathe into him, my body fluid as I lean into him. His hand slides up the back of my neck, into my hair, twisting big handfuls into his grasp as he holds me close. And yet I can still feel a hand on each hip. Then Seth’s other hand cups my face and I realise with a jolt that there’s another, someone behind me, someone else’s breath on my neck.

The hands on my hips squeeze gently as lips caress my shoulder. Seth is pulling away from my mouth, trailing hot, feverish kisses down my throat and I’m able to look behind me. Roman stares back at me, his tongue darting out to lick his lips before he kisses me. I groan into his mouth, responding not only to his kiss but Seth’s fingers tugging down the cups of my bra, his tongue flicking across one nipple before he takes it fully into his mouth. My brain is on the verge of shutting down already, when I feel another tongue, another mouth on my other breast. I break away from Roman’s mouth to see Dean slipping a hand around my back to unclasp my bra and drag the straps down my arms before he chucks the garment over his shoulder.

Seth sinks lower, his mouth on my stomach, his fingers on my panties and I can feel my knees starting to buckle. Roman’s mouth is hot on my neck and jawline, my hair wrapped roughly around his fist and out of his way. Dean’s tongue is sinful, his big hands cupping my breasts, making me hiss with firm, yet teasing pinches to my already sensitive nipples. My body arches as Seth…

I feel the bed beneath me, the warmth of the sheets, the softness of the pillow, a faint glow beyond my closed eyes and a dull murmur that brings me out of my slumber.

“Hey,” I hear Seth whisper, his hand ghosting over my back. “You okay?”

“Huh?” My voice is thick with sleep, my eyes squinting at the glare of the TV.

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“I was?” I roll over to find him and smile, my eyes closing as he pulls me close.

“Yeah,” he breathes across my cheek. “Bad dream?”

I shake my head, but don’t say anything because I’m not sure what to say. I can barely compute it, the details are hazy but the more conscious I become the more aware I am that my skin feels hot as if those three pairs of hands are still caressing me.

Seth’s finger slips under my chin, tilting my head back so I look up at him. “Tell me.”

I mean, do you tell your sort-of-casual-fuck-slash-kinda-boyfriend about sex dreams that involve other people? Especially when those other people are specifically his friends and co-workers?

“Tell me,” he repeats, his arms settling around me, his beard fuzzy against my forehead.

“You were there,” I start and I look up in time to see the cockiness spread across the lit side of his face; the rest cast in shadow and unreadable. “Fine, it was a sex dream.”

“Uh-huh…” he grins. “You’re almost as vocal in your dreams as you are in real life.”

I feel my cheeks redden and for a moment wonder if he can see, before I realise that perhaps certain names slipped out during my state of unconsciousness.

“So,” he continues. “What were we doing?”

I chew my lip. “We…”

“Because if you tell me, I’ll give you the real life play-by-play.”

I snort and before I can connect my brain with my mouth: “I’d think twice about that.”

“Why?”

I kick myself. “We… We weren’t alone.”

“I see.”

“Just a dream, Seth.”

“Sure.” He pauses. “But a dream you were enjoying?”

“I guess.”

“Who was there?” He doesn’t sound jealous, he doesn’t, as far as I can tell, even look jealous. It seems to be genuine curiosity.

“You really want to know?” I give him a quizzical look.

“Sure.” His face stays soft and relaxed.

I chew my lip and when I speak my voice is low, barely a whisper. “Roman… and Dean.”

He’s silent and I watch him blink, his bottom lip disappearing for a second as he chews it thoughtfully. “Huh.”

“See, told you to think twice about it.” I force a chuckle as I look down, unable to meet his gaze. “Anyway, just a stupid dream.”

“How was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it good?”

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

“I want to.”

“Why? It was a dream. Nothing more.”

“What if it was more?”

I look back up at him sharply. “What?”

“I made you a deal. You tell me your dream and I give you the play-by-play in real-life.”

“Seth, c’mon. Like you’d ever agree to that.” He has to be kidding. Right?

“I would. I am.”

I roll my eyes. “No, you wouldn’t and you’re not. Like how would that even work?”

“I think it’s pretty straightforward.”

