#dean Ambrose fanfic

[riptides-n-roses]

fresh meat - the shield (18+)

⛧ pair: the shield (jon moxley/dean ambrose, seth rollins, and roman reigns) x reader [i know he goes by mox now but i’m calling him dean for this one]

⛧ tags: @88changemymind @reigns-prophecy @cyberdejos2 (please let me know anytime if you'd like to be tagged in recent or future works.

⛧ warnings: primal play, kidnapping cre@mp1es, unprotected p in v, @nal (you're welcome), oral (m! and f! receiving), foursome (f/m/m/m), exhibitionism, lots of positions, degrading (my specialty), edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, tr1ple p3netration [future warnings may be updated in this ff] as always minors should not interact ♡

⛧ sorry I haven't been active - I been busy with college and a recent trip to Germany: I always had a little fantasy of these 3 being dominant in a "certain" kind of way. Also I will go ahead and apologize if this isn't my best work - I've never had any bad writer's block like this and this the first time I've written a foursome so my apologies if it's a bit hard to understand.

⛧ the shield took out lots of the lockerroom; you however were in front of their next target. They surrounded you and were thinking of what to do you as punishment for getting in their way.

⛧ word count: 3.8K

How did you get here? How did you find yourself like this? The Shield were already pissed off about whatever the chairman told them but why you? Why were you surrounded by those three?

You quivered in fear as The Shield stared at you. Ambrose smirking, Rollins checking you up and down, and Reigns looking deep into your eyes.

"What do you think, boys?" Dean asks his fellow brothers. "What should we do with her?"

“I don’t know, Dean.” Roman replied, annoyance in his tone. “I’m getting irritated from her looking at us.”

You shivered from Roman’s words. You never thought you’d see yourself in this position - three hungry wolves lurking around you like they found their next meal. You sweated, praying that they won’t hurt you. But why you out of all people?

.•°☆.⋆｡⋆☆•˚｡⋆｡˚•☆˚｡⋆.☆•°.⋆

An hour earlier…

The Shield was pissed at Triple H for screwing them over for a tag team championship rematch. They’ve been begging to get this opportunity since their reunion.

They’ve already put many superstars through the announce tables and anything else they could attack other male superstars with.

You, a female superstar, were minding your business, getting ready to support your best friend, Naomi since she had a match for the women’s championship. While getting ready to meet her, you noticed a good friend of yours, Drew McIntyre, being part of the Shields main targets. Of course you couldn’t stand there and not protect your friend.

You noticed Seth about to make a sneak attack on Drew and you immediately blocked him from landing a hit on Drew. Seth was stunned seeing you try to stop what The Shield was all about - justice. And they sure had a way of making it known. You froze, asking yourself, "What were you thinking? You stopped a member of The Shield?! That's asking for a funeral." But you didn't want to show you were afraid, your face remained as emotionless as you could.

Drew didn’t say anything and left, a little amused from your small act of protecting your friend. In that space was just you and Seth. Seth began to smile and laugh at you, not believing you would stop any member of this faction.

“Sweetheart, there’s absolutely no way you’re trying to stop me. Either you be a good girl and move out of my way or you’re going to regret it.” He threatened, looking at your face. You felt offended from what he called you and didn’t move a muscle. It was stupid to do what you were doing, but your body was telling you to stay still.

When Seth saw you wouldn’t budge, he sighed and chuckled. You don’t know why he was laughing but you wouldn’t dare to ask.

“Welp, I tried to warn you.”

Those were his last words when two figures emerged from the dark - his other brothers, Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns. Your eyes widened as you realize your situation, three on one. You walked back slowly, backing yourself up to a wall. The three now surrounding you - making sure you wouldn’t escape from them.

.•°☆.⋆｡⋆☆•˚｡⋆｡˚•☆˚｡⋆.☆•°.⋆

Which leads to now. You felt your stomach drop as Seth approached you slowly, reaching his gloved hand out to your face, lifting your chin up with his finger.

“I’d say we punish her for getting in our way - making our next target get away.” He finally spoke, his other hand reaching to gently cup your face. “What do you think we should do, gentlemen?”

Dean and Roman both look at each other and smirked, both sharing an idea. “I think we should make her regret messing with us.” Dean replied. “We should ruin that pretty little face of hers.” Roman chimed in.

“I agree.” Seth chuckled. “Y’hear that? We’re gonna punish you.”

Your eyes widened. Punish? What did they mean? You lost your train of thought when you were suddenly picked up by Seth, him placing you on his shoulder.

“Put me down!” You yelled, landing punches on Seth.

“Oh you’ll have to try harder than that, sweetheart.” He mocked. “You’re ours now.”

You squirmed trying to become loose from his grip as the three men carried you away, putting their plans on beating up the whole locker room on pause.

.•°☆.⋆｡⋆☆•˚｡⋆｡˚•☆˚｡⋆.☆•°.⋆

You were brought to an empty room, only decorated with a couch and a table, Seth finally putting you down from his shoulder.

You quivered as you watched Dean closing the door and locking it, keeping his eyes on you. It was now just the four of you in a room, without anyone interfering with whatever they wanted. You took a step back as they began to approach you. You were scared to your wits - afraid of how they were with anyone who dared cross them, you were shaking as to what they wanted from you.

“Look at her, boys. She’s afraid of us being in front of her. How adorable.” Dean chuckled flattered that you found them intimidating.

“Awww what’s the matter, sweetheart?” Seth asked. “Scared of us? You think we’re gonna hurt you?”

“Cmon, babygirl. Don’t be shy~” Roman chimed, waiting for you to answer.

You gulped, too stunned to speak.

“Y-Yes…” you replied.

You watched the Shield smile, finally getting a reaction out of you. You felt humiliated with your situation. You just wanted them to leave you alone so you could go home.

Dean approached you, completely in front of you and looking into your eyes. You shivered feeling him go to the crook of your neck, getting a smell out of you. You held your breath feeling one of his rough calloused hands touch your waist, making their way slowly up your body. Dean hummed in approval, taking note of how sensitive you were with his gentle touch. You gasped when you felt his lips gently kiss your skin, his hand now intertwined with yours. Dean chuckled to your noises as he kept kissing your neck, obsessed with your scent.

“What….what are you-“

“Shhh. Relax, doll. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He was gentle with his tone - a bit too gentle. It was slightly erotic. With his other hand, he motioned for Roman to also get a smell of you. Roman smirked and made his way behind you - his hands going under your shirt. You shivered from how cold they were. You bit your lip when you felt them go in your bra cupping your breast, giving them a squeeze. You closed your eyes tight feeling Roman gently biting your ear. Seth was amused to you trying your best not to submit to their touches and kisses, he admired seeing how you were pathetically trying to not give a reaction.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart.” Seth laughed, watching his fellow brothers make a mess of you “You can make noise. Only us will hear you.”

“Aww is someone shy?” Dean cooed “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Go on, babygirl.” Roman ordered

You accidentally left out a moan as you felt Dean bite harder into your skin - Roman squeezing your breasts a bit harder, playing with your nips. Your free hand went around Dean, pulling him in closer onto you. As much as you were afraid to admit it, you were getting turned on. You felt yourself getting damp to multiple kisses and hot breaths surrounding you.

“Please…I..” You tried to talk, feeling intoxicated from being touched and kissed.

“What is it, babygirl?” Roman asked “You want some more?”

“Don’t be scared, doll. Tell us what you want.” Dean added, his hand slowly going down your crotch. Your breath was shaky as you tried to open your mouth.

“I…oh fuck…I want more.” You replied, feeling a bulge being pressed against your ass. You moaned from Dean’s hot kisses all over your neck, Roman having his hands gripping your sides and continuously rubbing his bulge on your ass, still playfully biting your ear.

“Hmm, good girl” Dean whispered, getting turned on from your submissive voice.

You whined when Dean stopped toying with you, stepping back as Seth was in front of you now.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll be gentle with you.” Seth chuckled, cupping your face as he pressed his lips against yours, both of your tongues fighting for dominance. Your muffled moans and pleas turned on the three hungry men. You felt sandwiched between Seth and Roman, feeling them kiss all over you.

“Yknow…this gear of yours” Roman started, before he lifted your top up “Has always distracted me whenever you walked past us.” Before you could speak, your top was off, being completely naked from top. You shivered from your naked breasts being exposed to the air. You watched as Seth’s eyes grew hungry with lust seeing your hardened nipples as he began to play with one of them, making you whine from his touch.

“I…I don’t understand.” You started, feeling Roman place gentle kisses on the back of your neck. “I thought you three were going to literally hurt me…”

“Hurt you?” Seth was surprised from your statement “Oh no sweetheart we could never. Isn’t that right boys?”

“She’s too pretty for that” Dean smirked, admiring how sensitive you were.

“And these bottoms…” You felt one of Roman’s calloused hands make their way to your waistline, teasing part of your bottoms “They always hugged your curves in all the right places..” You yelped feeling your bottoms quickly come down, revealing your laced underwear. You were now nearly nude in front of the three behemoths, your body shivered from the sudden temperature change.

“Oh? What’s this?” Seth teased, his hand making his way to your clothed cunt, “Lace? Were you expecting this, sweetheart?”

As you opened your mouth, you felt Seth’s hand make small circles on your clit, sending a wave of vibrations down your spine. You were already wet from being kissed and toyed with from Dean and Roman, but feeling Seth play with your clit made you wetter and needy for more.

“You’re so wet, baby…” Seth whispered, his hand going faster on your clit. You whined from his touch, your eyes tightly shut. You felt so small under their touch and dominance.

You were shaking, you've never felt this kind of sensation before and it was driving you wild. Your whimpers felt like music to their ears, enjoying every sound you made whenever they touched you.

What seemed like eternity, Seth finally stopped playing with your cunt, admiring your juices being all over his fingers, Roman backing away from behind you. You were confused as to what they were going to do next.

"I always wondered what do you taste like, sweetheart"

Before you could say anything, you were placed on the couch, your legs spread wide open. You watched The Shield admiring your clothed cunt. You were scared to make a noise as Seth slowly made his way toward you, his hands gently pulling your underwear off.

"Are you scared? Pathetic. You weren't so scared in stopping us earlier. What happened to that brave little soul?" he teased, forcefully spreading your legs wider to a better view of your wet cunt.

You couldn't answer, your breath hitched feeling a warm tongue circling your clit. You couldn't move your legs much as Seth kept them open.

"F-Fuck.." you cried, your eyes shut from the waves of pleasure, you melting in front of the three. You amused them, they've never seen you so submissive like this before.

"What a good little slut..." Seth muttered, his gloved fingers circling your clit as his tongue went in you.

Dean and Roman watched in admiration but a little jealous that they weren't having their way with you just yet.

"Please...I...I want to-"

"You're not going to cum until I tell you too, understood?"

You cried from Seth's orders, feeling your stomach tighten and winding up. You whined when he stopped, unable to cum without their permission.

"I thought of something else."

You were confused by what he meant, until he motioned for Dean, making his way towards you. You were swiftly put on your knees, ass up in front of Seth. You looked up at Dean, his eyes hungry for you.

"You're going to be a good girl and take the both of us. Got it?" Dean asked, his hands removing his belt and black pants. You quickly nodded, not saying a word.

"I'm sorry, are you going to address him correctly?" Seth muttered, delivering a harsh slap on your ass; you yelped from the pain, your mind going white for a second.

"Yes...Yes sir."

Dean smirked and pulled down his boxers, revealing his thick cock. Your eyes widened from how big he was, you were worried as to how you were going to fit him all in your mouth. You lost your train of thought when you felt Seth's fingers playing with your clit, you gasped from how rough he was being.

"Open your mouth, whore"

Dean roughly grabbed your cheeks, forcefully pushing his dick in your mouth, your eyes forming tears as you gagged on his length, his tip touching the back of your throat. Seth, growing impatient, pushed himself into you, your cunt throbbing from being stuffed.

Your moans were muffled as you felt another slap across your ass, Seth thrusting in and out of you. You whimpered feeling Seth's hands roughly grabbing your sides, Dean grabbing a handful of your hair.

"God damn, you're such a slut" Dean groaned, His free hand roughly grabbing your face "You're doing so good."

You whimpered from how you were being manhandled from the two, trying to grasp for air.

"You're taking me so well, sweetheart." Seth praised, delivering another slap on your ass. The two men getting sloppier with each thrust. You felt your stomach tighten, you were getting desperate to cum.

"Look at me." Dean ordered, raising your face up, "You were wanting this for a while weren't you?" You nodded, afraid to disobey him. He smirked, biting his lip. "You're so cute."

Your eyes rolled back as Dean and Seth went harder and faster with their thrusts, you knew they were going to cum soon, your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

"I'm going to cum in your mouth, are you ready?"

You nodded to Dean, gagging from his length.

"Me too, sweetheart" you heard Seth groan, his hands grabbing your ass. "I'll let you cum, okay?"

You whined, finally wanting to be filled with cum. Your stomach beginning to wind up.

"Fuck..." Dean growled, thrusting one last time before filling your mouth with his cum.

You reached your orgasm too, your cries tighten your pussy as Seth thrusted into your cunt, his seed explode deep in you. The three of you rode out an orgasm, your body shaking from the round of sex. Dean pulled his cock out of your mouth, letting you breathe while Seth slowly pulled out of you, your pussy leaking his cum. Dean grabbed your face, leaving hot kisses all over you. "You're a good slut...but you know we aren't done. Roman hasn't had a turn yet with you."

You slowly turned to see an impatient Roman staring at you, smirking as you knew he was going to be aggressive with you. You yelped from Seth smacking your ass one more time before standing up, Dean giving you one more kiss before he also gotten up.

"She's all yours, Roman."

As Dean and Seth stood back, Roman took his time making his way toward you, admiring your flushed face and your submissive position. He gently cupped your face with his hand. He smirked looking into your eyes, listening to your heavy breathing.

You were scared as he remained silent, thinking of what he wanted to do to you. You didn't want to question him since he wasn't that much of a talker. What seemed like forever, he smashed his lips onto yours, catching you off guard from his swift movements. You whined as both of your tongues twirled against each other. His free hand slowly making its way to one of your breast, playing with your nipples. You whined from his touch, rough but gentle. You knew this wasn't what he really wanted.

He finally pulled away, allowing your lungs air. His eyes never leaving yours. He gently stroked your face, still not saying a word. Why wasn't he saying anything? Was he already getting bored? What was he planning?

You looked down and saw a massive bulge in his pants, your eyes widening. "How is he going to fit that in me?" you thought to yourself. He took noticed and chuckled, amused to how shocked you were.

"How cute..." Roman muttered.

You were startled to his tone, finally hearing him speak. He swiftly put you on your back, your cunt being in front of him. You watched as Roman undid his belt and his pants, revealing his huge, veiny cock. "Holy...fuck" your thoughts were full of concern. You felt as if he was going to rip through you.

He positioned himself, not breaking eye contact and keeping your legs open, watching your face expressions carefully. You gasped feeling his tip tease your clit, throbbing for attention. You could feel your face getting warm.

You whined as he roughly pushed himself into you, your walls tightening from how thick he was. He made sure you adjusted to his size before thrusting roughly into you, grunting from how tight you were.

"Fuck, babygirl..." his groans hypnotized you, your eyes never leaving his, your tits bouncing with each thrust. He leaned toward you, pressing his lips against yours again, you wrapped your arms and legs around him. You were surprised he wasn't being as rough as you were thinking. You felt it wasn't really what he really wanted to do with you just yet.

He pulled away from your lips, wanting to look into your eyes again.

You shut your eyes tight from how good you felt, You gasped as Roman grabbed your throat, limiting a bit of air.

"Look at me baby. Look at me while I fuck you."

You opened your eyes again, obeying Roman as he thrusted harder into you, your legs pathetically trying to close themselves. It was too much for you to handle.

"You're so beautiful like this."

His praises were erotic. You couldn't talk much as his grip went a little tighter on your neck. You felt your stomach slowly tighten. You gasped his thrusts went faster into you, you were trying to grab his arm that was around your neck. Roman quickly intertwined his hand with yours, preventing you from releasing his grip.

"I wouldn't do that, babygirl."

You cried feeling your stomach getting tighter, his thrusts getting sloppier.

"Do you want to cum, baby? I'm getting ready to." He growled, holding back from cumming in you too quickly.

"Ye..Ye..Yess" Your words were limited, feeling yourself getting closer to your limit. He smirked and released his grip on your throat, letting you breathe.

"Fuck baby...I'm gonna cum"

You sobbed, cumming all over his cock, one last thrust before he came in you, your eyes rolling back, shaking from your second orgasm. Roman kissing you one more time before pulling out of you, he smiled looking how exhausted you were.

"We're still not done."

You felt your stomach dropped from those words. Not done? What else could they have wanted? You look back and see Dean and Seth coming toward you and Roman, having another idea.

Roman smirked and helped you up, having another thought in his head. Just then, you were picked up for a second, Dean now laying on his back, you on top of him, Roman behind you and Seth in front of you. You knew where this was going. You whined feeling Dean push himself into you without warning, Roman teasing your ass before slowly pushing his tip in. You were about to scream before Seth put his dick in your mouth, muffling your cries. You never felt stuffed like this before. It was a little painful, but you didn't mind. Your shut your eyes tight as the three men began to thrust into you, you feeling so full to a point you've never felt before. The sounds of groans and skin slapping filled the room, it was too erotic for either of you to handle. You never had sex like this before but it didn't bother you.

"How's this, y/n? Us filling you up like this?" Seth laughed as he cupped your face, watching your eyes roll back, his other hand grabbing a lot of your hair roughly.

You could only let out a few muffled whimpers and cries, begging to be fucked rougher.

"This is what happens when you cross us, y'hear?"

You gasped as Dean began playing with your tits, making you overstimulated, sure to cum soon. Roman was now the one delivering harsh slaps on your ass, even harder than what Seth did earlier. Tears formed in your eyes from the overbearing pleasure. It was too much yet it felt too good to stop.

Their thrusts gotten harder and disgustingly faster, your stomach tightening quicker than the last few times. Your breath gotten quicker from each thrust. Seth took notice and grabbed your face forcing you to look at him.

"Fuck...I know you're about to cum but you're not going to yet, slut."

You whined from his demands, trying desperately hard not to disobey him from cumming too quickly. Your body felt like jello, it was unbearable to keep still in the same position due to the amount of pleasure: Seth's tip always touching the back of your throat with each thrust, Dean hitting your sensitive spots, and Roman stuffing your ass with his cock. It was a lot to handle.

You were getting impatient, your whines growing loud from your upcoming orgasm, it was starting to hurt holding it.

"I'm getting close, fuck...I'm about to cum in you, baby." Dean growled, his grip gotten tighter on one of your breasts.

"Same here. You still holding it, hmm?" Seth asked you, your eyes blurred from tears. You quickly nodded, it was really starting to hurt holding your orgasm."

"Shit, I'm about to cum." Roman muttered, his thrusts getting sloppy.

You cried out releasing your orgasm on Dean's cock, Your vision going white. Dean followed behind, filling you up with his cum. Roman forcefully grabbing your sides, his seed burst into your ass, and Seth cumming down your throat. The four of you rode out a rough orgasm. Seth finally pulled out of your mouth, keeping his tight grip on you keeping eye contact. Your breath was scarce, finally having some time to breathe. Both Roman and Dean pulled out of you, still staying in their position, all of you breathing heavily from the round of sex. Your body was shaking, shivering from how rough you were fucked, cum leaking from both of your holes.

Seth chuckled, amused from how completely exhausted you were now, giving you a rough kiss on your lips.

"This was your punishment."

[unfgvien]

celebrating a win [dean Ambrose]

pairing - dean Ambrose x reader

summary - After Wrestlemania 40, Y/N reflects on her triumph and the return of her lover, Jonathan Good. Their emotional reunion, despite the chaos, highlights their enduring bond.

word count - 1.2k

-> i've used his real name for this but we all know him as dean Ambrose

The locker room was a cacophony of sounds—the slap of towels against skin, the hiss of showers, and the muted cheers of the crowd still echoing from the arena. Y/N stood in the center of it all, her body gleaming with sweat and victory. Wrestlemania 40 had been hers, and the weight of her triumph was still settling over her like a second skin. But amidst the euphoria, there was an ache, a hollow space where someone should have been. Jonathan Good, she thought, her lips curling into a bittersweet smile. He’d been gone for years, defecting to AEW in 2019, but his absence still felt like a bruise.

She peeled off her wrestling gear, her movements slow and deliberate, her mind drifting to the man who knew every inch of her, the man who could fuck her so hard she’d forget her own name. Dean Ambrose to the world, Jon Moxley to AEW, but Jonathan Good to her. The man who could make her beg, who could leave her trembling and breathless, her legs barely able to hold her up. She missed him. Missed the way he’d look at her like she was the only woman in the room, missed the way his hands would bruise her hips, missed the way he’d growl her name like a dirty promise.

She wrapped a towel around herself and headed toward the showers, her bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor. The locker room was emptying out, the other wrestlers dispersing to celebrate or recover. But as she turned the corner, she froze. There he was, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his dark eyes locked on her. Jonathan. Her heart stuttered, then raced, her breath catching in her throat. He hadn’t changed much—still lean and dangerous, his hair a messy mop, his jaw sharp enough to cut. He smirked, that familiar, cocky smirk that always made her knees weak.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between them in a few long strides. His voice was low, rough, like gravel and honey mixed together. “Thought you’d forget about me.”

“Never,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She reached out, her fingers brushing his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath her touch. “I missed you.”

“Yeah?” He grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer until their bodies were pressed together. His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. “Prove it.”

His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and demanding. She moaned, her arms wrapping around his neck, her towel slipping to the floor, forgotten. His kiss was ruthless, his tongue invading her mouth, tasting her, owning her. She melted against him, her body responding to his like it had been starved for him.

“Not here,” she gasped when he finally pulled away, his breath hot against her lips. “Someone could—”

“Fuck ‘em,” he growled, cutting her off. His hands slid down her back, gripping her ass, lifting her against him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her core aching, desperate for him. “You’re mine, Y/N. Always have been. Always will be.”

He carried her to the nearest bench, setting her down roughly. His eyes were dark, almost black, his desire raw and unfiltered. He shoved her back, pinning her to the bench with his body. His hands were everywhere, bruising her thighs, cupping her breasts, squeezing them hard enough to make her gasp.

“You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “Winning all those matches, making me proud.”

“Only for you,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Only ever for you.”

He smirked, his hand sliding between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and eager. “Fuck, you’re already dripping for me. Missed my dick, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her head falling back as he slipped a finger inside her, then two, stretching her, filling her. “Please, Jonathan. I need you.”

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?” He pulled his fingers out, sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I’m not gonna make it easy on you. You want it rough, remember? Just the way I like it.”

She nodded, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “Yes. Please. Fuck me hard.”

He didn’t waste another second. He shoved her legs apart, positioning himself between them, his thick, hard cock pressing against her core. She reached for him, but he slapped her hands away, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

“Not yet,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “This is my show, baby. You just lie back and take it.”

He thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her body arching off the bench, her muscles clenching around him. He held himself still for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, his eyes burning into hers.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Like you were made for me.”

Then he began to move, slow and deliberate at first, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure through her. But he quickly picked up the pace, pounding into her with a ferocity that left her breathless. The bench creaked beneath them, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing in the empty locker room.

“Fuck, Jonathan,” she moaned, her voice hoarse. “Harder. Please.”

He obliged, his hips snapping against hers, his thrusts relentless. His free hand gripped her thigh, his nails digging into her skin, marking her as his. She loved it, loved the way he dominated her, loved the way he made her feel small and helpless beneath him.

“You like that, don’t you?” he snarled, his voice rough. “Like being fucked like the dirty little slut you are?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her head thrashing back and forth. “Yes, I do. Fuck me, Jonathan. Fuck me like you own me.”

He growled, his thrusts becoming even more brutal, his cock pounding into her with a force that bordered on pain. She was close, so close, her orgasm building like a storm on the horizon.

“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “Let me feel you fall apart around my dick.”

His words pushed her over the edge. She screamed his name, her body convulsing, her walls clenching around him as she came undone. He followed her, his own release crashing into him, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he filled her with his seed.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies still tangled, their breaths ragged. Then he pulled out, his eyes softening as he looked down at her.

“Missed you, Y/N,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Missed fucking you like this.”

She smiled, her body still trembling, her legs barely able to hold her up. “Missed you too. And that? That was exactly what I needed.”

He helped her up, his arms wrapping around her, holding her close. For a moment, they just stood there, the chaos of the locker room fading away, leaving only the two of them.

“You’re still mine, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low, serious.

She nodded, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Always. No matter where we are, no matter what names we go by. I’m yours, Jonathan Good.”

He smirked, that familiar, cocky smirk that always made her heart race. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

And as he pulled her toward the showers, his hand sliding down to grip her ass, she knew he was right. This was just the beginning.

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[smolwritingchick]

Hi! Starting over again!

Idk how many people may remember this blog but hi! I'm Val aka Smolwritingchick.

I used to post The Bangtan Gal here on Tumblr. A BTS Jungkook love story about an 8th member of BTS, Jennie Walker.

I'm starting over. I have two stories I want to post on here that I deleted. A wrestling story called Forced To Believe which is about a female member of The Shield from WWE (I posted that on fanfiction.net many years ago) and my BTS story, Bangtan Gal. Currently editing chapters and will post them soon.

I took a long break from writing due to my mental health and just lack of motivation to write as I focused more on work and had other passions. But I miss it and would love to repost my work. I'm not a big fan of the fanfiction.net site these days so I will be posting my stories on Wattpad, Tumblr and Archive of our own for now on.

I'm hoping to continue The Bangtan Gal as I plan out new chapters after editing the old ones. For now, what matters is that I'm having all these chapters up from what has already been written so people can reread.

This blog will focus 95% on my K-Pop story The Bangtan Gal, so expect a lot of posts and asks regarding my K-Pop story and fewer posts about my wrestling story. I'm more focused on that, so sorry in advance.

I don't really care about the notes or views. I just want to post these up again and see where it goes.

I keep rereading my stories and I really miss it so why not?

Stay tuned.

Links:

I'm also on Wattpad and Archive of Our Own

Forced To Believe Masterlist

Bangtan Gal Masterlist

Bangtan Gal Masterlist PART 2

Bangtan Gal Smol oneshot/drabble Masterlist

[jxtina-86]

If you have been following Roman/Alexia, Seth/Siobhan or Dean/Rebecca... I only have 2 more stories left to post.

I then ran out of steam, got distracted with other things.

But...

I did write a sequel that takes place years later to wrap everything up.

It covers all three couples so even if you're a fan of one, you probably wanna read it. So if you want to be tagged in it, please comment on this post!

[dirtywrestling]

Hi! Could you do a female child reader who was abandoned and got found by Dean Ambrose? If you don't feel comfortable doing that than just a female reader comforting Dean while he's crying because he's insecure about his appearance

*gives doughnut*

Warnings: Cussing, Dean Ambrose being protective, abandoned child.

Commissions: Open!

Imagines: Open!

Follow My Side Blog!: @dirtywresling102

"Come on, Ambrose." Rollins said up ahead the side walk as he rolled his suitcase in a hurry.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Dean grunted out as he slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. Seth thought it would be a good idea to walk from the airport to the hotel since it was only a few blocks. Seth pointed out that it would save them on some money instead of standing around fans and waiting for an Uber. Right, like walking in public was a good idea.

Dean past an ally way only to pause as he heard soft crying. "Dean, come on!" Seth barked up ahead, already in front of the hotel.

Dean looked down the damp and slightly dark ally way. Ignoring his friend shouting at him, Dean slowly stepped into the ally way. "Hello?" He said out loud only to hear soft whimpering, as if it was a child. Looking over two large garbage bins he frowned to see a small little girl covered in filth, dirty clothes and messy hair. It looked as if she hasn't showered in days. "Oh, come here lovely." Dean picked up the small crying child into his arms.

Dean walked out of the ally way to see Seth's eyes widen at his discovery. "Is that a fucking child?"

"Yeah, I found her next to trash cans." Dean held the little girl close as she rested her head upon his shoulder. "I'm keeping her." Dean smiled.

[jxtina-86]

I have three WiPs...

"You wanna join me?" she asks, bending her legs by way of making room for him. "It's still warm…"

---

“Ah yes, well we must be careful - we all know where a nod leads to.”

---

He leans closer, soft kisses up to my ear where he whispers: “Tell me.”

Reblog with a random sentence from your wip.

[upupsethrollins]

[joannasteez]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"we playin house now?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"that's not what—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"but you just implied—" 

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

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

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

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

"can i touch you now?"

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

"yes". 

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

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

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

"touche". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...nefarious little bullshit...

..."its noted"...

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

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

"what was your question?" 

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

"june...", like a plea to stop. 

"just ask". 

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

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

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

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

"ok". 

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

"why'd you wanna know?" 

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

"don't make me lie to you". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"what's wrong?" 

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

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

"you'll see me then". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"it's me!"

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

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

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

"i got up, so i guess so right?" 

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

"talk to me". 

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

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

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

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

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

"i hear you". 

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

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

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

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

you smile. "such a gentleman". 

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

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

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

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

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

"you're handlin now". 

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

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

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

"good to know". 

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

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

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

"is it?"

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

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

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

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

"cody, is everything—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"should i bring something?" 

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

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

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

"punk?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...no bullshit...", jimmy chimes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jimmy points. "was". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"we're done here". 

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

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

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

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

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

"open the door punk". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i know". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you remember all that?" 

"yeah", punk sighs, wearily. "i do". 

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

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

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

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

"i'm being serious". 

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

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

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

"me". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i did". 

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

"you bought cake". 

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

"you said to". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"giana right?" 

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

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

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

"s'alright". 

"you mind if i bum one?"

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

"thanks".

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

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

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

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

"do you know me?" 

"i think i do". 

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

you smile. understanding. "it is".

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

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

"yeah". 

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

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

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

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

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

"i guess not". 

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

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

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

"excuse me?"

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

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

like you're suddenly unaware of such context. 

like giana is stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'm'listening". 

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

he sighs. "say what you mean". 

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

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

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

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

"...i spoke to giana". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"thats not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i need that permission of yours". 

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

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

"look here", tugging your face. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[a-random-pillow]

Love Fool (Valentine's Day Special)

Paring: Dean Ambrose/Seth Rollins/Cody Rhodes/Roman Reigns

Tags: Foursome, Alternate Universe, Smut, light bondage, lingerie

Rating: E

Words: 3,461

AO3: Love Fool - A_Random_Pillow - World Wrestling Entertainment [Archive of Our Own]

"Why are we doing this exactly?"

Seth smiles, his hands steady as he carefully draws a small heart on Cody's upper cheek. Their bodies are so close Cody can feel Seth's warm breath across his face and neck. The only thing keeping them from being skin-to-skin is the fluffy pink robes Seth brought out after their shower a few hours ago.

"Because it's Valentine's Day, and our boys have been doing so good recently. They deserve a little surprise."

Cody tries to nod, but Seth holds his chin, keeping him still as he looks over his handy work.

Seth had spent the last 30 minutes doing his makeup. It was nothing crazy; it was just a subtle blush, lip gloss, a bit of eye shadow, and a small heart on his right cheek outlined in gold. The most eye-catching part of the look wasn't his face, though; it was the other hearts in the same gold across his body. The largest of the hearts is around his chest, starting at his naval before wrapping around his pecs and coming to a point in the middle of his chest; there is another heart on his outer right thigh and a few littered across his back and neck like bite marks. Cody had a good view of himself in Seth's many mirrors, and he knew this was exactly the kind of thing Dean and Roman would love.

"You know, you are my favourite canvas," Says Seth with an appreciative smile on his face as he looks Cody over.

Cody blushes, butterflies filling his stomach despite the fact that they've been together since 2015. Part of him still can't believe they got together at all.

Seth had already finished his own makeup with minimal help from Cody's unskilled hands. He has similar makeup to Cody except for the solid pink heart on his other cheek, making him a mirror image of Cody. He has small hearts dotted along his legs and thights, a smattering on his chest and a back. He is gorgeous, and Seth clearly put a lot of thought into how they would look tonight.

"I need to show you what I got us!" Says Seth, turning to the closet in the guest bedroom that they had converted into Seth's closet, leaving Cody sitting alone on the vanity.

After a moment of looking, Seth pulls out a pink heart-shaped box from the back of the closet. He all but runs it over to Cody, brown eyes shining with excitement as he says

"Well, open it!"

Cody opens it without hesitation, eyes going wide when he sees what's inside.

The first thing that catches his eyes is a pink set of lingerie, lacy bottoms that'll leave nothing to the imagination, a ribbon-tied corset that will emphasize someone's chest wonderfully and a pink leather collar with a heart-shaped metal clasp.

Beside the first set is a long ribbon made of pastel pink silk and a golden collar made of interlocking hearts resting in the nest of pink.

Other Valentine's Day goodies are sprinkled around the box.

Cody's heart pounds a little, now knowing exactly what Seth has planned for tonight... and he can't wait. Not that he ever doubted Seth.

"Wow!" He says, delicately pulling out the collars to look them over.

"I know!" Says Seth, hopping on the desk next to Cody so they can look over the gift together.

"Dean and Roman are going to lose it." Says Cody, pulling out the garments to look them over.

"I know!"

Seth is giddy with excitement, legs kicking back and forth as he picks up the gold collar.

"This one is yours, it matches the hearts all over you."

Cody smiles, turning to let Seth put the collar on him. With a snap, the cold metal is around his neck; he shivers for a moment before his body heat begins to warm the metal to a comfortable temperature.

"Aww, you look great!" Says Seth, throwing his arms around Cody in a tight hug.

Cody hugs him back, nuzzling his face in the other man's long brown hair. He still smells like the shampoo they used in the shower earlier.

"You're gonna look amazing too; you look great in everything, even nothing."

Seth coos at that, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"If I hadn't just put so much work into your face, I'd have you show me how amazing I look!"

Cody laughs, slipping a hand under the pink robe Seth is wearing to rest it on his hip.

"Please?" Asks Cody, using his trademark pout and puppy eyes.

"Can't, gotta wait for Roman and Dean," Says Seth in a put-upon tone, adjusting their positions so Cody is sitting in his lap.

"Why did they have to go to work tonight? We run that place; they should be able to stay home with us."

"I agree, but those two are very set on figuring out who McIntyre will pick as his opponent at Mania."

Cody huffs and rests his head back on Seth's shoulder.

"It's nearly eleven; they'll be finishing up soon." Says Seth in a soothing tone.

"So, who is wearing what?" Asks Cody, once again picking up the heart-shaped box.

Seth smiles, picking up the lingerie and the pink collar.

"These are for me, and the ribbon is for you."

A moment of confusion passes over him before he suddenly realizes what Seth wants to do with him. His face turns red as he glances at Seth, who watches him with a predatory smile.

"You're not being very subtle about you being the one who planned all of this."

"It's Valentine's Day, baby; it's all about indulgence."

Cody can't help but smile at that; he can't help but smile when he's around Seth or any of his husbands.

They climb off the vanity and walk towards the big bed, big enough for four professional wrestlers. Their bedroom is already decorated in pinks and reds, rose petals across the floor leading to the bed, which is covered in soft blankets and Cody and Seth's favourite pillows.

Cody lowers himself on the bed and lets Seth guide him into the position he wants; Cody is just a canvas for Seth. He feels Seth's stead hands wrap, layer and knot the ribbon across his body. Seth works in silence, completely focussed on his craft, as he lies Cody's arms behind him, each knot carefully placed to emphasize the mussel he worked so hard on building. It's therapeutic for both of them.

By the end, Cody has intercit patterns that emphasize his chest and waist on his front while his arms are tightly secured behind him with a large bow, making him look like a present.

"They are going to love this." Says Seth breathless, looking over his work.

Cody nods from where he is lying on the bed, carefully maneuvering himself into a kneeling position so he can watch Seth. His husband smiles at him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before he says

"Well, now it's my turn to get all pretty."

Seth lets the robe slip off his shoulder and down his body as he all but dances to the table where he left his lingerie. He puts on each piece slowly, making sure Cody gets a good view of every detail. Seth loves putting on a show, and Cody loves watching him.

They're both already getting a little hard. Hopefully, Roman and Dean will get home soon.

Seth and Cody had only been waiting for around ten minutes when they heard the front door open. They immediately perk up like puppies whose owners had just gotten home.

"Cody? Seth?" Yells Roman from downstairs, confusion clear in his voice as he looks for his two husbands.

"In our room!" Yells Seth, moving to sit on the bed, excitement shining in his brown eyes.

Cody twists from where he had been nearly dozing on the bed, moving to a kneeling position beside Seth, who smiles over at him.

They hear Roman and Dean's loud footsteps stomping up the stairs and the click of the door to the bedroom before Roman and Dean peek their heads in, their expressions immediately lighting up when they see them.

Their husbands are momentarily rendered speechless as they take in the scene before them.

"Happy Valentines!" Cody and Seth say in unison.

"Oh," Says Roman, completely breathless, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly.

Dean and Roman step into the room, taking a few more moments to look their husbands up and down but not saying another word.

"I think we broke them." Says Seth with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Yeah." Replies Cody, matching Seth's smile with ease.

"Guess it's just gonna be you and me tonight, Cody," Seth smirks, leaning over to kiss Cody passionately. Cody returns it fervently, his arms straining against his ties, aching to touch Seth.

"Roman?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"We are the luckiest motherfuckers alive."

All of them laugh, which seems to break Dean and Roman from their trances. The two of them walk over and smile warmly at their husbands as they climb onto the bed with them.

Seth immediately lays himself across Dean's lap, giving him a charming smile as he asks.

"Like what you see?"

Dean runs his fingers through Seth's hair, taking in every little detail of his face as he says

"I love it."

Roman had pulled Cody into his lap so the other man's legs were wrapped around his waist. Roman puts one hand on his back and another on his chin so he can look at every detail of his face. Cody's balance was off because of how his arms were bound, so he was depending on Roman for balence.

"Look at you," Breaths Roman, a nearly worshipful reverance in his voice.

Roman and Dean's hands roam the bodies of their counterparts, admiring all the little details and work that went into their appearance before they inevitably rip them apart.

"You two have kept us waiting for hours!" Complains Seth loudly, face red as Dean sucks at his collarbone. Seth's hands clutch at the back of Dean's black sweater, desperation becoming clear even though Dean and Roman haven't even taken their clothes off yet.

"Think we enjoyed being apart from you, Sweet Things? I don't understand why you stayed home tonight of all nights."

Cody huffs from where Roman had pressed him into the pillows, the samoan man only now giving him enough room to breathe after what felt like hours of him plundering Cody's mouth.

"Cause we didn't want to deal with how insufferable everyone would be, John and Randy would be making sad lover bird eyes at eachother, Kevin would be more explosive than ever and don't get me started on Drew and Punk!" Says Cody, annoance is clear for anyone to see.

Roman presses soothing kisses to Cody's neck as the other man frowns at Dean.

"You two should have stayed home with us!"

"But then we won't have been able to come home to such a lovely surprise." Retorts Roman in a soft tone.

Cody huffs, turning back to Roman and nuzzling his face into the other man's shoulder, clearly asking for comfort, which Roman is more than happy to provide.

"sorry baby, but you know us champs gotta do what we gotta do."

Cody pulls away at that fixing, Roman with an intense glare as he says

"Don't you dare say that to me. Me and Seth do not train, pay off, and blackmail people just for you to pull the 'champs gotta do what you gotta do card' I have apprentices for a reason."

"Not for the inevitable betrayal and attempted overthrow?" Chirps Seth

"We all know you and I have backup plans on back on plans for each of my kids, plus an attempted overthrow is the only way I could truly see their ability."

Seth giggles at that, pulling Dean over to Cody and Roman so he can lay himself next to Cody. His brown hair fans out like a halo as he smiles at Cody, who returns it easyily.

"You know, I think they like eachother more than they like either of us." Observers Dean impassively.

"It's probably because they don't cause so many problems for each other." Replies Roman, watching Cody and Seth with clear admiration.

"point," Agrees Dean, finally beginning to remove his clothes.

Roman swiftly follows suit, and both Seth and Cody go silent to admire the view. Seth bites his lip, his smile turning sharp as he watches Dean and Roman get undressed. Cody's eyes darken, drinking in every scarred and muscled line of his husbands.

"We're so lucky," Whispers Seth in Cody's ear, who nods excitedly. Cody nods back at him, smiling brightly as he says, "I know".

Roman and Dean's clothes are thrown off the bed into onto piles on the ground as they move to climb atop their husbands. The soft affection they had earlier replaced with a growing hunger to get their hands on Cody and Seth.

Roman reaches out, grabbing Cody and Seth's pecs, groping their muscled chests with his strong hands. Cody huffs, face turning a little redder as he squirms slightly. Seth smiles up at Roman, his breaths becoming uneven as he throws his head back.

"Give me some," Gripes Dean, shoving Roman a little so he grabs ahold of Cody and Seth's faces.

"You two hungry?" Asks Dean as he holds their chins, his thumbs caressing their soft, glossy lips.

"Of course," Says Seth before opening his mouth to take Dean's tumb in.

Cody's tongue slips past his pink lips, licking Dean's finger before sucking it into his mouth.

Roman huffs from behind Dean, cutting his eyes at him annoyedly before reaching to pull at Dean's short reddish-brown hair.

Dean makes a surprised yelp as he is pulled off Seth and Cody and into Roman's strong chest. Dean turns, blue eyes burning with a mix of annoyance and arousal as he says

"Just because you like people pulling your hair out doesn't mean I do."

"Sorry, but we gotta share; this isn't getting us anywhere." Replies Roman, throwing his arms around Dean's shoulder with an apologetic smile.

Dean huffs, mulling it over in his head; he loves Cody, Roman and Seth equally, as much as human can love another and then some... but he knows Roman has a weakness for gold and Dean would very much like to undress Seth...

"I'll take Seth."

Roman has a pleased smile on his face as he gives Dean a quick peck on the cheek.

"Took you long enough," pouts Seth, his hands tussled in his hair and face redder than before, his lingerie doing nothing to hide how aroused he is.

Cody is worse off than Seth; not only does a deep blush cover his face, but his eyes are starting to turn red, a clear sign of his battle with tears. His cock is on full display, and beinging to drip precum as it stands between his spread legs.

Both Roman and Dean feel any self-control they had to vanish, the need to get inside their husbands filling every crevice of their minds.

Dean moves to Seth, beginning to slowly stroke his cock as he asks

"Do you need prep?"

Seth laughs a little, eyes shining as he says

"Probably, but I would rather you just fuck me already."

Dean chuckles and reaches up to grab the collar around Seth's neck to drag him into a heated kiss.

Roman smiles down at Cody, who just pouts up at him.

"Already losing your brain, baby?"

Cody's pout turns into a full-on frown as he stammers out.

"N-no!"

Roman's smile never wavers as he says

"Yeah, sure."

Before Cody can even attempt a retort, Roman has a strong hand gripping his thight and a finger in his ass. Cody gasps, back arching as a mix of pain and pleasure fills him.

Seth pulls away from Dean, resting his hands on Dean's chest as he says

"Roman better not get his dick in Cody before you put your dick in me."

Dean scoffs, giving Seth a look that tells him he asked for this before the short-haired man flips Seth so he's lying on his front. His hands only paused for a moment before ripping the bottoms off Seth. Dean gives his thick cock a few strokes with lube before thrusting into Seth without warning.

Seth groans at that, moving to his hands and knees so he can meet each of Dean's thrusts. His long brown hair falls around his face, hiding his expression from Dean as he slowly begins moving his hips.

The sound of Dean's groans and Seth's moans fill the air of their bedroom like a song. Cody can't help but look over, and his heart skips a beat as he sees their expressions. Cody tries to find the words to tell Roman how bad he needs him and how hard he is, but his words are stuck in his throat and his mind is made into mush as Roman's fingers scissor him open.

"P-please!" He begs

Cody wants so badly to lace his fingers in Roman's hair, to pull him close and to run his hands all over him. Why did he let Seth tie him up?

Roman smiles at him, eyes flicking over to Dean and Seth for a moment before his gaze returns to Cody. He doesn't say anything, just removes his fingers from Cody before grabbing the lube, applying a generous amount to his cock before throwing Cody's legs over his shoulders. He slowly pushes himself into Cody, nearly folding the bleach blond in half as he hilts himself.

"So tight," Dean and Roman groan in unison as they pull out and push into their husbands.

Seth can't help but look over to Cody, his arms bound and desperation clear in his blue eyes. Seth's thoughts are abruptly turned off as Dean hits his prostate partially hard, burying any thoughts he might have been having. Seth feels Dean rock his body, the core around his center making it wonderfully hard to breathe.

Sweat beats down Dean's body, darkening his hair and making his skin glisten. He looks like a god, which is all Roman can think of for a moment before he feels Cody's walls squeezing around him. He looks back down, all the marks Seth drew on Cody, only him more beautiful. His blue eyes peerce into his soul, making him feel weak as they beg him. His world narrows to Cody, only focusing on hearing his sounds and making his eyes shine.

It doesn't take long for the four of them to find the edge; with all the noise and sensation, it's hard to keep it away.

Seth, who orchestrated this night to his own desires, is the first to come, watching Cody struggle against his binds, Roman's groans filling his ears and Dean's cock hammering into him. He feels as if he is in heaven.

Dean feels Seth's mussels spasm around him, watches as he arches off the bed and hears the chorus of pleasure from his two other lovers from next to him. Right here, he has everything right here and now. He reaches forward and grabs the collar around Seth's neck, choking the long-haired man as he pulls him as far back onto his cock as possible. He comes with a groan, falling atop Seth as they catch their breaths.

Roman glances over, focus momentarily drawn away from Cody as he hears Seth and Dean come. He watches them fall boneless to the mattress, blissed-out expressions on their faces as they inhale lung fulls of air. What pushes him over the edge is Seth and Dean opening their bright eyes to look at him, love and admiration clear as soft smiles cross their faces. He grabs Cody's cock, stroking it in rhythm with his thrusts. When he feels Cody's walls begin to clench around him, he knows he's there, and in unison, they come. Both of them joined Seth and Dean's bodies.

They lay there for a moment before Dean speaks.

"I love you guys, but I need to go to bed."

They all chuckle at that, turning to smile at eachother. Just like that, they slip into their familiar routine(After Seth unties Cody); they work together to quickly undo the bed, which Cody and Dean take to the washing machine. Seth starts the shower, and Roman remakes the bed. Soon enough, the four of them are clean, and curled up together under the covers.

"Thank you two, you made this an amazing Valentine's Day."

"Maybe thank us with a homemade breakfast tomorrow?"

[mamirhodessxox]

Deans being a sneakkky sneaakkkk 😋🙏

@alyyaanna @claymoresofinfamy23

[livsbrutalitys-blog]

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)

[riptides-n-roses]

c*ck rider - jon moxley (18+)

⛧ pair: jon moxley x reader

⛧ tags: @88changemymind @reigns-prophecy @cyberdejos2 (please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future ffs)

⛧ warnings: explicit content, cockwarming (duh hence the title), nonchalant jon, jon being an asshole, (unprotected p in v, creampie, as always minors should not interact.

⛧ the title is so fucking dumb but it's so funny at the same time (A wrestler's theme sometimes works magic) . i do miss writing smut for you all - i hate that college is keeping me busy and i hate that i have way too many drafts atm (i gotta fix that soon); short because my body hurts and i haven't slept properly in weeks (I love you guys though so...)

⛧ no plot - jon is deep in thinking because of his feud with copeland

⛧ word count: 502

You whined as Jon gripped your flesh, his knuckles turning bone white as you grind against him. It was another day where your partner wasn't in the mood for passionate sex, especially after his match with Adam Copeland. Jon's focus was on your shared tv - deep in his thoughts while you rode his cock, buried deep in your walls.

You were met with silence and the sound of sex. Frustrated, you bounced a little faster only to be met with a harsh slap across your ass

"Jon..." You whined, trying to get his attention, slowly bouncing up and down, your arms wrapped around him.

"Watch yourself. I'll make you regret making me more irritated than I already am, dollface."

You shivered to Jon's words. You knew it was a threat, especially when he isn't playing with your tits or using his hands to overstimulate your clit.

You whined into the crook of his neck, going back to slowly grinding on Jon. It was intoxicating, every slow stroke, your walls tightening around him, you were getting impatient.

"I oughta make him regret trying to get in my way..." Jon muttered, his hands digging in your flesh "I'm the one keeping this company alive"

You yelped as he roughly bit your earlobe, noticing him trying to escape his thoughts about his recent feud with Copeland. Jon was the champion and he wasn't going to let go of the title any time soon. Even without his faction...

"He pisses me off...This is my title. I'm not letting anything change that...Fucking hell"

You moaned as he thrusted harder, his balls slapping against your clit, you bit into his neck, causing a lustful growl escaping from his lips.

"Do you enjoy this dollface?" He laughed, slapping your ass once more. "Do you want me to pay attention to you?"

"Please, daddy! I want your attention.." You moaned, your stomach beginning to tightening.

"Really? Do you think you deserve it?"

You gritted your teeth at his words. Now he was being a jackass. You bounced faster on him in response, receiving a low groan from Jon.

"God you're such a whore..." He threw his head back, his arms wrapping around your body, holding you closer. You finally felt satisfied - his thrusts getting sloppier.

"You know, dollface, I should thank you...this is better than whatever i'm dealing with..." Jon growled, his grip tightening around you.

You smiled to this, relieved that you could calm your partner down.

"Fuck...I'm getting close, dollface"

"I-I can't hold it anymore, Daddy." You were begging. It was hurting to hold it in now.

"Go ahead, doll.."

You screamed as you came, your walls tightening as you came all over him, not realizing Jon came in you, his warm seed filling you up.

Your breath hitched as Jon was still buried deep in you. Your legs shaking from your orgasm. You looked into his eyes, met with a lustful stare. He smirked as he grabbed your hips roughly.

"Don't think I'm finished with you just yet, dollface."