“Sure. You go wake the guys, tell them that we’re going to have a foursome and then it just happens.”

“Why not?”

I blink. “Because it sounds fucking insane Seth.”

“Trust me, it isn’t in the slightest.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see.” He kisses me on the forehead before he pulls the covers back and starts to rise.

“Where are you going?”

“To get them.”

“Seth!”

He kneels on the edge of the bed, bending down to me, his hand cupping my cheek, fingers lacing through my hair. “Trust me. Go freshen up. I’ll be back.”

I grip his wrist, keeping him to me for a minute. “Seth, stop messing with me.”

“No messing. I’m serious.”

“I don’t understand.”

He kisses me and it’s soft, tender. “I’m telling you that if you want this, it’s on offer.”

“I…”

“Take as long as you need,” he breathes against my mouth as he pulls back again. “We’ll be waiting.”

I watch as he moves to the door and it shuts behind him. I’m frozen in the bed, but only momentarily, as I try to compute the conversation that has just occurred. And then I’m moving, scrambling to push the sheets back and launching myself towards the bathroom where I close the door and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I’m telling you that if you want this, it’s on offer.

One casual, half-formed sex dream and suddenly sex with three men at once is a possibility. Beyond how incredibly fucked up this is becoming in the early hours of a Saturday morning, I’m not even sure of the logistics of a foursome. Opening the bathroom door, I spy my phone and grab it quickly before retreating to lean against the vanity and open up Google. I pause, unsure what to write. The results will be porn or urban dictionary entries written by sixteen-year-olds - hardly a reflection of the potential reality of what may be about to unfold.

And then I stop - how is this even happening in the first place? I half-wonder if this is a dream within a dream, that I’ll wake from this to discover I’m back in bed and Seth is asleep next to me and no one is even remotely suggesting that a dream should be acted upon with almost immediate effect.

I can’t even put my finger on what even caused the dream. But as I close my eyes, I can see fragments of the brief encounter stood between three men and my stomach flips. Of course I can see the attraction of Roman and Dean - they’re tall, handsome men, with muscles, charm and wit. But they’re also Seth’s friends and co-workers. And surely to them, I’m his… Well, whatever I am.

And maybe this is why Seth is up for this, I think, my heart sinking slightly. I am just a casual fuck. Sharing me with his friends wouldn’t be a big deal because I’m not his girlfriend or anything quite as serious. I’m just the girl he sees when he’s local or when he invites me out to keep him company on the road. So what would it matter if I slept with his friends in some off-the-chain sexual exploration?

I chew my lip, picking up my phone again, idly scrolling to take my mind off this sudden realisation of why Seth wasn’t even bothered by my dream in the first place. There’s a handful of messages and I scroll through them, one of them an unknown number. I frown as I open it and read the message in full:

Hey Maddy, Seth sent me your number. I was backstage the other night when you were with the guys and thought you might like this.

There’s a blurred picture and as it starts to download, I suddenly remember. They’d been wearing the skull masks, the same that Seth and I had messed around with a few weeks back and had been posing for backstage snippets presumably with the same photographer who was messaging me. Seth had pulled me into one of the shots and with a chill down my spine I remember how close all three had felt as they surrounded me to make sure they were all in shot.

The photo comes into focus and I swallow hard. I’m the only one staring at the lens, my grin bashful. All three of them are looking elsewhere. All three of them, I realise, are looking at me. To the left is Dean, his head cocked to one side as he stares down at me, his chest almost up against my shoulder. Behind me is Roman, his head looming above mine, his eyes boring into me, his shoulders and arms flexed. And to the right is Seth, his eyes the only ones I can truly read and I know what happened later that night to back that look up - the combination of the mask, that he’d hit that roll over the barricade during their entrance and just him being him had resulted in one hell of an impromptu after-party between the sheets. Or rather against the wall, on the floor, against the chest of drawers, in the shower, against the bathroom vanity and then finally on the bed where the mood slowed and he’d fucked me painfully slowly, teasing me, until I was shaking uncontrollably.