[unfgvien]

mafia boss [Seth Rollins]

pairing - Seth Rollins x reader

summary - Yn, a daughter of a powerful mafia family, is kidnapped by Colby, the son of their rivals, the Lopez family. Their unconventional relationship challenges expectations, exploring consent, power, and danger.

word count - 16k

an; yes I did yes his real name, shut up its hot

The world dissolved into a cacophony of shattering glass and screaming sirens. One moment, Yn Petrova was nestled in the opulent comfort of her father’s estate, the next, she was being dragged across the polished marble floor, the rough fabric of a burlap sack scraping against her skin. The taste of blood filled her mouth, a metallic tang mixing with the fear that clawed at her throat. She’d been so sure of her father's impenetrable security, so certain of her own invincibility as the youngest, most precious daughter of Don Petrova. That confidence had been a fragile shield, shattered in the brutal efficiency of her abduction.

Her captors were ghosts, faceless shadows moving with practiced precision, their movements honed to a deadly art. The air crackled with the unspoken threat of violence, the chilling promise of pain hanging heavy in the suffocating darkness of the sack. She struggled, her slender frame thrashing against the restraints, but their grip was unyielding, their purpose unwavering. The world outside, the world she knew, shrunk to a distant hum, replaced by the pounding of her heart and the ragged gasps for breath escaping her lips.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the chaos ceased. The sack was ripped away, blinding light assaulting her eyes. She blinked, shielding her vision, her senses reeling from the sudden shift from suffocating darkness to overwhelming brightness. When her vision finally cleared, she found herself in a lavishly appointed room, the antithesis of the brutality she had just endured. The air was thick with the scent of expensive woods and exotic flowers, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still clung to her senses.

The room was vast, a testament to opulent excess. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling glow on polished mahogany furniture, intricate tapestries adorned the walls, and priceless artwork hung in gilded frames. It was a palace, a breathtaking display of wealth that seemed both out of place and entirely fitting given the circumstances. This was the lair of her captor, a stark reminder of the power imbalance that now defined her reality.

He stood before her, silhouetted against a towering window that offered a panoramic view of the city sprawling beneath. Colby Lopez. The name echoed in her mind, a name synonymous with the Lopez family, their ruthless business dealings, and the substantial debt her father owed them. A debt that now, chillingly, included her.

Colby turned, his face half-shadowed, half-illuminated, revealing a countenance of stark beauty and terrifying intensity. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held a cold, calculating glint. His jaw was sharp, his lips thin, his expression a carefully constructed mask that concealed any hint of emotion. He was a study in controlled power, a man who exuded an aura of effortless dominance.

“Welcome, Signorina Petrova,” his voice was smooth, a low baritone that sent shivers down her spine. There was no trace of the brutality she had just experienced, only a chilling politeness that amplified the inherent threat. “To my humble abode.”

He gestured to the room, a sardonic curl playing on his lips. “I trust you find it… adequate?”

Yn remained silent, her eyes fixed on him, assessing. Fear warred with a flicker of defiance, a stubborn refusal to crumble before this display of overwhelming power. She had been raised in the shadow of her father’s empire, a world of calculated risks and ruthless pragmatism. She would not break so easily.

Colby moved, his steps deliberate and graceful, crossing the expanse of the room until he stood before her. He was close enough that she could smell the sharp scent of his cologne, a masculine fragrance that did little to mask the underlying scent of power – of danger.

“My family has… a significant financial disagreement with your father,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that carried an undercurrent of steel. “A debt that he seems reluctant to settle.”

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across her cheek. The proximity was unnerving, the subtle shift in his demeanor hinting at something beyond the calculated coldness she’d initially perceived.

“So,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near murmur, “we have decided to… negotiate.”

His eyes locked onto hers, holding her gaze with an unnerving intensity. The power dynamic hung heavy in the air, palpable and suffocating. He was the master, she the pawn. But even in that moment of terrifying vulnerability, a spark of something else ignited within her—a spark of defiance, of cunning, of something akin to… intrigue.

“And what,” she finally managed to say, her voice trembling slightly but firm, “is the nature of this… negotiation, Signor Lopez?”

Colby smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that revealed just a hint of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps something darker.

"Let's just say," he replied, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light, "it involves you."

The following days were a blur of carefully orchestrated manipulations. Colby cultivated an atmosphere of unnerving comfort, surrounding Yn with extravagant luxuries. Silk sheets, exquisite meals, and a staff that catered to her every whim. The mansion, initially a symbol of her captivity, began to feel more like a gilded cage, a luxurious prison where her every move was  observed, her every reaction carefully noted.

Yet, within this unsettling façade of luxury, a dangerous game began to unfold. Colby's pronouncements of his family's debt, initially delivered with a chilling matter-of-factness, now took on a different tone, almost… intimate. He revealed details about his family's operations, his rivals, his own ambitions, weaving his narrative with a captivating blend of truth and calculated deception. He tested her, probed her, gauged her reactions, learning her strengths and exploiting her weaknesses.

Yn, in turn, played her own game. She feigned compliance, offering carefully chosen words, concealing her thoughts behind a veil of studied nonchalance. She observed him, studying his patterns, deciphering his moods, searching for any chink in his impenetrable armor. She learned his preferences, his quirks, the subtle nuances of his personality. She used this knowledge to subtly manipulate him, turning his own tactics against him. She learned that beneath the cold exterior, there was a depth, a complexity that challenged her initial assumptions.

Their interactions were laced with a simmering tension, a delicate dance between dominance and submission that shifted constantly.

Colby’s gaze was a tangible presence, heavy with unspoken promises and barely concealed threats. His touch, when it landed, was both terrifying and strangely alluring, a violation that ignited a confusing fire within her. She found herself responding to him, not just out of fear, but out of a burgeoning curiosity, a strange fascination with this enigmatic man who had stolen her freedom.

The lines between captor and captive, between coercion and consent, blurred. Their interactions, ostensibly transactional, took on an unexpected intimacy, a dangerous spark that threatened to ignite into something uncontrollable. The lavish surroundings of the Lopez mansion became the stage for this complex dance, the opulent décor a backdrop to a power struggle that was as much a game of seduction as it was a battle of wills.

The initial fear was gradually replaced by a more complex emotion – a disturbing mixture of fascination, intrigue, and something akin to… desire. Yn found herself caught in a web of her own making, a web spun from fear and fascination, from manipulation and a burgeoning, forbidden attraction that threatened to consume her entirely. The future remained uncertain, a terrifying, yet alluring unknown. But one thing was clear: the game had only just begun.

The opulent bedroom, a sanctuary of silk sheets and plush carpets, felt less like a prison cell and more like a gilded cage. Yn traced the intricate pattern of the hand-stitched duvet, the fine thread a stark contrast to the rough burlap sack that had been her introduction to Colby Lopez's world. He hadn't touched her since that first chilling encounter, yet his presence was a constant, suffocating weight in the air. The silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tick-tock of an antique clock on the mantelpiece, was more menacing than any shouted threat.

Colby entered, his silhouette framed in the doorway by the late afternoon sun. The light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the high cheekbones and strong jawline. He carried a tray laden with delicacies – caviar, champagne, pastries that looked too exquisite to eat. He placed it on a small table beside the bed, the clinking of crystal a sharp sound in the otherwise silent room. He didn't speak, simply watched her, his stormy grey eyes assessing her, searching for something she couldn't decipher.

“I trust you’ve rested well, Signorina Petrova,” his voice finally broke the silence, smooth as polished marble, yet edged with a steel-like undertone.

Yn nodded, her gaze unwavering. She'd slept little, the fear a constant companion, a cold hand resting on her chest. But she hadn't broken. She wouldn't break. She had to learn to navigate this treacherous game, to understand the rules, to find a way out. And to do that, she needed to understand Colby.

He settled onto the plush armchair, his posture relaxed, yet his aura remained one of controlled power. The champagne gurgled softly as he poured two glasses, offering one to her with a gesture that was both courtly and unsettling.

"To negotiations," he said, raising his glass, his lips curving into a subtle, dangerous smile. "Though, I confess, I prefer the term 'collaboration.'"

The word 'collaboration' hung heavy in the air, laced with a subtle implication. It wasn't a negotiation in the traditional sense. It was something far more insidious, something far more personal. He was offering her a bargain, a twisted agreement wrapped in luxury and veiled threats. A comfortable captivity in exchange for… what exactly?

Days bled into weeks. The initial terror gradually receded, replaced by a strange, unsettling calm. The mansion, with its endless corridors and opulent rooms, became a labyrinth of her confinement, yet also a stage for their bizarre dance of power. Colby, in his own twisted way, was attentive. He ensured her every whim was catered to, surrounding her with comforts that were both lavish and subtly controlling. He would regale her with tales of his family’s history, their ruthless rise to power, punctuated by chilling anecdotes and veiled threats towards her father’s organization.

His words were a carefully constructed narrative, a blend of truth and manipulation designed to unsettle and intrigue. He spoke of his ambitions, his rivalries, the intricate web of alliances and betrayals that defined their world. He spoke of power, of loyalty, of the price of betrayal. He spoke, sometimes, of his own vulnerabilities, glimpses into a shadowed past that hinted at a depth of complexity she hadn't expected. These moments of unexpected vulnerability were chillingly effective, undermining his image of cold, ruthless dominance. They served only to deepen the unsettling intrigue she found herself entangled in.

Yn, in return, played her part. She listened, observing, studying him. She learned his habits, his preferences, his triggers. She feigned ignorance, offered carefully calculated responses, concealing her own thoughts and intentions behind a mask of serene compliance. She used his own tactics against him, subtly testing his boundaries, gauging his reactions. She discovered that his cruelty was not random, but a calculated tool; and that beneath the icy exterior, a surprising vulnerability flickered.

Their conversations were a dangerous game, each word a carefully placed pawn. He would question her about her father’s business

dealings, probing for weaknesses, for secrets. She would respond with carefully measured answers, offering just enough information to keep him engaged, yet concealing the true extent of her father's empire. The balance of power shifted subtly with each exchanged word, each knowing glance. His initial dominance was slowly being undermined by her quiet resilience, her subtle acts of defiance.

One evening, as the city lights twinkled below them, Colby offered her a glass of aged cognac. He leaned back, the firelight casting long shadows on his face, highlighting the intensity of his gaze.

“You are remarkably resilient, Signorina Petrova,” he said, his voice low and husky, a marked contrast to his usual controlled tones. “I underestimated you.”

Yn took a slow sip of the cognac, the smooth amber liquid burning pleasantly on her tongue. She met his gaze, a flicker of something akin to amusement in her eyes.

“I’ve learned to survive,” she replied, her voice a soft counterpoint to his deeper tones. “In my world, resilience is a necessity.”

He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent a shiver down her spine. “Indeed. And in my world, survival often requires…collaboration.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m prepared to offer you a… less restrictive arrangement, Signorina Petrova. In return for your… cooperation.”

He paused, his eyes holding hers with an unnerving intensity. “Your continued cooperation will ensure your safety, and perhaps… even your freedom.”

The air crackled with unspoken promises, with veiled threats. The true nature of his proposal remained obscured, shrouded in the subtle nuances of his words, in the intensity of his gaze. He offered her a choice, a twisted bargain veiled in ambiguity. It was a choice between continued captivity, albeit a more comfortable one, and the uncertain outcome of defiance. The line between captor and captive blurred further, replaced by a dangerous, seductive game of wills.

The luxurious prison of the Lopez mansion felt less like a place of confinement and more like a carefully constructed stage for a dangerous, intricate dance. The game was far from over, and Yn, with growing fascination, realized that she was playing along, willingly or not. Her initial fear had morphed into something else, something far more complex, far more dangerous. And she wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else entirely that pulsed within her.

The nights in the Lopez mansion were a study in contrasts. The days were filled with the carefully orchestrated charade of captivity – the lavish meals, the endless stream of attentive servants, the unsettlingly polite conversations with Colby. But as darkness fell, a different kind of tension filled the air, a palpable energy that  hummed beneath the surface of their elaborate game.

One evening, while Colby was engrossed in a discussion with one of his associates, Yn found herself drawn to the grand library, its shelves overflowing with leather-bound books and antique artifacts. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and polished wood, a calming counterpoint to the suffocating opulence of the rest of the mansion. She idly traced her fingers along the spines of the books, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear, yes, but also a growing sense of… fascination.

Colby’s vulnerability, though fleeting, had left its mark. She had glimpsed a man beyond the carefully constructed façade of the ruthless heir, a man burdened by secrets and shadowed by a past he couldn't escape. It was a dangerous glimpse, one that fueled a morbid curiosity within her. And in turn, she began to reveal subtle fragments of herself, carefully selected glimpses into her own history, her own vulnerabilities, always keeping a tight rein on what she shared.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, not at first. It was a subtle shift, a gradual loosening of the armor she had carefully built around herself. The conversations, once solely focused on power plays and negotiations, began to drift towards more personal territory. He’d inquire about her family, not with the cold, calculating intent of a strategist, but with a hint of something akin to genuine interest. She, in return, would respond with carefully chosen words, offering glimpses into her childhood, her ambitions, her disappointments. It was a delicate dance, a slow, cautious exploration of the terrain between their conflicting realities.

One night, as they shared a bottle of aged wine by the crackling

fireplace, the conversation drifted towards their childhoods. Colby spoke of a lonely upbringing, the relentless pressure to succeed, the constant shadow of his father's expectations. He spoke with a raw honesty that startled her, a vulnerability that disarmed her carefully constructed defenses. He spoke of his dreams, of a life outside the suffocating world of power and violence, a life he had never dared to pursue.

And she, in turn, shared fragments of her own experiences, the stifling expectations placed upon her as the youngest daughter of a powerful Don, the constant fear of betrayal, the gnawing loneliness within the gilded cage of her family’s wealth. It was a shared vulnerability, a fragile connection forged in the heart of their carefully constructed animosity.

The shared intimacy wasn't overtly physical, not yet. It was more subtle, more insidious. A lingering touch on her arm as he passed her a glass of wine. A prolonged gaze across the room, charged with unspoken emotions. The stolen moments of shared laughter, the quiet silences filled with unspoken understanding. It was an intimacy built on shared secrets, on mutual respect, on the dangerous thrill of defying their own circumstances.

These moments of connection were intertwined with acts of control.

The subtle adjustments of the lighting, the seemingly incidental placement of her wine glass – these actions were calculated moves in their ongoing game of power, moments when Colby subtly reminded her of his authority. Yet, despite this underlying power dynamic, a dangerous connection was burgeoning.

The opulent setting of the mansion became a backdrop for their charged interactions. The grand ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers and polished floors, was the setting for their slow, deliberate waltz, where their bodies moved with a controlled grace that mirrored their intricate negotiations. The sun-drenched gardens, a labyrinth of carefully manicured hedges and flowering shrubs, were their canvas for silent conversations, where their exchanged glances spoke volumes more than any spoken word. Even the cavernous library, once a symbol of her captivity, became a space of shared explorations and hesitant intimacy.

Yn began to use his own tools against him, using her compliance and her apparent vulnerability as a form of leverage. She learned to read his moods, his intentions, the subtle shifts in his demeanor. She learned to use this knowledge to negotiate, to manipulate, to gain a sliver of control within her gilded cage. She began to realize that her own compliance could be a weapon, a means of unraveling his carefully constructed façade, of revealing the man hidden beneath the layers of power and control.

He was captivated by her resilience, by her subtle acts of defiance, by her refusal to be broken. She was a challenge, a worthy adversary, a puzzle he was determined to solve. And in the process of trying to unravel her, he found himself unraveling himself.

One crisp autumn evening, as the wind howled outside, creating a melancholic symphony, they sat together on the balcony, gazing out at the sprawling estate. The wind whipped through their hair, their bodies pressed close together against the chill. The conversation was relaxed, almost casual, punctuated with shared laughter and long silences filled with an unspoken connection.

In that moment, there was no captor, no captive. There was only two individuals, both caught in the tangled web of their families' feud, both grappling with their conflicting desires, both seeking a way out of their shared predicament.

Their shared intimacy was a dangerous game, a carefully constructed illusion built on unspoken desires and veiled threats. It was a complex dance of power, a delicate balance between control and surrender, where the lines between captor and captive blurred into an unpredictable, intoxicating mix. It was a dangerous game, and they were both playing for keeps. The unexpected intimacy was a catalyst, a dangerous spark that could either illuminate their path to freedom or consume them entirely. The future remained uncertain, a vast expanse of possibilities, both exhilarating and terrifying. The opulent cage, once a symbol of her confinement, now felt like a crucible, where their unconventional love was being forged in the fires of their bitter conflict.

The polished mahogany table gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier, reflecting the intensity in Colby's eyes. He poured two glasses of aged brandy, the amber liquid shimmering like molten gold. "You underestimated me, Yn," he said, his voice a low purr, each word carefully chosen. "You thought this was simply a matter of brute force, a display of power. You assumed I would resort to crude methods." He swirled the brandy in his glass, the aroma filling the air. "But I prefer a more… refined approach."

Yn, seated across from him, met his gaze unflinchingly. The initial terror had long since receded, replaced by a cautious curiosity, a simmering awareness of the intricate game they were playing. She’d learned to decipher the nuances of his moods, the subtle shifts in his expression, the almost imperceptible adjustments in his posture. These were the subtle cues that revealed the workings of his mind, the intricate strategies he employed to maintain control. She’d also discovered his vulnerability, his capacity for tenderness, buried beneath layers of ruthlessness. This knowledge was her weapon, her subtle means of rebellion.

"And what is your refined approach, Colby?" she asked, her voice smooth as velvet, betraying none of the turmoil within.

He leaned back, a slow, deliberate movement that spoke volumes about his confidence. "To break you," he admitted, his words laced with a strange mix of cruelty and fascination. "To dismantle your defenses, one by one. To reveal the vulnerabilities you so carefully conceal." He paused, his gaze intense. "But not through violence, Yn. Through… seduction."

His words were a challenge, a calculated provocation. But it wasn't the brutality of his words that struck her, it was the calculated precision with which he delivered them. He was a master manipulator, weaving a web of deceit and allure that ensnared her with every word. She had anticipated physical coercion, but this…this was a different kind of assault, one that targeted her mind, her emotions, her very sense of self. And she found herself strangely captivated by it.

The following days were a carefully choreographed dance of power. Colby’s charm was a weapon, his intelligence a shield. He'd shower her with gifts – exquisite jewelry, rare books, stunning bouquets of flowers – each a carefully calculated gesture designed to erode her resistance, to make her feel indulged, desired. He'd engage her in stimulating conversations, probing her intellect, challenging her opinions, drawing her into debates that stretched late into the night. He'd recount stories of his travels, his experiences, painting vivid pictures of a world far removed from the confines of the Lopez estate, a world she longed to be a part of.

Yet, interspersed with these displays of charm and intellectual sparring were the subtle reminders of his authority. The slight tightening of his grip on her arm as he guided her through a room. The lingering touch on her hand as he handed her a glass of wine. The sharp glance that conveyed a silent warning. These moments, seemingly insignificant on their own, worked together to reinforce his control, to constantly remind her of the precarious balance of power between them.

Yn, in turn, began to employ her own strategies. She learned to use her compliance to gain an edge, her apparent vulnerability to disarm him. She would allow him to believe he held all the cards, while secretly plotting her own moves. She would offer small concessions, calculated gestures of submission, while simultaneously pushing the boundaries, testing his limits, gauging his reactions. She was learning his rhythms, his patterns, his vulnerabilities, all the while maintaining an air of enigmatic  neutrality.

One evening, during a lavish dinner party attended by members of the Lopez family and close associates, Colby engaged her in a conversation amidst the elegant chaos. He subtly pressed against her hand under the table, a gesture both possessive and provocative. Yn felt the tremor in his grip, a sign of his own hidden insecurity, and exploited it. She responded with a soft, almost imperceptible touch, sending a current of awareness through him. The game had shifted.

They conversed about the family business, about their respective positions, about the delicate balance of power between their families. She listened carefully, paying attention to every word, every nuance of his tone. He seemed invincible, effortlessly maneuvering through the complexities of business and family loyalty. Yet, beneath the polished surface, she sensed a weariness, a certain underlying vulnerability. The mask, while impressive, was showing slight cracks.

Later that night, in the privacy of her opulent but confining quarters, she carefully studied his strategies, his tactics. She observed how he manipulated the environment, the lighting, the sounds, to create an atmosphere of intimacy and control. She noted how he strategically placed his words, his silences, and his actions, always in a way that reinforced his power. But it was this very precision that revealed his weakness; his absolute control was a testament to his insecurity, a rigid wall protecting a vulnerable heart.

The next day, she initiated a conversation about his childhood. She spoke not with challenge, but with a quiet empathy that disarmed him. She listened as he described his lonely upbringing, the immense pressure to succeed, the constant shadow of his father's expectations. He revealed a hidden longing for something beyond the confines of his family's legacy, a desire for connection, for love, for something real.

She didn’t overtly challenge his authority, but she showed him a different perspective. She spoke of her own upbringing, of the suffocating expectations placed upon her, the loneliness behind the facade of wealth and power. She offered a perspective of understanding and empathy that he had not encountered before, a sense of connection that momentarily broke down the walls he had so meticulously erected around himself. It was a turning point in their dynamic, a subtle shift in the balance of power.

The intimacy that unfolded wasn't solely physical; it was a psychological battleground. Their encounters were a combination of carefully orchestrated seduction and calculated displays of dominance and submission. Their shared moments of vulnerability were interwoven with acts of control, a delicate dance where the lines between captor and captive became increasingly blurred.

The grand ballroom, the secluded gardens, even the intimidating library – each location became a stage for their complex interplay. Every glance, every touch, every word carried a weight of unspoken desire and veiled threats. The opulent mansion, initially a symbol of her captivity, transformed into a battleground where their wills clashed, their desires intertwined, and a dangerous, unexpected intimacy blossomed amidst the backdrop of a bitter family feud.

The game of power had become a game of hearts, and the stakes were dangerously high.

The following days were a study in contrasts. Colby, outwardly the master, revealed cracks in his meticulously crafted facade. He would spend hours poring over financial statements related to the Petrova family’s businesses, his brow furrowed in concentration, a stark contrast to the effortless charm he usually exuded. Yn  observed these moments, cataloging his habits, his anxieties, the subtle ways his composure faltered under pressure. She noted the specific brands of cigars he favored, the precise time he took his evening brandy, the particular chair he always chose in the library.

These seemingly insignificant details were pieces of a puzzle she was diligently assembling.

One afternoon, while he was engrossed in reviewing documents detailing a lucrative arms deal the Petrovas were orchestrating, Yn casually mentioned a detail – a minor discrepancy in the shipment logistics, something only someone intimately familiar with the Petrova family's intricate network could know. Colby looked up, his eyes narrowed. He didn't accuse her, but the shift in his demeanor was unmistakable. A flicker of surprise, then a slow, careful assessment. The subtle power shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there, a silent acknowledgment of her knowledge, her understanding of his family's vulnerabilities.

She continued to play the game, allowing him to believe he remained in control. She engaged in his intellectual sparring matches, her responses laced with subtle hints of her own strategic maneuvering. She would casually mention names, locations, dates –fragments of information that, when pieced together, painted a picture of the Petrova family's vast and complex operations. He'd often dismiss them, attributing them to chance, but the underlying tension was palpable. The power dynamic was no longer a simple equation of captor and captive. It had become a chess match played with lethal precision.

The opulent mansion, initially a symbol of her confinement, began to feel less like a prison and more like a stage. Colby's lavish gestures – the exquisite meals, the expensive wines, the constant

flow of fresh flowers – now felt less like attempts at seduction and more like subtle attempts at appeasement. Yn accepted them, but with a growing sense of detachment, a cool calculation behind her outwardly compliant demeanor. She used his generosity to her advantage, subtly gleaning information from the staff, using her charm to extract details about the mansion's security system, escape routes, and the routines of the Lopez family.

The nights were equally intriguing. Colby's touch, once possessive and dominant, now seemed hesitant, almost tentative. Their physical intimacy, initially a tool of control, evolved into something more complex, a dangerous dance of wills, where consent was a battlefield in itself. The power shifts were subtle, fluid, like currents beneath a calm surface. One moment, Colby held the upper hand, his touch firm, his gaze unwavering. The next, Yn would subtly turn the tables, a fleeting smile, a suggestive whisper, a calculated vulnerability that left him questioning his own control.

She began to subtly manipulate his emotions. She would recount stories of her family, not to evoke sympathy, but to reveal their strengths, their ruthlessness, their capacity for brutal revenge. She painted a picture of a family that wouldn't hesitate to retaliate if she were harmed. This wasn't a threat, but an observation, a reminder of the precariousness of his position. He was playing a dangerous game, and the stakes were far higher than he realized.

The atmosphere in the mansion shifted. The staff, initially wary and obedient, began to subtly change their behavior. They would linger a moment longer in her presence, offer small, seemingly insignificant pieces of information. They were sensing the shift in power, the subtle rebellion brewing beneath the surface. Yn, without saying a word, had created an atmosphere of uncertainty, a sense of unease that permeated every corner of the Lopez estate.

One evening, during a seemingly casual conversation, Yn casually mentioned a detail about an upcoming business deal, a deal that would significantly impact the Lopez family's financial stability. She presented it as an observation, not a threat. Yet, the information was precise, detailed, undeniably true. Colby's nonchalant demeanor finally cracked. His eyes revealed a flicker of genuine

fear, an acknowledgment of the extent of her knowledge, the depth of her infiltration.

The game had reached a critical juncture. Colby's control, once absolute, was waning. The meticulous facade he had cultivated was beginning to crumble. He was no longer certain who was the captor and who was the captive. The shifting sands of their relationship were creating a new landscape, one where the rules were constantly being rewritten, where power ebbed and flowed, where the line between desire and manipulation was hopelessly blurred.

The tension between them escalated, their interactions charged with unspoken threats and veiled desires. Their conversations were a battle of wits, a delicate dance of deception and revelation. He tried to regain control, resorting to subtle displays of dominance, but Yn met his challenges with an unwavering gaze, a quiet strength that surprised even herself. She was no longer the terrified captive; she was a strategist, a player in a high-stakes game, and she was beginning to win.

In the dead of night, she would sit at her window, overlooking the sprawling Lopez estate, the lights twinkling like a constellation of power. The mansion, once a prison, now felt like a chessboard, each room a strategic position in a complex game. She was no longer merely surviving; she was thriving, using her intellect, her cunning, her newfound understanding of Colby's vulnerabilities to gain an edge. The opulent furnishings, the lavish artwork, the sprawling gardens - they were all tools, pieces in her intricate plan.

The next morning, she initiated a conversation about the family debt, subtly revealing her knowledge of specific transactions, loopholes, hidden accounts. She didn't threaten him; she simply laid bare the intricate web of financial dealings, highlighting the vulnerabilities of the Lopez family. Colby was forced to confront the reality of his precarious position. His power, once seemingly absolute, was now challenged, exposed, questioned. The game had fundamentally shifted. The captive had become the hunter. The fear in his eyes was no longer feigned; it was raw, genuine, unsettling. And in that fear, Yn saw her victory. The final move was yet to be made, but the tide had definitively turned. The sands had shifted,

leaving Colby, for the first time, uncertain of his footing. The game, far from over, was about to enter its most dangerous phase.

The opulent library, usually a stage for their intellectual sparring matches, became the backdrop for a different kind of contest. One evening, after a particularly tense discussion about the Petrova family's impending retaliation, Colby pulled Yn into his arms, his touch both possessive and tentative. The kiss that followed was a battlefield, a clash of wills disguised as intimacy. His lips were demanding, yet his hands, though caressing, held a hesitant quality, as if he was testing the boundaries of her compliance, probing for any sign of resistance.

Yn met his passion with a calculated fire of her own. She mirrored his intensity, her body responding to his touch, yet her mind remained detached, observing, calculating. Their embrace felt less like a surrender and more like a strategic maneuver, a subtle exertion of power masked by mutual desire. The air thrummed with a potent mix of arousal and apprehension, the scent of expensive brandy and fear mingling in the dimly lit room. She allowed herself to be swept away by the physicality of the moment, using her own allure as a weapon, blurring the lines between genuine response and manipulative strategy.

Their intimacy transcended the confines of the library. Hidden alcoves, secluded gardens bathed in moonlight, the shadowed corners of the vast mansion – these became their clandestine rendezvous points. Each encounter was a negotiation, a delicate dance of power and desire, where consent became a fluid, contested territory. In these secret spaces, the masks they wore in public began to slip, revealing glimpses of vulnerability beneath their carefully crafted facades. Colby’s dominance wavered, replaced by moments of genuine affection, while Yn's calculated compliance gave way to fleeting displays of raw emotion.

One moonlit night, in the overgrown rose garden hidden behind the mansion, their passion reached a fever pitch. The tangled branches of the roses became a metaphor for their complex relationship, their thorns mirroring the sharp edges of their power struggle. Their bodies intertwined, a mixture of tender caresses and forceful

possessiveness, their movements a testament to the dangerous dance they were engaged in. It was in this secluded sanctuary that their most vulnerable selves were exposed, revealing the unexpected tenderness that blossomed amidst the danger.

The next morning, however, the aftermath was a stark reminder of the fragile nature of their connection. The lingering tenderness was quickly replaced by the cold realities of their circumstances. Colby’s attempt to return to his usual dominant stance was met with Yn's quiet defiance. She acknowledged their shared passion, but refused to allow it to diminish her strategic objectives. Their relationship remained a delicate balance, a constant push and pull between desire and control, love and manipulation.

The days that followed were a blur of lavish meals, stolen moments, and carefully orchestrated encounters. Yn continued to gather information, using her charm and intellect to unravel the intricacies of the Lopez family's operations. She learned about their secret offshore accounts, their hidden alliances, their vulnerabilities. This knowledge became her leverage, a tool she used to maintain her position, ensuring that her newfound power within the relationship wasn't fleeting.

Meanwhile, Colby's control over her was constantly challenged.

He’d try to assert his dominance through physical displays of power, but Yn’s responses were calculated, never fully surrendering, always maintaining a sense of detachment, a cool awareness of her strategic advantage. She would respond to his touch, but with a subtle coldness, a hint of calculation in her eyes. Their intimacy became a constant negotiation, a silent battle of wills played out in the shadows of the luxurious mansion.

Their clandestine encounters outside the mansion's walls added another layer of complexity to their relationship. A secluded beach at dawn, the hushed intimacy of a hidden bar in the city's underbelly – these locations provided an escape from the scrutiny of the Lopez household, allowing their passion to flourish without the watchful eyes of Colby’s family and staff. However, these escapades also introduced an element of heightened danger, an awareness that their actions carried potentially devastating consequences. The thrill of the forbidden, the risk of discovery, only served to intensify their connection.

In these hidden places, their intimacy evolved, shedding its initial coercive undertones. The power dynamic remained precarious, shifting constantly, but genuine affection began to weave its way into their passionate encounters. There were moments of tenderness, shared laughter, and unexpected intimacy, stark contrasts to the calculated maneuvering and subtle manipulations that dominated their relationship within the walls of the Lopez mansion. The forbidden nature of their relationship, fueled by the ever-present threat of exposure, added a layer of intensity that made their passionate connection both exhilarating and terrifying.

One evening, as they stood overlooking the city skyline from a rooftop bar, Colby confessed his growing affection for Yn, a vulnerability that shook their carefully constructed power dynamic to its core. His confession was not a surrender, but an acknowledgment of the profound impact Yn had on him, a testament to the intoxicating nature of their forbidden love. Yn responded with her own hesitant admission, acknowledging the complex feelings that had entwined themselves with her strategic maneuvers. The confession shattered the illusion of pure manipulation, revealing a deeper emotional connection that threatened to upend their intricate game.

The precariousness of their situation was palpable. The threat of discovery loomed large, yet their passion burned brighter than ever.

The lines between consent, coercion, and genuine desire became increasingly blurred, adding another layer of psychological tension to their relationship. Their physical encounters were no longer just a means of control or manipulation, but a testament to the complex and dangerous bond they had forged amidst the chaos of their families' feud.

Their relationship continued to unfold against the backdrop of their families' bitter conflict, adding a layer of external pressure to their already complex emotional dynamics. Every stolen moment of intimacy, every whispered confession, was a risk, a gamble played out against the possibility of devastating consequences. The ever-

present threat of discovery heightened the intensity of their connection, making their forbidden love a dangerous, exhilarating, and ultimately unpredictable game. Their passionate encounters became a vital element of their power struggle, each physical interaction a delicate negotiation between desire and dominance, consent and coercion, love and betrayal. The question of whether their forbidden passion could lead to reconciliation or further destruction remained unresolved, leaving the reader on the edge of their seat. The game was far from over.

The opulent dinner table, a gleaming mahogany behemoth capable of seating twenty, felt claustrophobic. Colby sat rigidly at the head, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a taut alertness. Yn, seated beside him, felt the scrutiny of his family like a physical weight. His siblings, a trio of vipers in designer clothing, watched her with undisguised hostility. Isabella, the eldest, her face a mask of icy disdain, barely acknowledged Yn's presence. Marco, the second-born, a whirlwind of restless energy and casual cruelty, openly leered, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made her skin crawl. And then there was Sofia, the youngest, a deceptively sweet-faced woman whose smile never quite reached her eyes, radiating an aura of quiet menace.

The conversation, a veneer of polite chatter about business deals and social events, was a battlefield. Each carefully chosen word, each subtle inflection of voice, was a weapon. Isabella’s veiled insults about Yn’s family, her thinly disguised contempt for the Petrovas, were met with Colby's stony silence, a silent defense that felt both protective and suffocating. Marco, ever the provocateur, punctuated the conversation with barbed comments about Yn’s supposed naïveté, his words laced with a thinly veiled threat. Sofia, watching them all with unnerving calm, offered only the occasional chillingly accurate observation, her words a subtle reminder of the Lopez family's collective power.

Yn, however, remained outwardly composed. She met their hostility with a carefully constructed facade of serene indifference, her eyes betraying nothing. Beneath the surface, however, her mind raced, analyzing their dynamics, searching for weaknesses, assessing the potential threats. She had anticipated their disapproval, but the intensity of their animosity surpassed even her most cynical expectations. The Lopez family was not merely a collection of individuals; they were a finely tuned machine, a force to be reckoned with.

Later that night, in the privacy of their shared quarters, Colby confronted Yn about the family dinner. He didn't apologize for their behavior, but his silence spoke volumes. His touch, as he traced the line of her jaw, was tender, a stark contrast to the icy hostility she'd faced earlier. "They don't understand," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "They don't see what I see."

Yn, however, was far from convinced. She had seen the glint of ambition in Isabella's eyes, the cold calculation in Marco's, and the chilling manipulation in Sofia’s. They weren’t simply disapproving; they were plotting. She had a sense that their disapproval wasn't solely directed at her, but at the shifting power dynamic within the family itself. Colby’s unusual attachment to her threatened their established order, potentially disrupting the carefully constructed balance of power.

The following days were a whirlwind of clandestine meetings, hidden conversations, and carefully orchestrated maneuvers. Yn continued to gather intelligence, using her charm and wit to navigate the treacherous waters of the Lopez household. She learned about the family's intricate network of alliances, their secret offshore accounts, and their vulnerabilities, utilizing this knowledge to subtly shift the power balance in her favor.

Meanwhile, Colby's efforts to shield her from his family's wrath only served to deepen their suspicions. His attempts to exert his dominance over his siblings, to protect Yn from their machinations, were met with resistance, fueling their already burning resentment. He was caught in a crossfire, torn between his loyalty to his family and his growing attachment to Yn.

One moonless night, as they stood on the balcony overlooking the sprawling estate, Isabella confronted them. Her voice, usually controlled, was laced with barely contained fury. "This ends now, Colby," she hissed, her words dripping with venom. "This…this…Petrova girl is a liability. A dangerous game you're playing."

Colby, ever defiant, stepped in front of Yn, his body shielding her from Isabella's wrath. "She's not a liability, Isabella," he countered, his voice low and dangerous. "She's…important."

The ensuing argument was a vicious clash of wills, a battle fought with words as sharp as knives. Marco and Sofia joined the fray, their voices adding to the cacophony of accusations and threats. Yn watched them, her mind calculating, her heart pounding. The precarious balance of power was teetering on the brink of collapse.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, Colby revealed a disturbing truth. His siblings weren't merely unhappy about his relationship with Yn; they were actively plotting against him. They saw his growing affection for her as a weakness, a potential threat to their dominance within the family. They were planning to use Yn as a pawn, to leverage their control over him, potentially to even eliminate her as a threat.

This revelation added a layer of chilling complexity to their situation. The danger wasn't limited to the Petrova-Lopez feud; it had infiltrated the very heart of the Lopez family. The opulent mansion, once a symbol of power and wealth, had become a stage for betrayal, a breeding ground for ruthless ambition.

The escalating tension within the Lopez family forced Colby and Yn into a closer alliance. Their shared vulnerability, their fight for survival against the machinations of Colby's siblings, forged a stronger bond between them. Their intimacy deepened, their passionate encounters becoming a sanctuary, a refuge from the storm raging around them.

However, this newfound intimacy came with a price. The lines between their initial power dynamic and genuine connection blurred further. Their love was a dangerous game, played out on a battlefield of family secrets and deadly ambitions. The trust they were building was fragile, constantly threatened by the looming betrayal and violence that threatened to engulf them.

One stormy evening, huddled together in the library, the rain lashing against the windows, they confronted the brutal reality of their situation. The weight of their families' feud, compounded by the internal conflict within the Lopez family, felt almost  unbearable. Their shared vulnerability, however, strengthened their resolve. They were bound together not just by passion, but by a shared fight for survival.

The coming days would test their bond to its limits. They had to outwit Colby's siblings, navigate the treacherous currents of family politics, and find a way to escape the escalating violence. Their love story, born in captivity and fueled by forbidden passion, was now entangled with a web of deadly intrigue. The question of whether their love could survive the storm, or whether it would be swept away in the tide of family conflict, remained unanswered, hanging heavy in the air like the scent of impending danger. The game, far from over, had just become far more deadly.

The rain hammered against the leaded glass windows of the Lopez mansion, mirroring the tempest brewing within. The air crackled with unspoken threats, a palpable tension that clung to the ornate furnishings like a shroud. Colby, his face etched with worry, paced the library, his normally controlled demeanor frayed. Yn, perched on a velvet chaise lounge, watched him with a mixture of apprehension and a strange, burgeoning sense of power. The fragile truce established after the explosive confrontation with his siblings was already shattering.

A coded message, delivered by a shadowy figure who melted back into the night as swiftly as he had appeared, ripped through the carefully constructed calm. It was from her father, Dimitri Petrova. The message was simple, brutal, and terrifyingly efficient: We know where you are. Prepare for retaliation.

The implications hit Yn like a physical blow. Her father, a man known for his ruthless efficiency and unwavering loyalty to his family, would not stand idly by while his youngest daughter remained a captive of their sworn enemies. The fragile peace between the Petrova and Lopez families, a peace already strained to breaking point, was about to shatter completely. The carefully woven tapestry of their uneasy truce unravelled, revealing the raw, brutal reality beneath.

Colby swore under his breath, his clenched fists a testament to his suppressed fury. The meticulously crafted facade of control he maintained around his family threatened to crumble. The news had shifted the balance of power dramatically, making their situation exponentially more perilous. The threat to Yn’s life now extended far beyond the Lopez family; it included the bloodthirsty vengeance of her father.

The following hours were a blur of frantic activity. Colby, torn between protecting Yn and preparing for the inevitable confrontation, moved with a chilling efficiency. He made calls, issued orders, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. His

siblings, sensing the shift in power, retreated into a cautious silence, their machinations momentarily stalled by the imminent threat from the Petrovas. The simmering conflict within the Lopez family, though not extinguished, was overshadowed by the looming external danger.

Yn, however, felt a strange surge of exhilaration mixed with terror. The arrival of her father's threat had given her a crucial bargaining chip, a potent weapon to wield against both the Lopez and Petrova families. She understood her father’s methods, his unwavering commitment to loyalty, and his reputation for merciless retribution. He wouldn't stop until he had her back, safe, regardless of the cost. This understanding gave her a sense of control, a dangerous strength she was quick to exploit.

The opulent Lopez mansion, once a symbol of power and security, now felt like a gilded cage, its walls closing in. The air crackled with anticipation, the silence punctuated by the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky faucet, each drop echoing the ticking clock of impending doom. The stark contrast between the luxurious surroundings and the brutal realities of the Petrova family's impending arrival was jarring, a haunting reminder of the two opposing worlds colliding. The opulent ballroom, usually filled with laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses, was eerily silent. The sense of impending violence was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Meanwhile, in the shadows of the Petrova territory, a different kind of chaos reigned. Dimitri Petrova, his face a mask of grim determination, oversaw the preparations for his counterattack. The usual meticulously organized world of the Petrova organization, a stark contrast to the chaotic yet carefully controlled structure of the Lopez family, was abuzz with activity. Loyal soldiers, hardened by years of brutal conflict, moved with practiced efficiency, their movements a silent ballet of death. The air hummed with the low thrum of anticipation, the scent of gunpowder and impending violence palpable.

The Petrova organization was a well-oiled machine, its gears grinding smoothly even in the face of overwhelming chaos. This was in stark contrast to the often fractious Lopez family, where ambition and jealousy often outweighed loyalty and cohesion. The difference in organizational structure highlighted the fundamental differences between the two families, the stark contrast between old-world discipline and the more chaotic modern ambition of the Lopez family.

The escalating conflict forced Yn into a precarious balancing act. She was caught between the seductive danger of her burgeoning relationship with Colby and the undeniable loyalty she felt for her family. Her actions had far-reaching consequences, impacting both sides of this bitter feud. She had already inadvertently shifted the power dynamics within the Lopez family, and now her father's intervention had thrown a wrench into the already complicated works of the Petrova family's retaliatory plans.

The lines between captor and captive, between love and betrayal, were blurred to the point of invisibility. Yn’s choices were no longer personal but had far-reaching consequences. Each decision she made carried the weight of two powerful families, each poised on the edge of all-out war. Her survival, and the survival of Colby, rested not only on their ability to outmaneuver their families, but also on the unpredictable nature of their rapidly evolving relationship.

Days bled into nights, each sunrise bringing the conflict closer to a boiling point. The tension was a physical entity, palpable in the hushed whispers, the furtive glances, the sudden, violent outbursts.

Colby, his resources stretched thin, his loyalty divided, fought to maintain control, caught in the crossfire between his family and the impending Petrova onslaught. Yn, her heart torn between loyalty and a growing, complex affection for Colby, utilized her intelligence and her cunning to navigate this treacherous landscape.

The final confrontation wouldn't be a single, dramatic event, but a series of carefully orchestrated maneuvers, a deadly dance between two powerful families, with Yn and Colby caught in the heart of the storm. The stakes were impossibly high, the cost of failure potentially catastrophic. Their love story, born in the ashes of kidnapping, was rapidly becoming a war of survival, a fight for

their lives against the relentless tide of familial conflict. The question loomed large: Would their dangerous liaison survive the Petrova counterattack, or would it be swallowed by the brutal realities of their families' war? The answer remained shrouded in the storm, a secret yet to be revealed in the bloody, brutal  aftermath.

The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across Colby’s face, highlighting the harsh angles of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes. He watched Yn, her silhouette a stark contrast against the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, a delicate porcelain doll in a gilded cage. The unspoken question hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating like the humid night air pressing against the mansion’s ancient walls. Trust. Could he trust her? Could she trust him? The answer, elusive as a phantom, seemed to mock them both.

Their initial physical connection, born from a coercive act, had blossomed into something unexpected, something both terrifying and exhilarating. Yet, beneath the surface of their passionate encounters, a current of suspicion pulsed, a cold undertow threatening to drag them under. Colby’s possessiveness, a natural consequence of his position, warred with his growing attraction to Yn's unpredictable spirit. Her intelligence, her cunning, her quiet strength—these were as captivating as they were unsettling. He found himself constantly assessing her, searching for signs of deception, of hidden agendas. He knew she was playing a game, but he couldn't decipher the rules.

Yn, in turn, navigated this dangerous dance with a calculated grace.

She played the role of the captivated captive, but her eyes held a knowing glint, a hint of the strategist beneath. The threat of her father's retaliation was a double-edged sword, a weapon she could wield to manipulate Colby, to gain leverage in this twisted game of power. Yet, a part of her, a fragile, vulnerable part, was beginning to trust him, to see beneath the carefully constructed facade of the ruthless Lopez heir. She saw glimpses of vulnerability, of insecurity, of a man burdened by a legacy he never chose. And this unexpected tenderness only deepened the complexity of their relationship, making the betrayal that loomed between them all the more  agonizing.

Their nights were a tapestry of stolen kisses and whispered confidences, punctuated by moments of raw, undeniable passion. The touch of his hand on her skin sent shivers down her spine, the

taste of his lips a forbidden delight. Yet, the shadow of their families' feud cast its pall over every encounter, transforming even their most intimate moments into a battleground of wills. A simple caress could feel like a threat, a whispered word like a betrayal.

One evening, as the rain beat a relentless rhythm against the windowpanes, Colby revealed a detail that chilled Yn to the bone.

He admitted that his siblings, always hungry for power, were whispering about using her as a pawn in their ongoing struggle for dominance within the Lopez family. Their plan, he confessed, was to offer her up to their father in exchange for a greater share of the family wealth and influence. The revelation struck Yn with the force of a physical blow, the cold dread twisting in her gut.

The uncertainty gnawed at her. Could she believe him? Was this a genuine confession of vulnerability, or another layer in his intricate game? The precarious balance between captor and captive, between desire and distrust, tilted precariously. She saw the fear in his eyes, the genuine dread of losing her, not just to her father, but to his own family. Yet, the betrayal of his siblings, even if acknowledged, didn't erase the fact that he was, essentially, still holding her captive.

The following days were a blur of emotional turmoil. Their interactions were a constant push and pull, a dance on a razor's edge. One moment, they were locked in an embrace that promised a lifetime of forbidden passion; the next, icy suspicion hung between them like a palpable barrier. Colby would shower her with lavish gifts, exquisite jewels, and fine silks, a desperate attempt to demonstrate his sincerity.

Yet, the gesture felt hollow, empty, merely another piece in his complex game. Yn, for her part, played along, utilizing her newfound knowledge to navigate the treacherous waters of her confinement, always alert for any sign of treachery. Her heart, torn between the fear of betrayal and the unsettling allure of her dangerous connection with Colby, ached with a conflicting mix of emotions.

Colby initiated many moments of intimacy. He wanted to prove his love. Yet, the very act of trying to demonstrate his loyalty only seemed to deepen her apprehension, highlighting the fundamental

power imbalance between them. These moments of intimacy were more akin to violent storms, electrifying bursts of passion interwoven with moments of agonizing doubt. She could not fully trust him, but his desperation to prove his sincerity was, in itself, compelling. Her resolve was tested to the limits, forcing her to confront the difficult reality of her situation.

The tension escalated. They spent hours engaged in heated debates, their words like weapons, their silences echoing with unspoken accusations. Colby, his control slipping, revealed more of his vulnerabilities, more of his personal demons. He spoke of his estranged mother, his ambitions, his fears of failing his father. His confidences created a strange kind of intimacy, a fragile bridge across the chasm of their opposing worlds. Yn listened, her heart swaying between empathy and suspicion.

Their relationship was a dangerous paradox. Their connection fueled by the very circumstances that should tear them apart—a cruel irony that only served to deepen the bonds between them. The precarious balance between trust and betrayal, between love and hate, became the defining characteristic of their tumultuous affair. The uncertainty was a powerful aphrodisiac, amplifying their passion and making each stolen moment an explosive, unforgettable experience.

One moonless night, Colby brought Yn to a secluded balcony overlooking the sprawling gardens. The wind howled, a mournful symphony accompanying the unspoken anxieties hanging between them. He confessed his true feelings, stripping away the layers of calculated indifference, exposing the vulnerability of a man torn between loyalty to his family and the undeniable power of his feelings for his captive. Yn saw the sincerity in his eyes, the desperate plea for forgiveness in his trembling hands.

His confession wasn't a guarantee of safety or loyalty. His family remained a formidable threat, his actions a complex dance of self-preservation and a desperate attempt at love. It was a fragile trust, built on shaky foundations, a gamble on the future. Yn, acknowledging his honesty, could not bring herself to fully offer her own trust. The experience only deepened the unsettling power of their forbidden liaison.

In the cold morning light, the aftermath of their intense confession hung heavy in the air. The uncertainty remained, a haunting reminder of their precarious situation. The lines between trust and betrayal remained blurry, the path ahead shrouded in shadows.

Their dangerous liaison, born from violence and captivity, was evolving into something more complex, more profound, yet still fraught with danger. The opulent cage of the Lopez mansion held them both captive, their entwined fates inextricably linked, their future uncertain. The dance of trust and betrayal would continue, the stakes ever higher, the consequences potentially catastrophic.

The opulent Lopez mansion, once a symbol of Colby’s power, now felt like a gilded cage, its lavish interiors echoing with the unspoken tensions that throbbed between Yn and Colby. The fragile truce they’d reached, built on a foundation of stolen kisses and whispered confessions, was threatened by the ever-present shadow of the Petrova family. Yn's father, a man known for his ruthless efficiency and unwavering loyalty to his own blood, would not easily relinquish his daughter. The threat of his retribution hung over them, a dark storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

Colby, burdened by the weight of his family's expectations and his own burgeoning feelings for Yn, walked a tightrope. His siblings, ever-scheming and power-hungry, continued to whisper their plans, their eyes glinting with avarice. The idea of using Yn as a bargaining chip in their internal family power struggles remained a chilling possibility, a constant threat that gnawed at the edges of their fragile intimacy. He found himself torn between the desire to protect Yn and the desperate need to appease his family, a conflict that mirrored the internal battle raging within him.

Their stolen moments together became even more precious, each stolen kiss a defiance against the encroaching darkness. The luxury surrounding them—the silk sheets, the crystal chandeliers, the endless array of exquisite wines—felt increasingly ironic, a cruel juxtaposition to the precariousness of their situation. The mansion, once a symbol of security, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in on them, suffocating them with the weight of their shared predicament.