I blink, distracted at the memory and stare again at the photo as if I’d imagined what I had previously seen. But no, all three are still staring at me and my dream suddenly seems to come into sharp focus as well. I obviously hadn’t realised at the time what was happening around me but clearly somewhere in my sub-conscious that feeling of them all so close had remained and my brain had started to connect the dots.

And the conversation with Seth is starting to make more sense too. He knew. He knew about this photo, knew what Roman and Dean were thinking and my dream was just confirmation that in some way we were all on the same page. My heart starts to pound and my hands are trembling as I put the phone down and start to consider what to do next.

My train of thought is interrupted by movement behind the door and I freeze, my ears straining to hear…

“Are we all sure about this?” I can hear Roman saying. “Including Maddy?”

“I told her that if she was up for it, so were we,” Seth replies.

“I mean it’s pretty fucked up.” Dean, which surprises me. “How are you okay with this?” My thoughts exactly.

There’s a pause. “If this is what she wants, then I’ll give her that. The fact it’s you two, you both admitted you’d have hit on her given the opportunity and rightly or wrongly I trust that you’re not going to do anything to hurt her, well that’s a bonus.”

“So let me get this straight,” Dean again. “You’re willing to give her whatever she wants, I get that. But usually acts like that are usually giving a chick commitment or a fucking handbag or some shit like that. Not a gang-bang.”

“Are you down for it or not?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one you should be asking that question to. I’d start with asking Maddy and perhaps even yourself.”

“But if she is. And I am?”

Another pause. “Sure.”

“Roman?”

There’s a grunt of agreement.

“Okay, so the deal is that no-one ever mentions what happens outside of these four walls. Not even to each other. And this is on her terms, her lead. No-one does anything to fuck with that, got it?”

“Christ, this is fucked up.”

Couldn’t say it better myself, I think as I close my eyes. Dean’s hands on my breasts, Roman’s mouth on mine, Seth’s tongue on my stomach. I bite my lip, feeling my skin flush. My terms. Never mentioned again. He trusts them. I trust them.

I ruffle my hair, tug at my shirt, reach for my toothbrush and a minute later I reach for the door handle. Taking a deep breath, I slowly pull open the door, my heart in my mouth as I feel three pairs of eyes on me. I’m not sure where to look and the first person my gaze connects with is Roman. He’s shirtless, his hair tied back as it usually is, but not as neat as if it was done in a hurry, the edges frizzy and loose around his face. My breath catches in my throat as I look away but at the same time catch a glimpse of the sweatpants slung low on his waist. Too low for there to be anything underneath them.

My eyes sweep to find Seth and instead meet Dean who at first glance seems to be fully clothed but then I notice the hoodie is only half-zipped and I can see his chest. I find myself blushing despite having seen both him and Roman in various states of undress over the past two years - sharing hotel rooms will do that as will a backstage pass that gets you into locker-rooms to sneak a kiss or more with your…

Finally, Seth comes into focus. He smiles, stepping away from the other two towards me. He’s still in the same state of undress; the tight boxers that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. His arms slide around me, his hands in the small of my back as he pulls me against him.

“Hey,” he breathes against my cheek before he gives me a soft kiss. “You okay?”

“I guess.��

“Maddy,” he says, his mouth next to my ear, his voice low. “If you want this, they’re on board. I told them-”

“I know. I heard you.” I cup his face with one hand. “I still don’t get why you’re on board though?”

For the first time, I see his cheeks flush slightly. “You once said that you wanted to feel everything at the same time.”

“I’m pretty sure I was kidding, Seth.”

“Your choice. The three of us will give you that. If you want it.”

“I saw the photo.”

“And?” Seth’s fingers are trailing up and down my back and all I can think about is how much I suddenly want, need, the other two to do the same.

“My terms?”

He nods and I look up to see the other two nod in agreement.

Seth slips a hand around my neck, up into my hairline as he kisses me. I audibly groan into his mouth, clamouring for more as he pulls back. “So tell us?”

“Tell you what?”

“About your dream.”

I close my eyes for a second, steadying my breath. When I open them, Dean and Roman are closing in, one of either side of us. “It started with just you,” I tell Seth. “We were kissing. And your hands were on my hips. But then you moved them but I could still feel hands there and that’s when I realised we weren’t alone.”