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows on their faces, Colby confessed his fear. Not of the Petrova family, but of losing Yn. The admission, raw and vulnerable,stripped away the last vestiges of his carefully constructed facade. He spoke of his loneliness, of the emptiness that had haunted him before he met her, a chilling admission that revealed a deep-seated vulnerability beneath his ruthless exterior.

Yn listened, her heart aching with a mixture of empathy and apprehension. She saw the desperation in his eyes, the fear of losing the only thing that had truly mattered to him in years. His confession, however, did not erase the reality of their situation. She remained a captive, her freedom still at the mercy of a family war that she had never asked to be a part of.

The tension between them, however, was palpable. It hung in the air, thick and heavy, a silent presence that shadowed even their most intimate moments. The opulent surroundings seemed to mock their vulnerability, highlighting the stark contrast between their passionate connection and the precariousness of their situation. The lines between captor and captive blurred even further, the roles constantly shifting, depending on the whims of their families' schemes.

The following days were a blur of stolen moments and agonizing uncertainty. They played a dangerous game of cat and mouse, their relationship a volatile blend of affection and suspicion. Colby, in a desperate attempt to prove his sincerity, showered Yn with gifts –diamonds, pearls, silks, all symbols of a wealth that couldn't buy her freedom. Yet, these extravagant gestures only served to underline the vast power imbalance that existed between them.

Yn, however, was not without her own strategies. She played her part with careful precision, using her intelligence and charm to navigate the treacherous waters of their confinement. She learned to read Colby's subtle cues, to anticipate his moods, to utilize his vulnerability to her advantage. But the weight of her confinement, the ever-present threat of her father's vengeance, began to take its toll. Her spirit, once resilient, started to crack under the immense pressure.

One night, a heated argument erupted. Their words, once passionate and seductive, now turned into weapons, each syllable carrying the weight of their unspoken fears. The disagreement escalated into a confrontation, the raw emotion laid bare in the harsh glare of the chandelier's light. Colby's possessiveness, born out of fear and desperation, clashed with Yn's growing sense of disillusionment.

The argument ended abruptly, leaving a chilling silence in its wake. They stared at each other, the unspoken accusations hanging heavy in the air. The fragile truce was shattered, the chasm between them seeming wider than ever before. Their relationship, once a beacon of hope in a world of darkness, now teetered precariously on the brink of collapse.

The following days were filled with a chilling silence. The opulent mansion, once a haven of passion, now felt empty and hollow, the silence punctuated only by the distant whispers of the Petrova family’s advance. The tension was palpable, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the air. Each stolen glance, each fleeting touch, was fraught with unspoken anxieties. Their dangerous liaison, once fueled by passion and defiance, now seemed to be dissolving into a maelstrom of uncertainty and doubt.

The final confrontation arrived unexpectedly, like a storm breaking over the calm sea. A messenger arrived, bearing news of an imminent attack by the Petrova family, an assault that threatened to engulf the Lopez mansion and everyone within its walls. The carefully constructed facade of their fragile peace shattered, exposing the raw vulnerability beneath. Colby, his eyes filled with desperation, confessed his failure to protect her. The weight of his family's betrayal and his own inability to shield Yn from danger overwhelmed him, plunging him into despair.

Yn, faced with the imminent threat, saw the raw honesty in his fear. The impending doom forced her to confront the paradoxical reality of her feelings. She knew she could not trust him fully, the power dynamic remaining skewed. Yet, beneath the surface of her apprehension, a spark of something akin to love flickered, a dangerous flame ignited by the very threat that endangered them both.

Their final moments before the chaos descended were a desperate attempt at understanding, a bittersweet exchange where love and fear intertwined. Their connection, forged in the crucible of captivity, tested by betrayal, and threatened by violence, had reached a terrifying precipice. The luxurious confines of the

mansion could no longer contain the turbulent emotions raging within them. The opulent cage had become their battleground, a stage for their final dance on the razor’s edge of love and destruction. The narrative ends with the sound of approaching gunfire, leaving the reader suspended in a state of breathless anticipation, questioning whether their volatile connection can survive the storm. The delicate balance, so painstakingly constructed, is shattered. The future, uncertain and fraught with danger, looms.

The gunshots echoed in the distance, a chilling prelude to the storm that was about to break. Colby, his face etched with grim determination, pulled Yn close, the silk of her gown whispering against his skin. The opulent surroundings, once a symbol of their captivity, now felt like a flimsy shield against the impending violence.

"We have to act," he said, his voice low and urgent, his breath ghosting across her cheek. "My family won't stop until they have what they want—and that's complete control. Using you as leverage was always their plan, but I... I never meant for it to go this far." His confession, raw and vulnerable, was a stark contrast to the ruthless image he usually projected.

Yn, her heart pounding against her ribs, met his gaze. The fear was palpable, a cold hand clutching at her insides, but beneath it, a strange sort of resolve had taken root. Their relationship, born from captivity and fueled by forbidden passion, had become a twisted sort of strength. It was a dangerous game they were playing, but it was their game, and they would play it to the end.

"I know," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "And I won't let them win. We have to turn this around. We have to show them that we are stronger together than they are apart."

Their plan was audacious, a gamble born from desperation and fueled by a burgeoning love that defied logic and reason. It was a high-stakes game of chess, with the Petrova family's impending attack serving as the final, desperate move. They needed to use the chaos to their advantage, to turn the tide of the conflict and secure their freedom, not just for themselves, but for the fragile truce they had managed to build within the heart of the war.

Their first move involved exploiting the Lopez family's internal conflicts. Colby, using his intimate knowledge of his siblings' rivalries and ambitions, orchestrated a series of carefully calculated

actions. He leaked information, subtly manipulating events, subtly sowing seeds of discord that would bloom into open warfare amongst his own kin. He used Yn's captivity, ironically, to his advantage. He would let his siblings believe that she was still their most potent weapon. Their bickering would buy them the time they desperately needed.

Yn, meanwhile, played her part with chilling precision. Using her charm and sharp intellect, she gained the trust of a seemingly insignificant member of the Lopez household – a distant cousin, overlooked by the main players, but possessing vital information about the family's financial dealings. Yn subtly gained his  confidence, carefully extracting information that revealed a weakness, a vulnerable point in the Lopez family’s otherwise impenetrable armor. This weakness would be their key to leverage against the Petrovas.

Their next move involved a dangerous rendezvous outside the Lopez mansion's confines. Yn, disguised and escorted by the seemingly loyal cousin, met with a Petrova contact. The exchange was risky, a daring attempt to open communication between the two warring families. The contact, a stern, pragmatic woman named Isabella, initially showed skepticism. But Yn, employing both her natural charisma and her calculated vulnerability, managed to convey their proposal: a truce, based not on threats and violence, but on mutual benefit.

The heart of their proposal centered on the Lopez family's long-standing debt to the Petrovas. Yn, using the information gathered by the unsuspecting cousin, unveiled a hidden financial maneuver by the elder Lopez brothers, a deliberate act of deceit that was far larger and far more damaging to their family reputation than anyone had realized. The revelation, presented to Isabella as a bargaining chip, was a gamble, a way to level the playing field. If Isabella would expose this hidden treachery to her father, the Petrovas would gain a massive advantage. In return, the Petrovas would release Yn.

The meeting ended with a tense agreement. Isabella, intrigued by the audacity and cleverness of Yn’s proposal and the implications of the revealed financial deceit, agreed to submit this information to her father, hoping for leverage in negotiations. It was a dangerous path, one that could easily go sideways. There was no guarantee that the Petrova patriarch, a man known for his ruthless pragmatism, would accept this compromise.

But the plan worked. The Petrova patriarch, once immovable in his pursuit of vengeance, found himself in an unexpected position of power. Yn’s calculated gamble shifted the balance of power. The Petrova family could now not only collect on the debt but also inflict significant damage to the Lopez family’s reputation and financial stability, if they chose that route. It was a leverage that, to their surprise, swayed the Patriarch’s decision.

Returning to the Lopez mansion, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. The impending attack by the Petrovas was no longer imminent but merely a threat hanging precariously above. Colby, visibly relieved but still wary, embraced Yn. The passion that had initially sparked their connection felt different now; it was  intertwined with a profound sense of shared accomplishment and a growing mutual respect. They had used their unconventional relationship, a dangerous entanglement born out of kidnapping and coercion, to ultimately achieve what neither family had managed on their own: a negotiated peace.

The final chapter of their personal conflict, however, remained unwritten. Their unconventional relationship had survived an onslaught of chaos and violence, shifting from a coercive captivity into a surprising partnership. Their escape was not simply a  physical escape; it was also an escape from the crushing weight of family expectations and long-held resentments. The family feud continued to simmer in the background, a lingering reminder of the precarious peace they had managed to achieve, their future dependent on the fragile truce they had brokered.

Their love story, as dramatic and perilous as any dark romance, had reached a fragile resolution. Yet, beneath the surface of the precarious peace, the undercurrents of passion and power still threatened to surge, leaving the reader wondering if their hard-won love would endure. The opulent mansion, now seemingly free of immediate threat, felt less like a gilded cage and more like a testament to their daring

gamble, a monument to a love story forged in the crucible of violence and betrayal. The future remained uncertain, filled with the potential for both happiness and devastating consequences, but for now, under the bruised skies of a temporary peace, they stood together.

The air crackled with tension, thick and suffocating like a humid summer night. The opulent Lopez mansion, usually a symbol of effortless power, felt claustrophobic, its gilded cages echoing with the unspoken threat of violence. Colby stood by a window overlooking the manicured lawns, his silhouette stark against the fading light. He clutched a glass of amber liquid, the ice clinking a morbid rhythm against the approaching storm. Yn, dressed in a simple black dress that belied her sharp intelligence, stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a silent reassurance in the face of the impending chaos.

The truce, so painstakingly crafted, felt as fragile as a butterfly's wing. The Petrova family, known for their ruthlessness and unwavering loyalty, weren't easily appeased. Their patriarch, a man whose name whispered fear into the hearts of his enemies, had accepted the proposal, but his acceptance carried the weight of suspicion, the chill of calculated patience. The revelation of the Lopez family’s financial deception had indeed shifted the balance of power, but it hadn't extinguished the flames of their ancient feud.

The first sign of the approaching storm came not from the Petrova family, but from within the Lopez clan itself. Colby’s younger brother, Ricardo, a man known for his ambition and ruthless cunning, made his move. Ignoring the uneasy peace brokered by Colby and Yn, Ricardo secretly contacted the Petrovas, offering a counter-proposal: a complete surrender in exchange for his personal immunity and a share of the Petrova family's wealth, a betrayal that reeked of desperation and greed.

The news reached Colby through a whispered message from his normally unflappable confidant, Marco. The revelation hit him like a physical blow, the betrayal stinging more than any gunshot. Yn, witnessing his turmoil, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her touch, usually a source of forbidden pleasure, now felt like a lifeline in a sea of treachery.

"We have to act swiftly," Yn said, her voice calm despite the turmoil

within. "This changes everything. Ricardo's actions have shattered the truce, but it also gives us an opportunity. We can use his betrayal to expose him, to further solidify our position and destroy his credibility within the family."

Their counter-offensive began with subtle movements, orchestrated with surgical precision. Colby, using his network of informants, fed the Petrovas false information, subtly exaggerating Ricardo's treachery. He painted Ricardo as a desperate man, willing to sacrifice his entire family for personal gain, subtly emphasizing Ricardo's willingness to compromise their previously agreed-upon peace treaty. Meanwhile, Yn used her charm and intellect to manipulate the Petrova’s contact, Isabella, playing on her simmering distrust of the Lopez family and feeding her enough information to maintain her cooperation and to simultaneously cast doubt on Ricardo's reliability.

The confrontation occurred at a neutral location, a secluded warehouse on the city's outskirts, a place steeped in the city’s darker history. The atmosphere was charged with electricity, the silence punctuated by the nervous shuffle of feet and the clinking of weapons hidden beneath coats. Colby, flanked by a small but loyal contingent of his own men, faced off against Ricardo and a band of loyalists. Yn, surprisingly, was at Colby’s side. Her presence, a symbol of defiance and unexpected strength, struck a nerve, particularly with Ricardo, who saw her not just as leverage, but as a symbol of his brother's dominance and his own failure.

The ensuing clash was brutal, a ballet of violence and betrayal. Loyalties shifted like sand, alliances crumbled under the weight of ambition and desperation. The warehouse echoed with the sounds of gunfire, the crash of bodies, the guttural cries of pain. Yn, despite her lack of combat experience, found a savage strength within herself, her sharp mind guiding her actions, enabling her to navigate the chaos with surprising effectiveness. She used her wits to disarm enemies, create diversions, and even deliver a few well-aimed blows herself.

The confrontation wasn’t just a physical battle; it was a war of words, a desperate fight for control. Hidden truths were revealed,

long-standing secrets exposed, and old wounds ripped open.

Ricardo's desperation became his undoing, his ambition exposed as hollow and self-serving. Colby, aided by Yn's tactical acumen and the timely intervention of Isabella, managed to gain the upper hand, cornering Ricardo and his dwindling forces.

The Petrova patriarch, witnessing the unfolding events remotely through a live video feed, finally made his decision. Ricardo's treachery, exposed by Colby and meticulously documented by Isabella, completely shattered the remaining trust he had placed in the Lopez family. The negotiated peace dissolved, replaced by a full-scale assault on the Lopez family's remaining assets and financial holdings. The Petrovas seized upon Ricardo's actions, turning his betrayal into a tactical victory, securing the Lopez family's financial ruin and leaving Ricardo disgraced and ostracized.

The chaos subsided, leaving behind a landscape littered with broken promises and shattered dreams. The opulent Lopez mansion, once a symbol of power and privilege, was now a shadow of its former self, its occupants haunted by the ghosts of betrayal and the weight of their failures. Yn and Colby, standing amidst the ruins of the battle, held each other close. Their love, forged in the fires of captivity and fueled by shared danger, felt stronger than ever, a testament to their resilience and shared resolve. But their victory was a bittersweet one, the peace they had achieved bought with a heavy price—the destruction of one family and the shattering of another.

The long-standing feud between the Petrova and Lopez families had reached its climax, but the narrative was far from over. Their relationship, once born from coercion, had evolved into a complex partnership founded on mutual respect and shared ambition. The future remained uncertain, fraught with the potential for both happiness and devastating consequences.

Their escape from captivity had given way to a new kind of confinement: the uncertain boundaries of their unconventional love story, a tale of passion and power, set against the stark backdrop of a family feud and its turbulent aftermath. The road ahead would be filled with challenges—challenges that would either strengthen their bond or tear them apart. The question remained: would their fragile resolution hold, or would the undercurrents of passion and power

once again erupt into chaos? The final chapter remained unwritten, a thrilling page-turner waiting to be revealed.

The aftermath of the warehouse confrontation hung heavy in the air, a palpable silence punctuated only by the distant sirens. Colby, his shirt stained crimson, held Yn close, the warmth of her body a stark contrast to the chill wind whipping through the shattered windows. He traced the delicate curve of her jaw, his thumb brushing away a stray strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun. The intensity in his gaze was raw, unfiltered; a potent cocktail of relief, exhaustion, and a profound, unsettling love.

“We won,” Yn whispered, her voice hoarse, her breath hitching in her chest. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that settled in her limbs. The fight had taken more from her than she’d initially realized; the bruises blooming beneath her skin were a testament to her unexpected prowess in the chaotic melee. But more than the physical toll, it was the emotional weight of their victory that threatened to overwhelm her.

Colby’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into her back. “At a cost,”he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He was looking beyond her, past the wreckage of their success, to the uncertain future that stretched ahead like a desolate wasteland. Ricardo’s betrayal had not only shattered their uneasy peace but had also exposed the deep fissures within their families, fissures that threatened to swallow them whole.

The next few days were a blur of clandestine meetings, hushed phone calls, and frantic preparations. The Lopez mansion, once a symbol of opulence and power, was now a fortress under siege, its lavish interior a stark contrast to the mounting pressure bearing down on its occupants. Colby, haunted by the specter of his brother's treachery, spent sleepless nights strategizing, coordinating, and making the difficult decisions that would determine their fate.

Yn, meanwhile, used her unique position to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of power, utilizing her intellect and charm to secure alliances and maintain their fragile advantage. Their intimacy deepened amidst the turmoil, their shared trauma

forging an unbreakable bond. The opulent master bedroom, previously a stage for their forbidden encounters, now became a sanctuary, a refuge from the relentless storm raging outside their walls. They found solace in each other's arms, their love a fragile flame flickering in the face of an encroaching darkness. The stolen moments of tenderness, the whispered confessions, the shared silences – all these became precious commodities in their increasingly precarious situation.

One evening, as they lay entangled in the silk sheets, the faint glow of the city lights painting shadows on their intertwined bodies, Colby confessed his deepest fear. “I’m afraid of losing you, Yn,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “More than anything.”

Yn’s heart ached at his vulnerability. She reached out, tracing the lines of his face, the faint scars adding a rugged beauty to his already captivating features. “I won’t let that happen,” she vowed, her voice filled with unwavering conviction. “We’ll face this together. Always.”

Their resolve, however, was constantly tested. The Petrova family, relentless in their pursuit of retribution, tightened their grip, isolating the Lopez family further. The once-lavish parties and gatherings were replaced by hushed whispers and nervous glances. The opulent mansion, once a testament to their family’s power, felt more like a gilded cage, trapping them in a cycle of suspicion and fear.

Colby’s strategic maneuvering, however, began to yield results. He managed to secure crucial financial records that exposed the Petrova family's own shady dealings, cleverly using this information to leverage a new negotiation. This risky maneuver demanded a substantial sacrifice – the relinquishment of a significant portion of the Lopez family’s remaining assets, a move that brought them to the brink of financial ruin. But it was a calculated risk, a strategic retreat necessary to secure a long-term survival.

Yn, understanding the gravity of the situation, supported Colby’s decision, her love for him outweighing any personal loss. She knew this wasn't just about saving the Lopez family; it was about securing their future, their shared future. The price of their survival was steep, but their love became the anchor that kept them grounded amidst the tempest.

The final confrontation took place not in the shadows of a  warehouse, but in the heart of the Petrova family’s opulent estate –a stark reflection of the shifting power dynamics. Colby, accompanied by a loyal, albeit diminished, team, faced the Petrova patriarch in a tense showdown. Yn, ever the strategist, was not by his side this time. Instead, she occupied a pivotal role behind the scenes, orchestrating events and influencing key players. Her sacrifice involved playing a dangerous game, risking her safety and credibility to secure Colby's position and bring about a resolution to the feud.

The negotiation was a delicate dance of deception and revelation, a war of wits played out against the backdrop of opulent splendor. Colby revealed the Petrova family's hidden transgressions, forcing them to acknowledge their own vulnerabilities. Yn's calculated moves exposed the patriarch's vulnerabilities, allowing Colby to secure a more favorable agreement. The price was still high – a significant loss of assets, a public admission of guilt, and a complete restructuring of the Lopez family's holdings – but it was a price they were willing to pay for survival.

The resolution, however, was bittersweet. The truce wasn't built on trust, but on a delicate balance of power. The scars of the conflict remained, etched deep into the psyche of both families. Yn and Colby emerged victorious, their love stronger than ever, but their victory was tempered by a profound sense of loss, both personal and financial. Their unconventional relationship, born in captivity and forged in fire, had led them to a fragile peace, a testament to their resilience and their unwavering love, but the road ahead remained fraught with uncertainty.

Their redemption came at a heavy price, a sacrifice that pushed them to the edge of oblivion and brought them back stronger, their bond unbreakable, their future a thrilling enigma yet to unfold. The question loomed: could their love withstand the weight of their sacrifice, or would the shadows of the past forever haunt their unconventional love story?

The aftermath felt less like victory and more like a precarious truce, a fragile peace clinging precariously to the edge of a cliff. The opulent Petrova estate, once a symbol of their enemy’s power, now stood silent, the echoes of the tense negotiation hanging heavy in the air.

Colby stood on the manicured lawns, the crisp autumn air biting at his exposed skin, the scent of freshly cut grass strangely at odds with the bitter taste of compromise in his mouth. He’d won, or so it seemed. He’d exposed the Petrova patriarch’s clandestine dealings, forcing a confession and a restructuring of power that left the Lopez family battered but not broken. But the victory felt hollow, the celebratory champagne tasting like ash on his tongue. Yn emerged from the imposing mansion, her face pale but resolute.

The weight of the last few weeks, the constant maneuvering, the calculated risks – all of it had taken its toll. She walked towards him, her steps slow, deliberate, as if each footfall measured the fragility of their newfound peace. He saw the tremor in her hand as she reached for his, her fingers interlacing with his, their touch a silent acknowledgment of their shared sacrifice.

The agreement was a masterpiece of calculated compromises, a testament to Yn’s strategic brilliance and Colby’s ruthless pragmatism. The Petrovas had been forced to relinquish a significant portion of their holdings, their reputation tarnished, their future uncertain. But the Lopez family had also paid a steep price – a substantial loss of assets, a public admission of past transgressions, and a future that promised neither opulence nor security.

Their return to the Lopez mansion was not a triumphant homecoming, but a quiet retreat. The opulent rooms, once filled with laughter and the boisterous energy of family gatherings, now echoed with an unsettling silence. The servants moved with a subdued air, their faces reflecting the palpable tension hanging in the air. The lavish parties were over, replaced by a somber reality that tested the limits of their resilience.

The days that followed were a blur of legal paperwork, financial restructuring, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding. Colby threw himself into the work, his relentless drive masking the deep-seated weariness that gnawed at him. He pushed himself to the brink, driven by a fierce determination to secure their future, a future that now seemed more precarious than ever before.

Yn, meanwhile, found herself grappling with the emotional aftermath of their victory. The adrenaline had faded, replaced by a profound sense of exhaustion and uncertainty. The manipulative games she had played, the risks she had taken – all of it weighed heavily on her conscience. She found solace in Colby's arms, their shared intimacy a sanctuary from the storm raging outside their walls.

Their love, however, had been tested to its limits. The shared trauma had forged a powerful bond, but the cost of their survival had left deep scars. The opulent master bedroom, once a refuge of forbidden passion, now felt more like a monument to their sacrifices. Their lovemaking, once fiery and unrestrained, had become tentative, laced with a subtle undercurrent of unspoken anxieties.

One evening, as they lay entangled in the silk sheets, the city lights painting shadows on the ceiling, Yn spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "We won, Colby," she said, "but at what cost?"

Colby pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her. He knew what she meant. The financial losses were significant, but the emotional toll was immeasurable. The Lopez family was fractured, the Petrovas wounded but not defeated. Their future hung precariously in the balance.

"We'll rebuild," he whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion. "We'll find a way. Together."

But even as he spoke the words, a shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling that their victory was fragile, a temporary reprieve in a war that might never truly end. The Petrovas were cunning, their resources vast, and their thirst for revenge insatiable. The truce could easily shatter, plunging them back into the darkness they had so narrowly escaped.

The uncertainty gnawed at them both. The once-vibrant city lights, which had once symbolized their passion and their defiance, now seemed to reflect the precariousness of their situation. The opulence that surrounded them felt like a gilded cage, trapping them in a cycle of suspicion and fear. Their love, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a fragile flame, flickering in the face of an encroaching darkness. The future remained uncertain, a tapestry woven with threads of hope and despair, love and loss, victory and defeat.

Their love had defied expectations, had blossomed in the most unlikely of circumstances, but the question remained – could it withstand the unrelenting weight of the consequences, or would the shadows of the past claim them in the end? The answer remained elusive, a mystery unfolding one uncertain day at a time, leaving the reader hanging on the precipice of their still-to-be-written future. The story, far from over, had just entered a new, even more unpredictable, and challenging chapter. Their redemption was incomplete, their future uncertain; only time would reveal if their love could truly survive the storm.

Five years. Five years since the Petrova empire crumbled, five years since the fragile peace treaty was signed, five years since Colby and Yn stood on the precipice of an uncertain future. The city lights, once a symbol of their defiant love, now shone down on a vastly different landscape. The opulent Lopez mansion, once a stage for hushed negotiations and tense family gatherings, had undergone a subtle transformation. Gone were the ostentatious displays of wealth, replaced by a quiet elegance, a reflection of Colby’s deliberate shift towards a more discreet lifestyle.

The sprawling gardens, once meticulously manicured, now boasted a wilder, more untamed beauty, a testament to Yn’s growing passion for horticulture. She spent hours amongst the roses, their thorns a subtle reminder of the sharp edges of their past, their delicate blossoms a symbol of the fragile beauty of their present. Colby would often find her there, her hands stained with earth, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the setting sun. These moments, stolen amidst the burgeoning flora, offered a sense of peace, a sanctuary from the ever-present undercurrent of danger that still clung to their lives.

Their love had endured, though it had been forged in the crucible of conflict, shaped by the scars of their shared past. The fiery passion of their early days had mellowed into a deeper, more profound connection, a quiet understanding that transcended words. Their intimacy was a refuge, a silent conversation woven into the fabric of their shared existence. The opulent master bedroom, once a battleground of conflicting desires, now held the quiet comfort of shared dreams, a testament to their resilience and their love’s enduring strength.

Colby, however, remained a man haunted by shadows. The weight of his family’s past, the ruthless decisions he had made, continued to weigh heavily on his conscience. He had traded the bravado of his youth for a calculated caution, his eyes reflecting the wisdom gained from hard-won battles. The business dealings were still fraught with risk, the world of organized crime still a lurking threat,

but Colby had learned to navigate its treacherous waters with a far more strategic and cautious approach. The Lopez family name, though forever marked by its past, had slowly begun to shed its reputation for brutality, evolving into a more discreet, yet still formidable force in the city’s underbelly.

Yn, too, bore the scars of their past. The manipulations, the risks, the constant fear – they had left an indelible mark on her spirit. But she had also found a strength she never knew she possessed, a resilience forged in the fires of adversity. She had taken an active role in the family business, not as a puppet or a pawn, but as a strategic partner, her sharp mind and even sharper instincts proving invaluable assets. She used her position to foster a different kind of power, one that wasn't based on brutality, but on calculated strategy and carefully considered alliances. She was no longer simply the daughter of a powerful family; she was a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

Their relationship, however, remained complex, a delicate balance between fierce loyalty and cautious distance. The memories of their past, the shadows of their shared trauma, continued to linger, weaving a tapestry of bittersweet nostalgia. Their conversations often drifted back to the events that had brought them together, not with resentment or regret, but with a quiet understanding of the transformative power of shared adversity. Their love wasn't a fairy tale; it was a testament to resilience, a story born from the ashes of conflict.

One evening, sitting on their balcony overlooking the city, the night air carrying the scent of jasmine and distant rain, Colby reached for Yn's hand. His touch was gentle, a tender reminder of their shared journey. The city lights shimmered below, reflecting a new dawn, a future that felt both promising and precarious.

"Remember that night," Yn said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "When everything felt like it could shatter?"

Colby nodded, the memory sharp and clear. The fear, the  uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of impending doom—it was all vividly present in his mind. They had faced unimaginable odds,

survived treacherous battles, and emerged battered but unbroken. Their survival, he knew, wasn't a matter of luck, but of their unwavering loyalty to each other.

"We did shatter," Colby replied, his voice low and reflective. "But we also rebuilt, piece by piece, brick by brick."

Yn smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that spoke volumes. The rebuilding had been painful, the process filled with uncertainties, but they had faced each obstacle together. Their combined strength had been their greatest weapon, their unwavering love their most valuable asset. They had learned to navigate the murky waters of their world, avoiding the pitfalls that had threatened to consume them. The scars remained, but they were a testament to their resilience, a reminder of their unwavering devotion.

They were not unscathed; the echoes of the past still resonated in their hearts. The Petrova family, though diminished, still posed a subtle threat, their lingering resentment a constant reminder of their precarious position. The uneasy truce remained in place, a fragile peace held together by a web of carefully constructed alliances and mutual self-preservation.

Yet, amidst the shadows of their past, a new chapter had begun. A chapter filled with the quiet joys of shared moments, the unspoken language of love and understanding, and the comforting knowledge that they had each other. Their love story was far from a conventional tale of romance. It was a story of survival, resilience, and the unexpected beauty that can blossom amidst the chaos and darkness. Their future remained unwritten, a blank canvas awaiting the brushstrokes of fate, but they faced it together, hand in hand, their love a beacon guiding them through the uncertainties that lay ahead.

The shadows lingered, but they were no longer the defining force in their lives. The sun was rising on a new beginning, a dawn painted with the hues of hope, love, and a future they would build together, one uncertain day at a time. The war may not be over, but they had found their peace, a fragile, hard-won peace, in each other's arms. And that, in itself, was a victory worth cherishing.Their story was a testament to the enduring power of love in the face of insurmountable odds, a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, a new dawn can always break.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027🖇️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[smolwritingchick]

Forced To Believe Chapter 72- I Win (All Hell Breaks Loose)

Chapter Summary: All hell breaks loose as Morgan shocks the world when she watches Ambrose and Rollins go at it at SummerSlam.

Words: 5,000+

Author's Note: Relax....

---------

Backstage as Melanie and Milena walked together, the duo received a standing ovation from everyone which got them emotional. Their rivalry was over. And now those two were headed to different storylines after tonight. It was bittersweet as they were praised for their hard work despite the time cut on the match.

After numerous conversations with staff and their peers, Brie rushed over to them.

"Oh my God! You two scared the crap out of me, during that whole match!" Brie said to them. "How are you two still standing!?"

Melanie laughed and smiled at Milena. "We did good. If you excuse me, I seriously need a doctor to get rid of all these crazy thumbtacks. Thanks Milena."

"No problem!" Milena replied with a giggle.

"Grapes, that match was awesome." Randy hugged her.

"OW! OW!" She yelled.

"Aw crap! Sorry!" He pulled away and backed up, but showed a half smile when he saw her laughing.

"Joking! The look on your face was priceless. I'm okay. The pain isn't that bad anymore. And thanks."

"I hate it when you do that."

"I love you too, buddy!" She gave him a pat on the back and began walking around backstage, to the trainer's room.

Everywhere she went, her and Milena would receive compliments and praises for the match, despite how short it was. It made them smile at how much respect they were earning from the locker room.

SummerSlam continued to go off with a great start with WWE's favorite show off winning the intercontinental championship. Then they showed Paige going up against AJ for the Diva's Championship. Melanie watched as AJ started pulling Paige's hair out, from the diva's locker room.

She laughed when she heard Paige yell "What the hell!?"

Melanie had on skinny jeans, boots, and a Dean Ambrose Unstable shirt that was cropped and showed her right shoulder, along with her fingerless gloves. Luckily all the thumbtacks she had been pulled out and she took a shower to wash off the blood while placing ointment on her wounds. As she looked at the TV again, she saw that Paige won the championship again, and on her 22nd birthday.

She headed out of the locker room to meet up with Jon at the gorilla while Rusev had his match against Jack. She saw her Lunatic already in his wrestling attire, and a Dean Ambrose themed hoodie, checking himself out in a mirror.

"And...I look like crap." He rasped out.

"Haha! You look cute." She embraced him.

"Saw your match. Badass. Those thumbtacks made me think about Christina."

"I thought about her, too."

"You did great out there. I'm proud of you." He smiled at her.

"Thank you." She returned the smile and kissed him softly. "Now lemme do something about this." She tried to do something with his hair.

"It's already ruined; you're making it worse!"

"Aye! I'm making it better!"

"Lies..."

"Get a room!" Colby chuckled as he stood by them, with his briefcase.

"Shut up, Colby." Jon and Melanie simultaneously say.

-------

For one final Rosa segment, Rosa was getting treated in the trainer's room, clearly exhausted and defeated. The crowd cheered when Triple H came into the room. Triple H wasn't too pleased with her as he eyed her down, shaking his head.

"You're out," he declared, officially kicking her out of everything associated with The Authority.

Shocked at the sudden news, Rosa began to freak out as she begged him while he left the room. "W—wait! Wait, Hunter, please!"

As the screen transitioned back to the ring, the Lumberjacks surrounded the ring, and they were Big E, Bo Dallas, Cesaro, Curtis Axel, Ryback, Damien Sandow, Luke & Erick, Fandango, Goldust & Stardust, Heath, Jimmy & Jey, Kofi, RVD, Sin Cara, and Titus.

"Well, it looks like that is the last of Rosa Mendes associating herself with The Authority," Cole said as he shook his head.

"She couldn't get the job done. Morgan prevailed. The Authority saw her as a weak link. Gotta get rid of the dead weight," JBL bluntly said.

"Almost every one of these men were at sometime victims of the former Shield." Cole informed as the camera showed all of the lumberjacks.

"I'm not sure I want to be surrounded by the ring, with 20 people who don't like me." JBL stated as Seth's theme came on with him walking out with his briefcase.

"The following contest is scheduled for one fall, and it is the Lumberjack match! Introducing first, from Davenport, Iowa, weighing 217 pounds, Mister Money in The Bank, Seth Rollins!" Lilian announced.

Cole starts acknowledging some celebrities in the crowd, while Seth raises up his briefcase on the top rope, before jumping off. Dean's theme comes on, to a big pop.

"And his opponent, being accompanied by Morgan Lopez, from Cincinnati, Ohio, weighing in at 225 pounds, Dean Ambrose!" Lilian announced.

"The fact that Morgan is still walking around with her head up high after the most insane opening women's match is beyond me. She had thumbtacks all over her body earlier tonight and she is good as new. Talk about strength," King informed.

"Shades of Chyna flowing through her veins," Cole praised.

Morgan seriously did not want to see these two kill each other but it had to be done. Dean needed closure and wanted to get even with Seth, after what he did, these past months. And having a strong feeling Kane or even Triple H was going to come out and interrupt the match, made her blood boil. She just had to come out here and keep a close eye.

"Why is she here? She has no business out here!" JBL shouted as the couple held hands and walked down the ramp.

"Actually, she does have business out here. She's just as involved in this situation, as Dean. And Morgan isn't stupid. She knows The Authority is going to try something. So, why not be at ringside to keep a close eye." King countered.

"Here we go guys, this has been building, and building for months," Cole said.

Dean takes off his jacket and gives it to Morgan. The couple stop at the end of the ramp and she gives him a sweet kiss on the lips, before walking around ringside, placing his jacket near the timekeeper's area.

Ambrose gets in the ring and has a stare down with Rollins. Meanwhile, all the lumberjacks move out of Morgan's way, still acknowledging the match she just had. The men knew not to even think about putting their hands on her.

If there was one thing that Morgan was sure of, is that as soon as that bell rings, all hell was going to break loose. And boy was she ever right.

'Ding Ding Ding'

The Outspoken Diva heard the bell ring as she stood by, near the time keeper's area, leaning on the barricade.

"And here we go!" Cole shouted as Ambrose & Rollins started brawling back and forth. "These former best friends, buddies who grew up in this industry, together, now going after one another."

Dean catches Seth with an elbow, dropping him down.

"This may turn into a slug fest inside and outside the ring," King said. "I wonder what's going through the mind of Morgan as she watches these two go at it."

"Would you stop worrying about her? She's fine." JBL replied.

Dean starts stomping away at Seth, seated in a corner. He tosses Seth across the ring as Seth rolls over to the edge. Stardust, Goldust, and Titus shove him back instead, making Morgan laugh.

"Come on!" Seth shouted at the Lumberjacks.

He turns around to get blasted back down by Dean. Moments later, he clotheslines Seth out of the ring, and he gets shoved back inside by the Lumberjacks.

"So, far guys, Ambrose has gotta be liking this stipulation that he picked," Cole said as Dean stomped on Seth's stomach, making him yell out in pain. "Ambrose has gotta be loving this."

"This is exactly what Dean Ambrose wanted. Seth Rollins, in the ring, where he can get his hands on him. No place for Seth Rollins to go—oh the nose!" King shouted as he trapped Seth in a submission and gripped his nose back, making him yell out in pain.

Morgan looks on with an amused facial expression. This was priceless.

"Ambrose is gonna punish Rollins. He's gonna torture Rollins." Cole guaranteed.

Dean gives Seth a chop to the chest, as the crowd 'Woos' in response. He drags Seth's face into the ropes but gets kicked in the midsection and tossed out the ring.

"He built Dean Ambrose. Ambrose should thank him." JBL stated.

"Wait a minute, did you just say he built Dean Ambrose?" Cole asked.

"Yes."

"Oh, and now Ambrose tossed out." Cole looked on but then Dean punched Fandango and Damien before sliding back in the ring, unloading on Seth. "And Ambrose is not gonna go in quietly. That's one way to go about it. Now Ambrose taking down Rollins."

Seth manages to hit him with a reverse STO into the turnbuckle, gaining the upper hand. Seth runs to the ropes and dropkicks Ambrose out of the ring. Still holding a grudge, Bo Dallas, Fandango, and Damien begin stomping down on Dean.

"Oh and look out. The Lumberjacks." Cole pointed out.

"Aye! The heck are you doing!?" Morgan shouted as the heel Lumberjacks continued to beat down Ambrose.

The face Lumberjacks try to break it up while Dean gets thrown back into the ring. Seth gets on top of Ambrose and continues pummeling him down with punches.

"Rollins called Dean Ambrose a hellcat with rabies, and a bipolar nutjob." Cole quoted.

"I dunno if he has rabies but everything else is true." JBL agreed.

Seth hits Dean with a knee to the face, as he was laid out, on the mat, and goes for a pin.

"1!" The referee counted but Dean managed to kick out.

Dean begins fighting back with punches but gets irish whipped into a corner. Seth runs to attack but gets kicked back. Dean gets on the top rope, with his back to Rollins. Rollins takes advantage and catches Ambrose in the tree of woe. This catches Morgan's attention and she starts to look worried.

"Déjà vu. We saw Morgan in this position, earlier tonight." Cole recalled as Seth stomped away on Dean and then he fell off, clenching his stomach.

Seth puts Dean in an arm bar while the crowd begins to clap, to motivate him. Ambrose begins gaining more momentum and tries to go for a crossbody but Seth moves out the way. Dean gets on the apron and kicks Luke away, who was near him. Rollins tries to go for a suplex but Dean counters and hits Rollins with the suplex instead, onto the Lumberjacks.

"Whoa!" King shouted as Seth slammed his head on the announce table.

"Rollins! And Ambrose!" Cole shouted as the crowd cheered.

"Man, oh man!"

"Wow! Taking out the Lumberjacks. And this is a dangerous situation for both Rollins and Ambrose, out here." Cole said as the two continued fighting at ringside.

"As I feared." Morgan looked on, amused at the two.

She moves out of harms way as all the Lumberjacks get involved, trying to break the two up. As soon as they do, Dean jumps on top of Rollins and the group holding him back.

"And now Ambrose startin' to brawl. Ambrose brawling out here with the Lumberjacks, trying to get to Seth Rollins." Cole looked on as the Lumberjacks desperately tried to break them up.

"This is melee!" King exclaimed.

Dean and Seth finally get separated but start punching and elbowing the Lumberjacks away from them. Seth runs over to Dean but gets tossed up in the air, over the barricade as he holds his knee.

"Rollins sent over to the WWE fans!" Cole shouted.

Dean tries to get over the barricade but gets Ryback's arms wrapped around his waist, trying to pull him back, along with the other Lumberjacks.

"Just let them fight! It's no use." Morgan mentioned.

The crowd boos once Ambrose gets thrown back into the ring.

"Lumberjacks finally doing their job," JBL said.

"Ambrose now taking out more Lumberjacks!" Cole shouted as he hit them with a suicide dive. Dean got on top of the announce table. "Look—a—look at this! Look at it! Ambrose! Ambrose! Ambrose!"

"Look out!" King shouted in a high pitched voice as he jumped on top of Rollins, in the crowd, taking out Kofi and Bo as well.

"That's my lunatic." Morgan grinned and looked on, entertained.

The crowd cheers as Dean tosses Bo and Kofi back at ringside and goes right after Rollins. Rollins starts running away, through the crowd.

"He's a wild one, ain't he?" RVD grinned at her as the Outspoken Diva nodded in response and chuckled.

"Rollins is trying to escape in the Staples Center but Ambrose is huntin' him down!" Cole looked on while Dean hit Seth from behind.

"I love you, Dean! You're the best, Dean!" A male fan shouted.

Ambrose continues pummeling Seth through the crowd as they go up the steps.

"These Lumberjacks are at ringside, watching the fight!" JBL scolded.

While the two fight in the crowd, the crowd boos loudly when Kane walks out.

"Oh great..." Morgan retorted and rolled her eyes.

This was exactly why she came out here. She knew someone was going to come out and try to ruin the match.

Kane started yelling at the Lumberjacks. "Get them back in the ring! Do your job!"

Dean prepares for the dirty deeds in the crowd until some of the Lumberjacks go and separate the two, earning more boos. The Lumberjacks drag Dean back to the ring, while Rollins continues to escape. He punches Sin Cara and hits his head on the railing.

"Seth's leaving! Seth's leaving!" JBL shouted.

"Seth Rollins has had enough!" Cole said. "I think Rollins is taking off, guys."

"I don't blame him." King replied.

Seth sees the Usos, Big E, and Stardust in front of him. He tries to reason with them but then attempts to jump over them. He fails as he gets caught as the crowd cheers.

"Now they're doing their job!" King added.

"Seth Rollins gonna be dragged back down to the ring, by the Lumberjacks," Cole said.

Morgan starts cracking up as Rollins desperately tries to escape but gets lifted up in the air by the Lumberjacks, Adam Rose style.

"There you go, guys! Get him back in the ring!" JBL shouted.

Dean climbs on the top rope, as the crowd cheers loudly with anticipation.

"Ambrose!" Cole shouted as he leaped on top of Seth and all the Lumberjacks.

Dean sits up and widens his eyes, revealing a crazed look. Kane doesn't look too happy, as he begins to look worried.

"Kane's gonna blow! This is incredible!" Cole said in amazement.

Dean tosses Seth back in the ring as the crowd chants 'This is awesome!'.

Seth gets on his knees, looking groggy as Ambrose makes gun sign and shoots it to the back of Rollins' head.

"Ambrose gonna finish him off here! He's been waiting on this!" JBL said as Dean positioned Seth for the Dirty Deeds.

Seth counters and pushes him away. He kicks him from behind, making Dean lean back, between the ropes to come back with a vicious clothesline.

"Yeah!" Morgan cheered with the crowd.

"Ambrose explodes off the ropes!" Cole shouted.

"Ahh!" King screamed in a high pitched voice as Dean went for the pin.

"1!"

"2!"

"Kick out by Rollins!" Cole said with excitement.

Things were really starting to pick up as Kane looks relieved. Ambrose starts to show a cheeky grin.

"What a blast!" King said happily.

Dean begins to show a blank look before getting on his knees, and turning his attention to Rollins. Seth begins gripping his grey tank top, trying to get up. Ambrose stands up and grabs Seth's hair.

"I love you, brother." He kissed his head and ran to the ropes.

He lays Seth out with the curb stomp, making everyone 'Oh!'

Morgan puts her hands over her mouth in shock.

"Curb stomp!" Cole shouted as Dean started to get emotional. "That's Rollins' move!"

"He hit him with his own finish!" JBL shouted.

"Here's the cover and now wait a minute!" Cole shouted as Kane broke up the pin. "Kane!"

"Are you kidding me!?" Morgan shouted as the crowd booed.

They start to cheer once Goldust gets in the ring and gets in his face.

"Hey! What are you doing!? What are you doing, man!" Goldust shouted but Kane hit him in the face.

And that's when all the Lumberjacks get in the ring and start fighting, as Kane gets out of harms way. The crowd cheers loudly as the big brawl breaks out. Kane returns to ringside, adjusting his tie. Morgan glares at him and starts heading his way, shaking her head. It was not going to be like this. Not this way.

"And now Morgan!" Cole shouted as the crowd cheered.

"Hey, asshole!" She shouted.

Kane turns around only to get kicked in the groin. Face scrunched up in pain, he falls down.

"That's what you get!" She shouted and turned her attention back to the ring.

"Woo hoo! Low blow!" King cheered and turned his attention back to the ring. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute, look out!" He shouted as some of the Lumberjacks got thrown out of the ring. "What in the world!? What is happening here?"

"Kane was supposed to control things, and he set this thing into this!" Cole replied.

"Not to mention getting low blowed in the process," JBL recalled.

Dean and the Wyatts were the last ones in the ring. Luke tries to go after the Lunatic but gets tossed out the ring. Erick tries to clothesline him but gets clotheslined instead. Meanwhile, Seth manages to snatch his briefcase while Dean was distracted by the Wyatts. Morgan decides to take action by stepping on top of the apron, yanking the briefcase out of his hands, as the crowd cheers.

"The hell are you doing!?" Seth shouted.

"Look at Morgan!" Cole shouted.

"She has no business doing that!" JBL exclaimed.

"She's looking out for Dean! Seth was about to cheat! She had every right to do that!" King retorted to JBL.

"Give me my briefcase!" Seth got in her face.

The Outspoken Diva glared at him. "Forget it! You think you're gonna win, like that!? Hell no!" She turned around, about to jump off, but got yanked back, by her hair as she yelled out in shock.

"Oh, come on! Get off of her!" King shouted as she got forced into the ring, by Rollins.

"You think you are gonna ruin this for me!?" Seth shouted, backing her up into the corner.

"Seth! Stop it! Get off!" She shouted back.

"Rollins is putting her in her place! She shouldn't have messed with his briefcase." JBL shrugged.

"He doesn't have to do this! Just leave her alone, Seth!" King exclaimed, sounding concerned for Morgan's safety.

Seth can be dangerous when he wants to be. And having Morgan ruin his chance of stealing a win, made him irate.

"Always in the way!" He growled as she struggled to escape his grip.

"Enough!" She shouted back.

"This is uncalled for! Let her go!" King demanded.

"Always in the damn way! Just stay in your place!" He struck her in the face, making her fall down as the crowd looked on in surprise.

"Oh my God, is Morgan okay!?" Cole said with worry.

Morgan holds her face and rolls over to the apron. Seth kicks his briefcase over to its original spot in the corner and continues seething, trying to cool down after being so angry with the Outspoken Diva.

"Stay out of my business!" He shouted and ran his gloved hands through his hair.

"This is what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong." JBL scolded as Morgan held the side of her face.

"How can you say that? Morgan saw that something was wrong, and tried to stop it." King exclaimed, getting fired up at JBL criticizing Morgan's actions.

"It was a stupid move."

"I wish you'd shut up. If you saw things in Morgan's point of view, you would have done the same thing. So, shut your trap."

Turning around after dealing with the Wyatts, Dean sees Morgan laid out, face first, holding her face in pain. Seeing red, Ambrose goes berserk and starts attacking Rollins, viciously unloading on him with punches.

"And now Dean Ambrose! Dean Ambrose getting fired up!" Cole shouted in anticipation as the crowd gave him a big pop.

Dean drops Rollins with DDT as the crowd gets hyped up. He waits for Rollins to get up, but then Kane gets on the ropes to distract the referee. Rollins rolls over to the corner, diagonal from where Morgan was recovering at the bottom turnbuckle. Ambrose starts yelling at Kane, while standing in the middle of the ring, between his former teammates.

"Can somebody get Kane out of here so he can stop distracting Ambrose? Ambrose had this match won!" King exclaimed.

"Lesson learned. You shouldn't get distracted in a match like this. This is chaos! What kind of Lumberjack match is this? First Rollins and Ambrose fight outside the ring, and into the crowd! Then Kane has to try to restore order, but caused a brawl with all the Lumberjacks. And now Morgan gets involved and gets hit in the face, for heaven's sake!" JBL rambled on. "And she's not even in the damn match! What is going on!?"

While Jerry and JBL continue to argue, Morgan begins standing up. Dean starts walking up to Rollins, who is still in the corner.

"And now Ambrose looks to finish Seth Rollins off," Cole said. "This may be it!"

"I think you're right!" King said in a high pitched voice.

Morgan narrows her eyes across the ring and walks up to Dean from behind. She drops down to her knees and gives him a low blow as the commotion from the crowd causes the arena to get loud at the sudden turn of events.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! What the hell!?" Cole shouted as the crowd got loud with cheers and boos.

Dean's face expression shows pain and discomfort as he drops to his knees, falling down, face first. The Outspoken Diva rises up and shoots Ambrose a blank look while Rollins looks on in shock. The Architect widens his eyes, processing what just happened in front of him.

"Oh my God! Morgan, what the hell are you doing!?" King screamed as she ran a hand through her hair.

"The hell is going on!?" JBL exclaimed.

"What about her face!?" King shouted as the crowd chanted 'Holy shit!'

Celeste tweets 'WHAT THE HELL!? What are you doing WWEMorgan101!?'

"Never trust a woman!" JBL stated.

Morgan looks at her hand and takes her ring off her ring finger. She examines it before putting it on her right index finger instead, showing power and Authority, instead of love.

"What is going on!?" King exclaimed. "And was that ring what I think it was!?"

Seth begins to grin, revealing that he was faking his shocked look and continues to watch on.

"L­—look at Rollins, grinning. He knew this was going to happen?!" Cole exclaimed. "Don't tell me Morgan just joined The Authority!"

"But he punched her in the face," JBL recalled.

"Morgan doesn't seemed to be hurt. I think they faked it."

"What are you doing!?" Fans shouted. "Why!? Why!?"

"I­—I can't believe Morgan just...she just low blowed Dean! Her boyfriend! Why? Why help Seth Rollins?" King asked, looking startled.

Ambrose starts to get on his hands and knees, while Morgan continues to stare at how helpless he looked. Seth grabs Ambrose and gives him to Morgan, putting him in the backfire position for her.

"W—­wait a minute! Wait! Morgan! Don't do it! It's not too late to reconsider! Don't do it!" King shouted.

"After what she just did? There's no turning back, now! This is a done deal!" JBL said as the crowd gave off mixed reactions.

"Oh no. You've gotta be kiddin' me!" Cole shouted as she slammed Ambrose down hard with the backfire.

Dean grunts as she sits down, next to his laid out body. Morgan begins to look uncharacteristically relaxed after what she's done. She glances at Dean and shakes her head, smirking as she gets helped up by Rollins.

"I don't believe this..." Cole grumbled.