“Who was it?” I hear Roman ask, his voice so low it practically vibrates through me.

“You,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper. “You were behind me…” I look up at Seth who nods encouragingly. “You were kissing my neck and then Seth started to move down to my breasts so then you kissed me.”

“And then?” says Dean and I can tell without even looking that he’s barely inches from me.

“There was another mouth on my breasts…”

“Me?” Dean’s the first out of him and Roman to touch me, a finger trailing down my jawline to raise my gaze to him. I nod and he gives me a cocky grin.

My mind starts to fog as I feel hands, larger than Seth’s cup my hips and my heart pounds as I feel Roman’s chest against my back. Seth’s mouth ghosts over mine as I get out the final memory of the dream. “You,” I tell him. “You started to go down on me and that’s when I woke up.”

“No wonder you were moaning in your sleep,” he chuckles as he presses kisses to my jawline. “Those soft, breathy moans that you do when you’re on the edge.”

Fingers pluck at my shirt, lifting it and I realise that, unlike my dream, I am completely unprepared for this. Thank god I showered before bed is all I can think. Not so thankful that under my shirt I’m wearing a cropped bra that’s seen better days rather than some chic lingerie that flatters me rather than offering practical support. My mouth opens to offer some sort of apology, but I’m halted by a hand cupping the back of my neck, easing my head back.

“Breathy moans, huh?” Roman murmurs. “Let me see if I can help with that.” He leans forward and I sense a slight hint of tentativeness at the first real step over the line. But then his lips brush over mine just as Seth’s hand cups my breast and my head almost explodes. Roman’s mouth is firm, determined, his fingers massaging the back of my neck at the same pace. I sigh into him and I feel his lips twitch in a grin. Only when Seth nips at my ear do we break apart and I’m breathless as my shirt is pulled free from my body. Seth kisses me, a soft growl in the back of his throat and I wonder if it’s through want or need to assert his ownership over me, or something else.

But once again, all rational thought leaves my mind as he pulls away and returns to blaze a path down my throat. I feel new fingers plucking at my bra, cool air hitting my breasts as that too is pulled up and over my head and I’m left fully exposed bar my panties. I can’t bring myself to look down so i look up instead, meeting Roman’s gaze once again and letting my hand cup his head this time to bring his mouth back to mine.

Dean’s tongue meets my skin at the same time as Seth’s; a move that seems too coordinated not to be and my back arches into their touch. I can feel hands everywhere - on my breasts, my back, my shoulders, my neck and my skin feels electrified. Dean pulls back, releasing my nipple with an audible pop and then I hiss into Roman’s mouth as a cool breeze hits my hot and damp skin. Fingers pinch gently, then harder, testing the waters and I pull away from Roman to meet Dean’s gaze.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice rough as he pinches my nipple again watching my face intently.

I nod, my head lolling back against Roman’s chest.

“What else do you like?” he pushes as he cups my breast and takes it into his mouth again, his tongue swirling over the hot skin before he pulls back again, this time his teeth grazing the sensitive tip.

“That,” I manage to get out. “I… I like that.”

Seth’s mouth is on my stomach and my legs start to tremble. I’m more turned on than I ever realised was physically possible and even on an average day, his mouth is my undoing within minutes. I can already feel the tingling anticipation between my legs and I’m about to be at my most vulnerable, yet most euphoric in the presence of three men.

Roman’s teeth nip at my ear. “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I breathe as I feel Dean cup both my breasts, pushing them together and then his tongue flicking over one then the other. Seth’s tongue trails from my navel down to the waistband of my panties and I feel my knees start to give way. “Fuck…”

My free hand drops to the back of his head and I feel him chuckle against my skin.

“Needy, huh?” Dean teases as he takes the opportunity to kiss me for the first time. “Tell us, what do you need?”

I can feel Seth pause in his endeavour, Roman’s mouth halts too, his breath hot on my neck as I stare up at Dean’s wide eyes. The three of them, waiting on me, waiting for my command, my permission to proceed.

“I need to cum.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

“That’s a given, but what do you need?” Dean asks again.

“I…” My head is swimming.

“This?” His fingers dig gently but firmly into my breasts.