The crowd boos as Seth and Morgan grin at each other and embrace.

"Morgan, what are you doing!? This isn't you!" King said in disbelief.

"Maybe this is the real Morgan," JBL replied.

"Man...the look on the face of Morgan! No regret. No remorse."

"I don't understand. What did we just see?!" Cole asked as the crowd chanted loudly, 'You sold out!'

Dean, who is struggling to get up, manages to grab Morgan's left boot, for support. With one of Rollins' arms around her waist, as she holds onto him, she and Seth look down at the beaten up Lunatic.

After getting released by Rollins, she kneels and lifts up Dean's chin. She roughly shoves his face away and gets up to hit him with a sickening heel kick to the face. The crowd 'Ohs' and continues to look shocked. She turned all those smiles into frowns after what she did. And there was not a sign of regret on her face.

She tosses Seth his briefcase and leans her back against the corner, crossing her arms. Dean begins to get back on his hands and knees, turning his head to his ex. She slowly shoots him a wicked smirk as he clenches his fists. Ambrose shot her a dangerous glare, but in his eyes, they showed the look of distress. Not phased by his look, she continued to look indifferent as she watched Seth lay him out with his briefcase.

"Rollins with the briefcase to the face!" Cole shouted as Kane let the referee go, and he started to count. "No! Not like this! Not this way!"

"1!"

"2!"

"3!"

"And Rollins takes advantage of this disarray out here,"

"Here is your winner! Seth Rollins!" Lilian announced.

"Guys, that was more action than my eyes could follow. I can't even speak after what Morgan just did." King said as they went to the highlights of the match.

"The Architect of The Shield, Seth Rollins, just beat Dean Ambrose." JBL proudly announced as Morgan helped Rollins up.

"What a disappointing night for Dean Ambrose," Cole added.

"For sure. He just lost Morgan. Got low blowed and hit with a backfire, and lost the match." JBL replied as Seth lifted up Morgan's chin and examined her face, amused that they fooled everyone. "She's not even hurt. I wonder how long these two planned this."

"I am even more excited for RAW, tomorrow. I cannot wait to hear Morgan's explanation for her actions." Cole said as Seth laughed and raised up his briefcase with Morgan.

"Wait a minute, look who it is." Cole pointed out as Triple H walked down the ramp, with a huge grin on his face.

He gets in the ring and embraces Morgan as the crowd boos, loudly. "For crying out loud...After all that she's done to The Authority? Why is she with Triple H and Seth Rollins?" King asked.

"Morgan has sold her soul to The Authority. I...I can't wrap my head around that." Cole murmured.

Triple H raises her hand and smirks at the crowd.

"I win. I finally got her." He proudly said.

"Triple H saying he won, he finally got Morgan. The question that is on everyone's mind, is how did The Authority get into the mind of the Outspoken Diva? After all, that she's done to fight against them? I just can't believe this is happening." Cole said.

Morgan, Seth and Triple H exit the ring. Triple H goes backstage after patting the two on the back. Morgan and Seth head up to stand in the middle of the ramp.

Rollins wraps his arms around her waist from behind, and rests his chin on her shoulder, laughing at Ambrose. Dean manages to get up on his knees, looking at his ex with sorrow and shock.

The shocking events played back in his mind.

She hit him with a low blow.

She hit him with the backfire.

And now she aligned herself with The Authority. With Seth. It was a slap in the face to the WWE Universe. And a dagger to his heart.

Morgan shrugs at Ambrose, giving him another smirk. It was absolutely hilarious to her, seeing the shocked crowd reactions and Dean's face. She could have sworn she saw his eyes getting watery.

"Hah, hah, hah. She's mine, Ambrose. She's where she belongs. Dark side called her home." Seth taunted, kissing her on the cheek.

"This has to be one of the most shocking scenes we've ever seen in WWE history. I can't..." Cole trailed off.

Fans tweet:

'Oh they pulled the trigger?! I didn't think they were gonna do it!'

'BOLD! They teased it but I didn't think they'd actually do it!'

'What the fuck they made her heel!?'

'That was a total #SlapInTheFace'

'WWEMorgan101 has lost yet another screw for betraying Ambrose #YouReallyDoneItNow'

'Just cleaned my glasses to make sure I was looking at what WWEMorgan101 did clearly. #IsThisReallyHappening?'

'It's about time! Finally, she's with The Authority! If you can't beat them, join them. And that's exactly what WWEMorgan101 did!'

'WWEMorgan101 must be really confident about her safety after attacking Dean Ambrose. Watch your back.'

'How dare you do that Dean Ambrose!? You are gonna get it WWEMorgan101! #WhyMorganWhy'

'Please just do not let Morgan explain anything tonight. Let this marinate. I'm loving this,'

'And just like that Morgan has become the most hated woman in WWE'

Celeste tweets 'I don't understand. Was this about power? Success? It's not worth it. #SoldYourSoulForWhat?'

Naomi tweets 'WWEMorgan101 just made the biggest mistake of her life! #DeanAmbroseAlwaysGetsEven'

Triple H tweets 'I finally got her. Welcome to The Authority WWEMorgan101. You won't regret it. #WelcomeToTheDarkSide'

Paul Heyman tweets 'WWEMorgan101 is a brilliant conniver! She fooled everyone.'

Seth Rollins tweets 'What can I say? I knew she'd give in to me. She deserves better. She's mine, now.'

AJ Lee tweets 'WWEMorgan101 Why? You just pissed off all your fans! What do you gain from this? You and I need to talk on Raw.'

--------

Natalya and Naomi angrily walk around backstage.

"Where is she? Where the hell is she? We are gonna find her little ass. She isn't going to be off the hook from this." Natalya looked around while walking with Naomi, in a hurry. "I can't believe her...What the hell was that!?"

"I know. I mean after all she's done to The Authority? Now she joins them? This is not right," Naomi said in disappointment.

"Did you see that engagement ring on her finger that Ambrose gave her? And how she took it off, like it was nothing to her? That is unforgivable! Dean loves her to death! He did everything for her! He sacrificed so much for her, and now she turns around and does this?"

"Yeah. Wonder why she didn't tell us about that, ring. There is no loyalty around here. How could she?"

"Guess there's no engagement now since she wants to take off the ring and sell out. It's a slap in the face—there she is. Morgan!"

The two divas walked up to her and Seth. "Why would you do that!? Why!?" Natalya shouted.

"How could you? Why would you do that to Dean?" Naomi asked, looking at her in disappointment.

Seth, who had his arm around Morgan, spoke up. "Ladies, can't you see that this doesn't concern you? Now move it, along. Morgan doesn't have to explain herself to you."

Natalya shook her head, shooting her an angry look. She firmly stated, "You...are such a hypocrite. You chose power. The Authority over a man who loves you? Who stood by you through everything? Dean deserves so much better."

"Correction. Morgan deserves so much better." Seth smirked and continued walking with the Outspoken Diva.

Natayla's words did not bother Morgan at all. She couldn't care less what she thought.

"After all you've done against The Authority...? For your family and friends? For the fans? For Jane? Your own mother?" Nattie asked.

"She did what was best for business," Seth stated.

"I'm pretty sure the OUTSPOKEN diva can speak for herself." she sharply replied to Rollins, giving him a dirty look, before turning her attention back to Morgan. "How could you? Why? We were all rooting for you and Dean. Ever since that last week before WrestleMania. And now you do this?"

Morgan looked at them up and down before smirking. She brushed past them and kept walking with her held up high.

"Instead of worrying about Morgan, worry about yourselves," Rollins glared at them and walked away to catch up with her.

The two continued to walk around backstage as everyone stared at them in shock.

"Morgan! Morgan." Renee rushed over to her. "Morgan, why did you attack Dean Ambrose and align yourself with Seth Rollins?"

All of a sudden, Morgan starts laughing. Getting Seth's arm wrapped around her, she sighed and left with him, leaving Renee confused.

----

"Damn it!"

The sounds of growls, thumps, kicks, and punches were heard backstage, as a vexed Lunatic paced around. He wanted to rip Seth Rollins' head off. He wanted to tear him apart. But most of all, he wanted to get his hands on the woman he envisioned to have a life together. He thought their relationship was going great. He gained her trust back after what he did back in January. He thought he was doing everything right, and nothing could stop them.

His mind went back to the day he asked her to marry him. He remembered the innocent gasp she made when he went down on one knee. Her angelic laugh she let out when he said cheesy things about how

much he loved her. Her emotional 'Yes!' and how she tackled him into a hug, letting out tears of joy.

How could all of that be an act? How couldn't he see right through her deceiving ways? She looked fine. Smiling, loving the crowd, and taking on Rosa and The Authority. What happened?

Ambrose ran his hands through his damp hair, which was covered with water and sweat. WWE Superstars, divas, and backstage workers looked on with sympathy, worry, and fear as Ambrose continued to assault everything in his path, from black storage boxes to walls, chairs, and tables. They kept their distance, letting him take all his anger out. They pondered if Morgan knew what she was doing. Dean can lose his cool, but no one saw him become this enraged. Not even when Seth betrayed The Shield.

"Dean." Eden's voice filled his ears as she cautiously walked up to him, for an interview.

His cool, blue eyes filled with sadness, rage, and disgust over the events that transpired, turned his attention to her.

"Morgan shocked the WWE Universe when she low blowed you­—" Her words got blocked away in his mind as he mentally cringed at the thought.

He begins to remember the events that happened in the ring, not too long ago. That uncharacteristic look she gave him when he was helpless in the ring.

"Dean, can you please give me your thoughts on what happened out there?"

Ambrose came back to reality and exhaled, letting the question sink in. He shook his head, trying to calm himself down. He then let out an unamused laugh.

"Oh, Morgan...she really done it, now. She really screwed up this time." He growled. "She broke my heart. She tore my heart into pieces. She stood there and watched me get beaten. No...that isn't going to happen again. It won't happen again." He looked at the camera, with a crazed look. "Harley...I want you to know that this isn't over. I'm going to get you. And I want my damn ring back. And if I have to rip or bite it off your finger, I will. You're going to pay for this." He stormed off.

[jxtina-86]

All The Way

We can't let this moment pass without a little celebration... DeanAmbrose/Becca. See here for the rest of the series/order to read.

Warning: Smut. Language

Rating: MA

Lyrics from You Know We Can't Go Back by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (It really encapsulates this couple in this moment in time)

I was stranded inside of these silent city walls

I scrape a hand over my face before lifting my beer and draining it. Placing the empty bottle back on the bar, I rock it back and forth with my finger as I wait for the barman to finish up serving another lone drinker, ready to signal that I'm in desperate need of another. I can still feel the adrenaline from the past few days pulsing through me and I need something, anything to take the edge off, to help me come down from my current high. Some might want to ride that high for as long as possible, but I say there's a time limit on its sweetness.

The barman raises his eyebrows in question at me and I nod, pushing the empty bottle away as he opens another and places it in front of me. I grunt my thanks and take a long swig before casting my eyes around the hotel bar. It's getting late, only a few stragglers remaining but I've been reassured that they remain open until the early hours. Not that I plan to be here until then, but it's good to know the option is there should I require it. But given that most of the roster has already started to ship out, catching the last flights back to their respective towns or making the journey by car to meet early morning flights elsewhere, I'm pretty much here on my lonesome for the foreseeable.

There would have been a time where I would've most likely had Roman for company, for one drink at least, before he crawled off to catch a few hours shut eye before embarking on his own early morning flight back to Tampa. But that was before Ella. Not that I begrudge him of that, hell no. Time at home is rare and I don't blame him for wanting to fight for every second he can spend with his two girls. If I were him, I'd do the same in a heartbeat. I smirk. I guess I kind of do the same anyway; anything to get an extra minute or two with Becca. The only reason I'm at the hotel bar and not on my own flight back tonight is because she's out of town until tomorrow anyway.

I draw my phone out of my pocket and scroll through it until I find the photo she sent me yesterday. Her work trip to Tampa had given her the perfect opportunity to pay Lex a visit and I was treated to an image of my girlfriend holding Ella in her arms, with the caption “I'm in love!” following shortly after. I was in catering at the time, mid-raucous laugh at someone's dirty ass joke when my phone buzzed loudly on the table. I almost choked when I flipped it over and saw the photo, my heart thudding loudly as I took in the image of Ella snuggled against Becca who wore a warm smile as she stared down at the baby cradled in her arms.

Despite the countless times I've told Becca it's okay to think about our future and the numerous times the very same thoughts have crossed through my mind, it's very different to be faced with an image that encapsulates everything we could possibly have one day. It felt like it was suddenly in touching distance and for the first time in a long time, a tremor of fear ripped through me. Not because I don't want any of that. Far from it. When I later that night I looked at the image again, I couldn't help the grin that stretched across my face and I still have that same grin now as I stare down at my phone. No, it's not because I don't want it, all of it. It's because I'm scared about what we might have to give up.

It might not look this way to some, but I think Becca and I have pretty much hit perfection. I can think of nothing more satisfying than spending every waking hour in her company. I couldn't give a fuck what we do, as long as we're doing it together, whether that's lazying around our apartment, sprawled out in bed or on the couch with her legs tangled with mine or running errands together, humming along to the radio, curling my arm around her waist as we stand in line at the grocery store and making her giggle as I nuzzle her neck. I don't need anything more, because what we have is more than what I had before. For two people who have never been in a long-term relationship until now, what we have and what we maintain is pretty fucking epic.

And whilst I can sit here and stare at her holding our friends newborn baby and imagine a world where that image is Becca and our own baby and let a thrilling wave of happiness wash over me at that thought, there's a little niggling voice at the back of my mind. One that ask questions. Questions that I wonder are the reasons why Becca has been so hesitant to express her own feelings out loud.

What if...

Everything works in theory, right? The best laid plans sometimes go wrong. Roman had everything planned out every single night he was on the road whilst Lex was close to popping and what happened? He barely made it. I mean, I guess he did make it in the end, but still. It wasn't the way it was supposed to go down. Maybe I've been viewing mine and Becca's future through rose-tinted glasses all this time. For so long, it felt so simple. And when she revealed that she'd thought about it too, it felt even more logical. The fact that she wanted all that with me made my heart soar. For a long time, I couldn't imagine there was a woman in the world who'd want to take my name or potentially carry my child. If I'm being truly honest, I couldn't imagine that I would find a woman that I wanted to have all that with either. I was overwhelmed with the idea that one or the other, or even both, were suddenly a possibility with a woman that I love so damn much.

Perhaps that clouded my judgement, blinded me from seeing that changing our dynamic could ultimately be our undoing. I feel ashamed at my previous cockiness, of not taking Becca's hesitancy on board. I've constantly reassured her, told her not to worry, told her that it's okay to enjoy the here and now and not to think of what's later down the line and I silently curse myself for sending out a message to her that I'm now starting to doubt. I've repeatedly told her that I would never fuck with her head like this and what am I doing? Just that. The one thing I promised her I would never do.

I chew my lip, drumming my thumb against the neck of the beer bottle. Do I tell her? Do I admit that I've ben a cocky son of a bitch when it comes to talking about our future and that underneath it all, I actually have the same concerns that she does? Or does that make it worse? Would it just confirm all the fears that we've slowly worked to dismantle over the last year? Half of me wonders if I should just keep my mouth shut and carry on as if none of these thoughts have ever wormed their way into my mind. But at the same time, if we don't address them, wouldn't that just leave us open to everything crumbling around us when it goes wrong?

I take another long swig of beer, squeezing my eyes shut as I lower the bottle back down. The endless possibilities and outcomes of my current predicament continue to fly through my mind and I feel dizzy, guilt gnawing at my stomach as I picture Becca's face flickering at lighting speed through a whole range of emotions. Fuck, I wish she was here. I wish I could touch her, hold her, feel her in my arms. I know that the second I see her in the flesh all these thoughts will instantly disappear and I'll realise what a fucking idiot I am for thinking them in the first place. When I'm with her, everything falls into place and I know the last thing I'll be doing is questioning anything.

Because I honestly do want everything with her. I can't imagine not having it. I just don't want it to destroy everything else we've worked hard for. I've seen how it's changed Roman and I can't even begin to describe how badly I want that. I want to prove to Becca that I am the right man for her, I want to prove to anyone who's ever doubted me that I am capable of bringing a child into this world and guiding them through its winding path.

I guess my main problem is selfishness. I can't begin to compute how it would be possible to share all the love I have for Becca with someone else. People say it's different, but I'm sceptical. I love Becca so much, it's painful at times. I don't know if I can offer that same love to someone else and still maintain the same level with Becca. And I don't want to share her. I'm scared of being left out, of being replaced. I'm scared of missing out on so much. I'm scared that one day I won't be able to do it anymore. And then where does that leave me? Alone. Unloved. Miserable.

I scowl at my shaking hand as I take another swig of beer. Talk about coming down from my high. Maybe this was a bad idea. Drinking alone, driving alone always leads me down this path and it takes me forever to drag myself out of this train of thought and onto more positive things.

Like I how I can't wait to see Becca tomorrow. I can't wait to be a regular boyfriend for a few short days before heading back on the road. I can't wait to share in her excitement about my achievement two nights ago. A small smirk graces my face as I recall her congratulating me on Sunday night, the glee in her voice soon fading into something far more sultry as she told me how much she was looking forward to celebrating with me in our own special way when we next saw each other. My smirk grows as I picture exactly how I want to celebrate with her and then I silently curse as my dick stirs.

It's moments like that which I don't want to give up. It's moments like that which I fear will change.

I drain my drink and debate another. Behind me I can hear the gentle clink of ice in a glass, murmurings of a couple debating whether to head up to their room, the click of heels on the floor, the soft scent of a woman's perfume that instantly reminds me of Becca. The chair next to me is eased back, a body slowly shifting into the space.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the red skirt grazing her knees, lace cuffing her wrists, a black wrap covering the rest of her arms. My eyes slowly rise and my heart starts to pound.

With my hand on my heart I couldn't tell you if I'd been dreaming Take me to my lover's arms, I won't wake up this time

Becca brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, her eyes on the bar yet I swear I can see her lips twitching. But she keeps her composure as the barman approaches and takes her order. As he turns away, she settles back in the chair, her gaze slowly rounding on me.

“What the–”

“Surprise, Champ.” Her mouth finally curves into that smile that makes me forget everything else in the world.

She slowly tugs the wrap away from her body and the smile is also forgotten as my eyes follow the deep neckline of her dress, my mouth going dry as inch after inch of bare skin is revealed. The lace trim brushes against the inner curve of her breasts, before coming together at her waist, where the solid material of her skirt takes over.

A finger slips under my chin, drawing my gaze away from her exposed skin and back up to her face. She giggles softly. “You like?”

“Becca...” I can't help the rasp in my voice and her eyes dance gleefully at my hypnotised state. I clear my throat, shifting in my chair as I fight to keep my composure. “You want me to show you how much I like?”

She chuckles, white teeth flashing at me as she tugs on her bottom lip. “Later.”

A soft whine breaks from me and I curse my own desperation as her hand brushes against my cheek, her fingers pushing back my unruly hair. “So impatient,” she comments softly. “Don't you know good things come to those who wait?”

“I've waited long enough.”

Her face softens. “I know.” She leans forward, her lips brushing over mine. “But you gotta wait a little longer, Mr Ambrose.”

I groan. “Why?”

“I just got my drink,” she explains with a sly smile at me, before her gaze switches to the barman as he places a large glass of red wine on the bar. My eyes narrow as I observe his gaze flickering south and I instinctively shift my chair closer to Becca's, my hand reaching out to slide over her knee. His cheeks flush slightly as he moves away and Becca clicks her tongue. “Protective much?”

“So this was your big celebration, huh?” I keep my voice low, letting my eyes roam over her body, breathing her in as I let one finger make its way slowly up from her wrist to her elbow to her shoulder. “I figured it would involve less clothing.”

“What kind of gift would it be if I didn't wrap it up all nice for you?” She stares at me innocently, but her eyes give her away.

“Half-wrapped,” I correct as my finger runs from her shoulder down along the neckline, stopping short of her breast.

“I thought I'd let you get a sneak peek.” Her eyes sparkle at me over her wine glass. “I'm nice like that.”

“More like a tease.”

“Maybe,” she lowers her glass with a soft clink, slowly crossing her leg and causing my hand to move to her thigh. “But I always follow through on a promise.”

“Is that–” But my words catch in my throat as my hand slips further down her thigh and I feel the outline of a clasp beneath her skirt. I spread my fingers, slowly feeling the strap resting against her skin, the way the material feels against her bare skin versus the beginning of her stockings. My tongue is thick in my mouth, my breathing shallow as I lift my eyes to hers.

“Cat got your tongue?” she murmurs, a familiar glint in her eye that tells me everything I need to know. “I didn't realise it was possible to make you speechless...”

I wet my dry lips, relishing in the way her gaze drops down to watch my actions, her own lips parting ever so slightly. I let the hand on her shoulder rise, my fingers nudging back the loose strands of her hair from her cheek and neck as I move my closer, my other hand still on her thigh, my fingers brushing up and down the length of the suspender strap.

“You're in big trouble, darlin',” I murmur against her ear, a thrilling tremor running down my spine as I feel her shiver.

“For what?” she shoots back, twisting her head towards me, her forehead barely a whisper away from mine. My fingers curl around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. “As far as I can tell,” her hand drops to my knee. “You seem quite enamoured by my choices tonight.”

I have to fight to stop myself from hissing as her hand drags up my thigh, her fingers dipping between my legs as she edges closer and closer to where my dick is already twitching.

“And anyway,” she continues, her breath warm on my cheek. “I kinda like being in trouble with you.”

“Is that so?” I manage to rasp.

She nods slowly, her bottom lip disappearing once again before she lets it go and I'm hypnotised watching the plump red flesh bounce back into place. “Being bad never felt so good.”

My own breath hitches as her lips briefly meet mine.

“So good,” she murmurs, pulling away and turning her attention back to her drink. She takes a long sip, her hand still on my thigh, her nails gently digging against my jeans. I squeeze her thigh in response, watching as she smiles against the rim of the glass.

“Please,” I half-groan as she sets down her glass and starts to run a solitary finger up and dow the length of the its stem. “Let's go.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

She rocks her head to the side, innocence taking over her features yet again. “Do I?”

“C'mon,” I can't help but whine. “You can't expect me to sit here for much longer with you wearing all of this.”

“I can,” she says with a sly smile. “I spent ages getting all dolled up and I'm going to make the most of it before you inevitably rip this dress off me and mess up my hair.”

I chuckle and she gives me a questioning look. “Darlin',” I breathe lowly. “I ain't gonna be tearing anything off you.”

She pouts, her mouth opening to retort, but I cut her off with another chuckle. “Nah, I'm gonna be taking my sweet time with you tonight.”

“You say that but–”

“You saying I can't control myself?” I question. “If I had no self-control, we'd be fucking on this bar right about now.”

“Dean–”

“Or I would've at least you dragged you to the bathroom and have my head buried between your thighs...” She reddens, her tongue darting out to lick her lips as I brush my thumb over her hot cheek. “You like the sound of that, huh?”

She nods, her head titling into the palm of my hand. “Please...”

“But,” I pull back my hand and pat her thigh with the other. “You got your drink to finish.”

“Dean!”

“Two can play at that game, darlin',” I cast her a sideways look. “What?”

“You're a bad man, Ambrose.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” I reply, my gaze dropping away as I recall my earlier thoughts.

Her hand ghosts up my arm. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

I glance up and my heart tightens as I see the concern flooding her face. “I'm fine,” I smile.

“You can tell me.”

“I'm fine,” I say firmly, reaching for her hand and tugging it into mine. I give it a reassuring squeeze, raising it to my lips so I can kiss each of her knuckles.

Her fingers flutter across my forehead, pushing back my hair as she searches my face. “We can go,” she says softly.

I shake my head. “You gotta finish your drink.”

“I can leave it.”

“You want me that bad, huh?” I grin as she rolls her eyes. I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch the concern leave her face, replaced with her previous playful expression.

“What can I say?” she reaches for her glass. “You're a hard man to resist.”

“I'd say you're doing a pretty good job resisting so far tonight.”

“That's because I know you like the chase.”

“Only because I get you at the end.”

She smiles softly, her head lolling against my shoulder as she swirls her wine in the glass. “You got me a long time ago, Dean.”

I press my lips to her head, my fingers brushing over her lace-clad shoulder. “I know. I'm a lucky man.”

“Very lucky,” she rocks her head back and winks up at me. I manage to hold her gaze for a second before my gaze is diverted to the wide expanse of bare chest before me.

“So fucking lucky,” I murmur as she giggles.

**

Maybe I believe in magic love I find it in the moon and stars above I'll drag you from that one horse town That'll bring you down And I'll love you for all time

I kick the hotel room door closed, my hands palming Becca's shoulders, my nose nestling in her hair as she leans heavily against me. She turns in my arms, one hand on my chest as she backs me up against the door, the other seeking out the light switch. I cup the back of her head, slowly easing her gaze back to me as I dip my head down to meet her lips. My other hand slips down her back, my eyes closing in anticipation as I feel the outline of her garter belt around her waist before my palm seeks out her ass and squeezes firmly. A soft whimper escapes her and I swallow it hungrily as my mouth covers hers.

“Slow,” I murmur, almost as a reminder to myself as I pull back and eye her plump lips. I can't help but kiss them again, pulling her tightly against me, relishing in the way she relaxes into me, her mouth willingly letting me explore, her hands clawing at the back of my neck.

She pulls away with a moan, her eyes dark as her hands leave my neck and slide over my chest instead. She tugs at my shirt, easing it up high enough to let her hands slip underneath and I hiss as her nails scrape gently across my stomach. Her lips twitch into a coy smile as she lets one finger trail along the waistband of my jeans, playfully pulling the top button loose.

I push away from the door, spinning her around and grabbing her hands at the same time. I slowly ease them above her head, pressing them firmly against the door.

“Not how this works, darlin',” I remind her. “I'm gonna be taking my sweet time with you, remember? You can't just skip the appetiser.”

“I wasn't planning to,” she grins and I groan, leaning down to nuzzle at her neck. “Trust me, I was going to make sure I wetted both our appetites...”

“Later,” I murmur against her throat. “I promise I won't stop you.”

“I'd be worried if you did,” she breathes. “Although you have a habit of stopping me just before the good bit.”

“The good bit?”

“Yeah...” she sighs. “The bit where you get all breathy and your legs start to shake and your hand twists a little tighter in my hair...”

My cock is already straining in my jeans, begging to get some air, but it jerks a little harder at her words and I'm almost tempted to rewind and let her do as she pleases. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting her perfume flood my senses as she squirms against me.

“Sounds familiar,” I finally say. “Someone else has a tendency to get a a little feisty when they're on the edge. Although it tends to involve way more cursing and your legs wrapped around my neck and shoulders.”

“That's because you have a bad habit.”

“What's that?” I nip at her throat, chuckling as she hisses.

“You leave me hanging.”

I pull back with a raised eyebrow. “When have I ever left you hanging?”

“In the end you don't,” she acknowledges. “But you like to push me close and then pull me back.”

“The results are worth it,” I point out. “But you wanna know why I do it?”

“Why?”

“Because I can't get enough of you.”

Her cheeks flush faintly, a shy smile tugging at her lips as her gaze ducks away from mine. “You're cute, Ambrose.”

“It's the truth.”

“That you can't get enough of me or that you're cute?”

“Both,” I grin and she giggles, her head rocking back against the door. I take the opportunity to cup the back of her neck, my thumb running over the delicate skin before me as her eyes glimmer. “And I know you can't get enough of this.”

“Of you,” she corrects. “I can't get enough of you.”

I smile as I let my hand slide over her shoulder and down her chest, the lace tickling my palm as my fingers pluck at the dangerous neckline. But as much as I want to tug away the lace and reveal her naked breasts, cup them, pinch them, suck on them, I resist. Instead I tease, my fingers brushing against the curve of her breast, my palm seeking out a semi-hard nipple beneath the material which in turn I circle with my finger, drawing it slowly out until I can pinch it between thumb and forefinger as Becca hisses at the sensation.

Her hands twist against mine holding them firm over her head, her body arching against me as a soft plea floats through the air.

“I didn't catch that...”

“More,” she gasps.

I switch hands, continuing to grip her wrists as I lower the other to tease her other breast, my head dipping to nip at her throat again, my lower body pressed firmly up against her, my hips slowly twisting against hers so she can feel my ever-growing hard on. The sound of her stockings sliding against my jeans whispers through the air and I groan against her hot skin; the thought of her legs, still clad in the stockings, wrapped around my head as I feast on her is almost too much to bear. I pull her away from the door with a growl and she stumbles against me in surprise.

I spin her around again and then slow as I seek out the zip on the back of her dress and start to edge it south. Her head drops forward as my lips press against the back of her neck and then follow the zip down, kissing each inch of newly exposed skin. I slip my hands inside the dress, slowly easing from her shoulders and down her arms, my chin resting on her shoulder as I watch the material fall away from her breasts. My hands instantly cup them, her head tipping back so I can capture her mouth as she shrugs the dress free from her arms and wrists. My hands drop to her waist, tugging the dress further south and groaning as my fingers brush over the lace and silk of her garter belt.

“Fuck, Becca,” I mumble into her mouth before pulling away and twisting her back around in my arms. She takes my hand as she steps out of the puddle of material on the floor, my eyes roaming over her topless form before lowering to take in the way the belt hugs her body from waist to hips, the silk criss-crossing over the lace before giving way to...

“I thought I'd save you the effort of having to rip my panties apart.”

Her words hang in the air, my mouth going dry as it slowly dawns on me that she's been panty-less ever since she entered the hotel bar.

“Darlin',” I manage to say without stuttering. “You're just full of surprises.”

She winks, stepping closer. “I thought you might appreciate this particular one.”

I let my hands slide over her hips and pulling her against me. Looking over her back, I watch my hands trail over her bare ass before my fingers trace down the straps that hold her stockings in place, tugging them back and letting them snap gently against the backs of her thighs. She shivers, her hands making their way down my back and clawing once again at my shirt. This time I let her strip me of it, my mouth crashing against hers once she's pulled it over my head, my hand in her hair, anchoring her to me as we stumble back towards the bed.

I lower Becca onto the sheets, my mouth still firmly attached to hers. There's a muffled thump as her shoes fall to the floor and then her feet press against the back of my legs, holding me to her. My dick is throbbing, my pants tight as I release her mouth and work my way down her neck, my hands already on her breasts, circling and pinching each nipple. Her back arches as I cover one and then the other with my mouth, wetting them equally as she moans in appreciation. Her hands are in my hair and I have to fight against her grip to move back and forth between her breasts, unable to make my mind up as to which one to focus on the most. I press my lips against the valley between them, breathing in the heat of her skin before she tugs my head up and guides me back up to her waiting mouth.

“Need you,” she whispers breathlessly. “Please...”

I tug on her bottom lip, enticing a delicious whimper from her throat. Pressing my forehead against hers, I fight to catch my breath, my hands finding hers and pulling them slowly away from me before pushing them back on the bed. “Slow,” I remind her.

She grumbles as I rise and stand at the end of the bed, my eyes never leaving hers. I push my hair back from my face before lowering my hands to finish what she started earlier, the zipper of my jeans deafeningly loud above our heavy breathing. Becca's eyes flicker south and she shifts up onto her elbows, head one side as I kick off my boots and let my jeans fall to the floor. One stocking clad foot slides against my bare thigh and my dick jerks in my boxers. Giggling, she rises, her face almost level with my crotch and she slips her hands inside the waistband of my boxers and eases them down, her mouth on my hip until my dick springs free. I groan as watch the tip disappear between her sinful lips and she holds my gaze steadily as she laps at the head before letting it go.

Her fingers slide over the tip, gathering the wetness and spreading it down my length before her fist closes around me and she slowly starts to pump. She continues to hold my gaze, a lazy smile spreading across her face as I bite my lip and silently beg for her take me back into her mouth. But she defies my unspoken wishes, her hand slow and steady as she presses her mouth instead to my hip again, her free hand trailing up and down my leg and making me shiver.

“Becca...” I plead hoarsely.

“Slow, you said,” she smirks. “So slow is what you get.”

My fingers brush over her cheek. “Please.”

She shakes her head, catching my thumb between her lips and drawing it in, sucking firmly until I hiss and tug it free. I groan loudly, my hips jerking forward, thrusting my length through her fist and she giggles. Her lips brush over the tip in a soft kiss, her tongue darting out to trace the slit as her fist increases in pace. The hand on my leg slips to balls, her nails scratching softly as she takes the head into her mouth again and sucks firmly before releasing me with a pop.

“More,” I rasp, my hand slipping to cup the back of her head.

Her hands fall to my thighs as she covers the tip once again and this time lets me slowly slip further and further into her mouth. And still she holds my gaze, her eyes blinking only once as the tip of my cock hits the back of her throat and her lips stretch around the base.

“Becca,” I groan as she hums softly, her eyes flickering shut as her hands grip my thighs harder. I let go of the back of her head and she gradually releases me, my dick shining as she presses her lips to the tip again.

But I have another idea. I nudge her back onto the bed, crawling over her, gathering her against me and then rolling onto my back. One hand slips between us, her fingers on my dick as she guides me to her entrance.

“No,” I grunt as I feel her wetness slide over the tip. “I wanna taste you first.”

She grins, releasing my dick and then brings her fingers up to my mouth. “Go on then.”

I grip her hand as I suck each finger clean, watching the hazy look take over her eyes as she bites her lip. “Sweet as always,” I tell her with a smirk, my hand sliding down squeeze her ass. “Now turn around so I can get a proper taste.”

She obliges, rolling off me before turning to face away from me. I help her guide one leg over my head, my eyes closing as I breathe in her heady scent, my mouth already starting to water in anticipation. My hands slide over her lower back, my fingers digging in through the lace and silk as she leans forward to press her mouth to my stomach and then hip before she reaches my cock once again. My hands drift to her hips in response, pulling her back so that her wet entrance bobs in front of my face. But I turn my attention instead to her thighs, adorning them with soft kisses which make her whimper around my dick. My hands follow suite, my fingers plucking at the straps that hold her stockings in place, snapping them back firmly this time and making her cry out as she grinds back and tries to make contact with my mouth.

I palm her ass, spreading her open to me, one eye on her pussy as I run my tongue from the top of her thigh up the swell of her ass. My teeth graze her skin, making her twitch above me and I let them sink in a little deeper, my finger digging into her other ass cheek as she whines.

“Dean... Quit teasing...”

I tap her ass firmly with my hand, making her moan as her mouth finds my dick again.

“Patience,” I murmur against her hot flesh as I work my way closer and closer to her slick entrance. I take a long, slow lick, groaning as her juices seep onto my tongue and she squeals in delight, her hips jerking backwards. I twist an arm over them, holding her firm and forcing her to go at my pace, rather than her own.

But I'm not about to sit here and tease her, despite her earlier claims. Not tonight. Despite her teasing of me with the dress, the stockings and the lack of panties, I'm going to giver her what she wants over and over again. I want to feel her legs shudder around me, I want to feel her pussy pulse in my mouth, around my dick. I want to watch her come undone at my touch over and over again, until she's limp in my arms, until her voice is hoarse from screaming, until her body is slick with sweat and she sticks firmly to me. Because that's what you do when your girlfriend surprises you in a mouth-watering outfit just to congratulate you on your achievement. Because that's what you do when she makes you feel like the luckiest damn guy on the planet with just a look and a smile.

So I cover her with my mouth, my tongue working away at her entrance as she grinds back against my hold, her fist starting to become erratic around my length, her warm breath on the tip making it twitch as she hisses and whimpers. I'm yet to even touch her clit and she's already panting and begging and it makes my ego swell. Grinning like an idiot, I pull back and watch her ass tremble as my fingers dance up and down the sensitive landscape of her inner thighs before I lean forward and reward her by circling my tongue around her clit. She yelps, her calves clamping down on either side of my head as I repeat the movement over and over again until she collapses forward, her hair brushing against my groin, her mouth sinking onto my dick. And then I wrap my lips around the sensitive flesh and suck firmly, causing her to arch her back and pull back with a howl.

“Shit!”

Spurred on, I clutch at her ass, holding her wide open to me as I let her grind back against me, not once letting my mouth slip from her. Her hand still tugs on my length, but her panting is hot and heavy against my thigh, her hard nipples tickling my stomach as she writhes above me. She jerks forward for a second, but I follow her, my mouth still firmly attached to her clit as she gasps, my name almost a sob.

“De-an... Fu–”

Her body rocks back violently, forcing my head back onto the mattress as she slips further away from my dick. But I couldn't give a shit about her getting me off right now. Watching, or rather feeling, her come undone is the ultimate turn-on and I can feel the blood rushing south as she lets out a choked breath, her fingers digging into my thighs as she grinds back once again. I slip a hand under her stomach, nudging her upright, growling as she does and her pussy presses against my mouth, her juices sliding over my lips, my chin, my whole damn face. Her hands find my arms as she struggles to keep her balance, but I've got a firm grip on her ass, my hands squeezing reassuringly as my tongue continues to work her clit, pressing flat against it as my mouth covers her entrance again and she pants and moans above me, her legs starting to tremble around my head.

“Fuck... Dean... I...”

I dig my fingers in tighter, my lips attacking her clit, sucking hard as I slide my tongue back and forth until...

“DEAN!”

Her scream rips through the air, her hands slipping on my arms as her knees grip my sides and then suddenly she's balanced precariously on my mouth, her ass shaking in my hands as her climax tears through her body. She's rigid above me as she gulps for air, her fingers digging into my arms as I continue to suck on her clit.

And then she falls forward, face first into my lap, her warm breath on my balls as shaky fingers flutter against my thighs. She whines softly as I continue to lap at her, my hands gliding over her ass and thighs. She desperately tries to wriggle away, but I hold on tightly, my tongue soft and gentle as I coax her towards a second orgasm. My arm slides over her waist, my fingers taking a firm grip on the garter belt as I hold her still as her legs start to shake again and she nips at my thigh in response, making me hiss.

She scrambles sideways, her legs slipping over my head, but I follow her with a growl, my hands seeking out her own as she twists onto her back and I crawl over her. Her lips are swollen from her teeth and I eagerly press my own against them, my tongue pushing into her welcoming mouth, our moans intermingling as she tastes herself. Her fingers twist in my hair as I reach between us and fist my dick, my legs nudging hers wider. Her head rocks back against the edge of the bed, her body arching as I rub the tip of my dick against her pussy, groaning loudly as it slips inside her.

Anchoring my knees to the mattress, I scoop my arms under her, my mouth against her throat as I thrust forward and fill her completely. I hold still, breathing hard against her flushed skin whilst her fingers dance slowly down my back to pinch at my ass.

“You okay?” she whispers.

I look up at her, shifting my weight so I can reach up and delicately peel a strand of her hair from her hot cheek. “Never better.”

She hooks a leg around my waist, her hips slowly rocking against mine and I finally move, matching her rhythm. Pressing one hand into the mattress, I ease back slightly, my head dropping forward to watch as my dick slides in and out of her. Her lips press against my forehead and I can feel them curving into a smile as I reach for her bent leg and curl it further around my waist. I edge it higher, my fingers slipping to her thigh where I snap at the straps and grin down at her as she hisses.

“Wear these more often,” I mumble against her mouth, not caring how pleading my voice sounds.

“Only if you promise to eat me out like that every time,” she whispers back, her fingers ghosting up my back.

“Always.”

“Deal,” she moans, her body arches as I thrust into her harder than before and I let my mouth slip down her neck, bending so I can attack her breasts, my teeth scraping against the nipple. She cries out, her fingers in my hair once again, holding me to her as I growl hungrily.

I pull back, chuckling at her frustrated mewl as I flip her onto her stomach and pull her up by the hips. She grinds back, my slicked up dick sliding between her ass cheeks as she fists the bedsheets, her cursing muffled as her head drops forward.

“What was that?” I ask, my palm connecting with her ass cheek and making her arch.

Her head twists to the side, pouting up at me. “I said, fuck me.”

“You gotta ask nicely,” I chide, gripping my dick and fisting it hard, my heart pounding as I watch her eyes hone in on my actions and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

“Please...”

I push into her slowly and her eyes flutter closed, a satisfied smile replacing the pout. I lean forward, moulding my body to hers, my face nuzzling her neck and then cheek as I cup and squeeze her breasts. My hips rock back and forth at a slow pace and I groan as I feel her thrust back against me. She twists her head slightly, her lips brushing over mine. Her hips rise again and then she hums softly into my mouth and I can feel her fingers sliding betweeen her legs, gripping the base of my dick every time I pull back before she moves to tease her clit.

Easing my arm under her shoulders, I grip firmly as I rock back on my knees and bring her upright with me. Covering her hand with mine, I encourage her to keep going as I thrust up into her, my teeth scraping against her throat as I cling to her. My hand slips to grope at her breasts again, pinching each nipple until she whimpers my name.

“Dean...”

I cup her throat with my palm, my fingers on her chin, rocking her head back until her whole body starts to arch and she stares up at me with a lust filled gaze, as I slam into her, holding her fingers against her clit as she shudders against me. Her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth twisting as she starts to howl but I swallow the sound, my mouth crashing against hers before she can collapse forward again.

I guide her back onto the bed, still remaining on my knees as I thrust into her slowly, letting her recover enough before I chase down my own release. But Becca has other ideas.

“Move,” she murmurs, a hand pushing at my thigh until I pull out of her. As she rolls onto her back, I go to move over her but she pushes me back again. “Let me...”

She pushes me back to the edge of the bed, until I stand on shaky legs, my hand still on my dick as she crawls towards me. Knocking away my hand, she takes over and my head rocks back as I feel her tongue swirl over the tip. She shifts slightly and I look down to see her staring up at me, as she lies before me, her legs raised behind her, crossed at the ankles as she takes me further into her mouth with a lazy sigh.

Her eyes flicker closed as she moans, her lips stretching around me. I curse softly as her hand cups my balls and the tip of my dick hits the back of her throat. She pauses for a second, her tongue lapping at the underside before she takes me in further. I scrape a hand over my face with a ragged breath as she releases me slightly before taking me back down, deeper than before and I know I'm not going to last, not with the way she's moaning around me, her fingers digging into my thighs as she takes control. Now it's my turn to curse and grind forward, groaning loudly as her hands move to my ass and she holds me firm, her head bobbing back and forth.

And then, just as I'm about to warn her about my impending release, she pulls back, her fist taking over, her mouth open wide.

“Fuck, darlin'... I...”

Thick white strands land on her lips, her chin, her cheeks. Her mouth covers the tip again, her fist coaxing me dry as I continue to cum in her mouth. She swallows hungrily, grinning up at me as she casually swipes a finger across her cheek and licks it clean. My hand cups the back of her head as her tongue darts out to lick at her chin and my mouth crashes against her, not caring that my seed is still on her tongue which plunges into my mouth with fiery intensity.

“Shit,” I groan against her lips as I move back onto the bed and pull her into my arms.

She giggles, pressing her mouth against mine again in response. “Told you we'd celebrate in style.”

“I'd say that was a bit of an understatement,” I murmur as she tucks her head under my chin. “What you got in store for me when I finally win the WWE title, huh?”

“I've got some ideas,” she whispers, her fingers trailing over my chest.

“Such as?”

She rises on her elbow. “And give away the surprise? Not a chance.”

“A hint then,” I curl my arm around her shoulders and squeeze. “All I'm asking for, darlin'.”

She grins. “Maybe you can be the one wearing the accessories.”

I frown in confusion and then I see her eyes glimmer. A sly smile tugs at my lips. “Why wait?”

Now it's her turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

I roll her onto her back, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose and finally her mouth. “I got another belt that'll do just fine.”

“Dean!”

“What?” I smirk.

She curls a hand into my hair and pulls me down to her. “You're insatiable.”

“And you love it.”

“Love you,” she whispers. “I love you.”

But it's alright And you know we can't go back I said it's alright To know we can't go back You know we can't go back

**

If that's the time then I guess must be leaving Gone are the days and the dreams we screamed out loud

The bedsheets tighten around my waist as I roll over and reach for Becca. But she's not there. I open one eye and survey the empty bed, the rumpled sheets, red lipstick on the white pillowcases, black stockings draped over the bedside table. I scrunch up my face, listening for the sound of the shower running, my mind already there, scooping her wet body into my arms, but it's quiet.

My eyes are just drifting shut again when the hotel door clicks and I look over to see Becca making her way in, closing the door quietly behind her, two coffee cups balanced one on top of the other in one hand. She glances over to the bed with a grin.

“Morning. I figured the coffee machine would wake you.” She approaches the bed and I take note of my hoodie around her shoulders, the cuffs rolled up, as well as my beanie pulled over her head.

“Where did you get clothes from?” I ask as I take in the rest of her outfit, my voice still thick with sleep.

She chuckles, placing the cups on the bedside table. “Roman left me your spare room key behind reception. I came up here and dumped by case before I went down to the bar to find you.”

 I reach up and tug the beanie from her head, my fingers mussing up her hair as she rolls her eyes. “Looks better like that,” I tell her.

“Yeah, you're an expert at giving me that 'just fucked' hair.” Her hand slips to my head. “Speaking of... As much as I love being able to get a firm grip on yours,” she tugs gently. “Don't you think it's about time you got it cut?”

I grimace and she giggles, giving way to a squeal as I wrap my arms around her and pull her onto the bed.

“I thought your fangirls love it when you get your hair cut,” she comments.

“Only one girl's opinion I'm concerned about.”

She twists in my arms. “Smooth, Ambrose.” I grin cheekily as she pinches my bare arm playfully.

Silence takes over as she works her fingers across my bare chest. “So,” she finally exhales. “You gonna explain that pensive look on your face last night?”

“When?”

“Before you realised I was sat next to you at the bar.” Her fingers pause. “And then later on... I said something that made you go back there.”

“It's–”

She presses a finger to my lips. “Don't do that. Don't say it's nothing. I let it slide last night because I didn't want to stop us from having a good time, but it's the morning and I wanna know what's on your mind.”

“It's stupid.”

Becca shakes her head. “Someone once told me that the trust we have isn't just about what we do in bed, but up here as well,” she taps my temple. “So trust me when I say you can tell me what you were thinking, stupid or otherwise.”

I chew my lip as she studies my face.

“Dean... You can tell me. If it's work or family or...” she swallows. “Or us?”

With my heart in my mouth I couldn't tell you what just hit me Take me to my lover's arms, I won't back down this time

I'm reminded of a time where it was me asking her the same questions, pushing her to tell me what was on her mind and fearing what the answer could possibly me and how much it killed me watching her debate whether to tell me or not. And once again, I wonder whether shielding her from the truth is the right thing to do.

“I don't want things to change,” I murmur.

Her face softens. “Why would things change?”

“I don't know.”

“Then why would you think that?”

“I told you it was stupid.”

“And I told you I would listen,” she shoots back with a raised eyebrow. “So tell me why you think things are going to change.”

“I'm selfish.”

“Why do you think that?” she asks after a brief pause.

“I just am.”

She cups my face, holding my gaze. “You are the least selfish person I've ever met. Dean.”

“What I mean is, I'm selfish when it comes to you.”

“And?”

“What if I can't stop being like that.”

“And why would you need to?” she asks gently. “I'm selfish when it comes to you too.”

“That's not what I mean...” I struggle to find the right words, the right words that aren't going to push her away, that aren't going to do what I fear the most and change everything we know. “I don't know if I'm capable of sharing you.”

She looks at me confused. “And why would you need to share me?”

“If...” I swallow hard. “If we...”

Realisation dawns on her face. “Dean...”

“See, told you it was stupid.”

“It's not,” she promises, cupping my cheek as she kisses me. Titling her head to the side, she searches my face for a second. “What made you start thinking that you were selfish?”

I chew my lip, not wanting to say that it was the photo that set me off. I don't want her to think this is her fault in any way. “I dunno,” I murmur, but she doesn't let me get away with it.

“Tell me.”

“The photo you sent me,” I exhale, closely watching her face.

“It was just a photo.”

“Yeah, I know that. But it just made me think about how that might be you and me one day.”

She smiles. “Yeah?”

“And it...” I swallow hard. “It made me realise that maybe I've been an idiot.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn't really think about what it could mean for us. All I could think about was that you wanted that with me and that...” I run a finger down her cheek. “That made me so fucking happy, Becca, that I didn't think about the reality of what it could do to us.”

“Nothing is going to happen to us, because that's not happening to us right now,” she says softly. “Sure, we both want that, but that's miles off in the future. We've got so much more to do before we get to that place.”

“I know but–”

“I am more than happy with what we have right now, Dean. I don't need anything else right now except you. I know we've spent a lot of time talking about what's in store for us, but that doesn't mean I want it all now.” She pauses. “And as for you being selfish? You need to stop thinking like that because you give me so much, you don't even realise. You make me feel safe, supported, cared for, loved. It's everything I could ever want and more.”

“But...”

“You can have me to yourself for as long as you want. And when the time's right...” she trails off, her brown eyes meeting mine. “We'll figure it out. Just like we've done all the way up to this point.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“I promised you that I would never fuck with your head.”

“You haven't.”

But I shake my head. “I have. I should have been honest with you, I should have told you that I had the same concerns you did when we talk about our future. But instead, I got carried away.”

She kisses my cheek. “It's okay. Hey,” she cups my chin as I shake my head again, another rebuttal on my tongue. “Don't beat yourself up over this. It's okay that you got carried away, I like that you did because it made me realise that it was okay to do the same. And it's okay to have these doubts and fears, but you just gotta tell me next time. It's how we work, right?”

“Right.” I push her hair behind her ear. “You're incredible, you know that?”

“Tell me again,” she smiles as she kisses me.

“Incredible,” I mumble against her lips.

“Nothing's going to change.”

“It might.”

“It won't,” she promises. “Because I won't let it.”

She stares down at me, a determined look in her eye.

“How can you be so sure?”

“We've come this far,” she tells me with a grin. “I reckon we can go a bit further.” 

“How far?”

“As far as you want.”

“All the way?”

“All the way.”

And it's alright To know we can't go back I said it's alright To know we can't go back You know we can't go back

Fin x

[jazzyjj]

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🙏