“Or this?” Roman adds, his mouth on my neck, teeth nipping at the taut skin.

“And this?” Seth’s voice vibrates against my clit and I jolt in response.

“Or all of it?” Dean summises with a grin as my eyes meet his and I nod.

Seth’s hands are splayed on my thighs as he kisses me through my panties. His tongue flicks over my clit, dampening the material even more than it already is. His arm nudges my legs further apart and I feel myself slip against Roman’s chest, Dean’s hands tugging involuntarily at my breasts.

“Easy,” Roman murmurs and a secure arm eases around my waist, holding me steady. “I got you, baby girl.”

My stomach flips at the endearment and his touch, grateful for both. Dean’s hands are still pawing at my breasts, but his mouth is ghosting over mine and this time his kiss is hard, wanton. Seth’s fingers finally start to ease my panties down and there’s a brief pause as I step out of them and then I feel his tongue. I moan into Dean’s mouth, my body lurching uncontrollably and Roman’s arm grips me firmly.

“Shit, you’re dripping Maddy” I hear Seth say as his fingers rub my wetness. I’m barely aware of him rising until Dean slips away from me and I feel two fingers touch my lips.

“Holy fuck,” I hear Dean exhale as Seth pushes his fingers into my mouth, making me taste myself. I’m lost in a haze of lust, barely able to focus as Dean’s mouth crashes against me as Seth heads south once again.

“Can I…” Roman growls against my ear and I shiver as I nod. His hand slides down my back, over my ass, squeezing the exposed flesh and I moan as finally a long finger slides into the heat between my legs just as Seth’s tongue presses flat against my clit. There are hands and mouths all over me and I’m already starting to spiral. My own hands are occupied with gripping the back of Seth’s head, the other slipping back and forth between Roman and Dean, unable to stay still for long, desperate to feel them both as they adorn me with kisses and teasing strokes.

Roman adds another finger, just as Seth eases my leg over his shoulder, opening me to both of them and the movement causes me to break from Dean’s kiss with a gasp. Roman’s arm around my waist tightens and I hiss as he nips at my neck.

“Faster or slower?” he murmurs, his fingers mimicking his question before returning to a steady pace that combined with Seth’s mouth and tongue on my clit is moments away from making me unravel completely.

“Just right,” I manage to stammer. “Oh fuck…” My body arches as I feel Seth’s thumb on my clit as he presses wet kisses to my inner thigh.

“Go on,” I feel Dean's warm breath on my cheek. “Take it, we’ve got you.” His fingers are circling my nipples, making me shiver as my head rolls back onto Roman’s shoulder.

“So wet,” I hear Roman murmur. “Fuck, Maddy…”

My breath hitches as Seth’s mouth returns to my clit, steady and firm pressure from his tongue, fingers gripping my thigh, my ass as he pushes me further and further towards an orgasm that’s jointly fueled by the actions of two others. My skin starts to itch, hot, flushed and I can feel the blood rushing in my ears. My hand on Seth’s head tightens, keeping him just so. My legs are starting to go numb and I feel my weight pressing back into Roman, his solid frame rock solid. As is something else.

Pressed against my ass, I can feel the outline of his dick, hard and thick and I can’t help but roll my hips slightly, relishing in how Roman’s teeth nip at my earlobe and Seth’s mouth never even falters. The move doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean, who presses his entire body against my side, his own length and thickness nudging at my hip. His fingers grip my chin as he kisses me, a hand pulling my own from his shoulder and down over his chest, his stomach, his crotch.

A strangled sob echoes through the air and for a second I can’t work out where it comes from. And then I hear Dean whispering, coaxing me softly as my orgasm rips through me and realise the sound came from me. Wave upon wave crashes through me, Seth’s mouth still on my clit, knowing to keep going until I’m weak and exhausted. I can feel Roman’s fingers slipping from me and I want to tell him to keep going but I can’t find the words. But then words don’t matter as he tilts my chin back and my eyes flicker open to hazily watch as he sucks his fingers dry, holding my gaze as he does.

Slowly, the tension that has spasmed through me eases and I take a deep, shaky breath. Seth’s mouth moves to lazily kiss my hips, my stomach as my leg slides from his shoulder. Three pairs of arms circle me, holding me up as I struggle to hold my own weight and I feel momentarily light-headed as the reality of what just happened hits me.

“Fuck,” I gasp, my mind suddenly catching up.

“Good?” Seth mumbles against my mouth and I nod into his kiss. “More?”

I’m acutely aware of my nakedness and how over-dressed the three of them are in comparison. I’m also fully aware that pressed against me in various places are three rock-hard dicks and I swallow thickly at the thought.

“More?” I squeak and Roman chuckles behind me.

“You got three men ready and willing to do whatever you want. If you want more, we’ll give you more.”

“Your terms,” Seth reminds me. “You tell us what you want.”

---

I'll be back soon with the next part...

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fantasyismyonlyrealescape · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 2024: No. 4 - Hallucinations/"You're still alive in my head..."

Title: Reflections of Brotherhood Lost

Characters: Seth Rollins, Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns (The Shield)

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 551

A/N: Another addition to Whumptober. Cheers!

Summary: There was a time when the members of the Shield thought that they would always have each other. But, that time has long since passed. These are the reflections of Seth, Dean and Roman as they try to move on and away from each other and deal with the voids left behind.

Cross posted on AO3 under user wrestlinginjeans.

For years after the creation of the Shield, Seth, Dean and Roman were inseparable. That was how a faction was supposed to be, united together when the cameras were rolling. Bonds were formed due to the close proximity, but they had something more. They didn’t just call each other brothers in the bright lights of the ring, they truly felt and believed that they were.

Cracks formed in the later years of their brotherhood, that was true. But they always found a way back to each other. Through championships won and lost, through ambition and sacrifice, they maintained some semblance of a brotherhood until they couldn’t. Too much ambition tore them apart, it was what caused Seth’s betrayal, and it had been their downfall.

Seth thinks of what he had and lost, what they had, in the quiet of the night directly after a show when the loneliness comes and threatens to crush him under the weight of it and his failures. He hears the echoes of voices mocking him, voices of Dean and Roman laughing at a joke Seth had made. He feels the familiar weight of an arm draped around his shoulders as they walk out of the locker room or a gentle headbutt grounding him right before a match. The reality around him was too much to bear even as he glances at the title belt sitting next to him.

Roman thinks of what they had lost as he stands in the ring, atop the mountain and at the top of WWE, especially after a victory. As he looks out into the crowd, he can’t help but look upwards and towards the exits dispersed amongst the rows of seats, a popular entrance point for the Shield. The first few times that he had made his way down the ramp and into the ring alone, he had glanced up expectantly, thinking that he would see Dean and Seth descending the stairs to meet him. He knows now that he will never see that again.

Dean Ambrose thinks on what he had lost as he finishes penning his name on his new contract in AEW. He would lose more than just his brothers, he was to become someone else, something more in Jon Moxley. He is to be stripped of all that he had ever known but he had wanted a new beginning, and he was getting it now.

Goodbye, Dean.

All three men in three separate situations, in three different moments in time ponder on what had all gone wrong.

Seth lets out a breath, running a hand through his freshly dyed hair. A new look for him in the light brown strands mixed with some blonde throughout. No longer did he sport the dramatic two-tone hair that he had spent so many years alongside his brothers with.

Roman Reigns glances downward at the ropes in front of him, trying to get his head back in the game. He was the Tribal Chief now; he couldn’t afford to show weakness.

Dean Ambrose stands, shaking hands with Tony and exits the room. As he steps through the threshold, Dean is left behind and Jon Moxley proceeds towards his future.

“You’re still alive in my head…” Jon mutters quietly, as he strides down the hallway and he didn’t just mean Dean.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading!

#whumptober2024 #no.4 #hallucinations #you're still alive in my head #professional wrestling #wwe #fic #betrayal #my fic #wwe fanfiction #fanfiction #roman reigns #seth rollins #dean ambrose #the shield wwe #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic

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upupsethrollins · 5 months ago

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#ambrollins #toxic love #dean ambrose #seth rollins #fanfic #gay x gay

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joannasteez · 30 days ago

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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.

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