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cinnamonglrls · 5 months

Text

kerosene. [R.R]

summary: the fire reaches a fever pitch.

wc: 5.7k

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Pure, unequivocal radio silence.

You got the message, especially after your blue message spun green when you texted him the morning after that night at HEIDI’s. You got the message, especially when he subtly swerved your attempts at approaching him on two separate occasions with the intent of sincerely apologizing for your inebriated lapse of judgement face-to-face— your persistance a true testament of your developing appreciation of the budding friendship you two were cultivating in the bracket of time post-injury and pre-fallout, no matter how short lived it was.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

In all honesty, you wanted to be buried where you laid. When you awoke with three flutters of your eyelids that morning, a shutter of film-burned memories of the night prior rolling on a reel that you played, paused, rewinded and repeated in your mind’s eye, you wanted to be buried where you laid. It was the type of regret and humiliation that drives you into nosediving beneath the cover of your duvet, hiding from the harsh realities and cruel, cruel consquences of casamigos.

He’s fucking married.

You groaned and moaned and pressed your knuckles into the corners of your closed eyeballs in frustration, berating yourself underneath the safety of the thick comforter where no one could find you.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

You had heard it in passing. You were winding down for the night at the barren arena after a show in Chicago. Only a few people were left at the venue, comprising of staff and a handful of wrestlers who were scheduled to perform near the end of the show that night. You were stripped clean of your in-ring gear and settled for something far more comfortable; a tight angelic tank top with black sweatpants. A NIKE duffle bag hanging off of your shoulder as you cruised the hallway on your way out to the escalade that would then lead you to your hotel for the night when a murmured conversation you couldn't help but overhear as you passed an office peaked your interest.

“… Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all. I think that…”

It stopped you in your tracks.

You slowly leaned your body onto the cold cinderblock wall in the dimlit vacant hallway, a few safe feet away from the source of the voices. A deep fold etched between the natural arches of your brows as you stay within earshot of the conversation but also at secure enough distance to eavesdrop without arousing suspicion. Roman put you on Paul’s radar?

You don’t remember how long you stood hidden in that dark hall, quiet as a mouse with your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip and then your fingernails, a cycle that rotated as you skimmed through cold memories of how unwelcome you were made to feel upon your debut at his hands, which was bad enough. But he was a factor in the reason you were placed on the main roster in the first place?

It wasn’t until you heard shuffling of feet originating from the office that you hurriedly pushed yourself off the wall and made your way down the hall and out the building.

4,320 seconds.

180 days.

26 weeks.

Six months.

Part-timer.

It was a nickname he worked overtime to earn.

Since the fallout, he’d begun limiting his appearances on television— only showing face once every two to three weeks at best. A privilege that came with the termination of the storyline that included you two, coincidently.

The sudden decision to cut the cord on the narrative, which came only three weeks after that fateful night, snatched the rug right from beneath your feet. It cut your air time by a whopping seventy-five percent, infuriating loyal wrestling fans all around the world who made their voices heard.

Trending tweets. Cunning signs. Persistent chants.

The people wanted you so much that you were coined The People’s Princess.™

Paul’s demeanor as he delivered you the news indicated that there was nothing he could do. It was beyond him.

The biggest upset of it all, a sentiment that you felt deep within you and a sentiment that wrestling outlets and general fans all around the world who also had the capacity to recognize it echoed: this juggernaut of an opportunity to showcase your skill was seized from you before you could really prove yourself worthy. To the people, to yourself.

A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.

And now, there’s a fire sparking in your gut.

Chocolate covered strawberries, extravagant flowers, trips out the country, frequent and random proclamations of love.

There wasn’t a stone Roman left unturned for Thea.

Overcompensation tends to be a symptom of gnawing guilt, after all.

His forehead gently falls against your knee at the same time his eyes flutter closed in surrender, like he knows what you’re thinking about. Like he’s thinking about it too. You spread your legs a tiny inch. A forbidden invitation paired with a whiny whimper; a desperate siren plea of his name.

After bolting out of your hotel room that night with the speed of lightning, he stayed encaged within the peace of his escalade for a long time before pulling off, tightening his jaw and flexing his fingers for any semblance of control. And he’ll never admit it if he was ever confronted, but he spun the block. He pulled back into the parking garage and contemplated it.

He thought about it.

But then he thought about Thea. Thea, who has never forsaken him. Thea, who has suffered through the loss of all three babies they’ve ever conceived before birth. Thea, who slept on uncomfortable chairs at the hospital during the trials and tribulations of his health battles. Thea, who left everything she’s ever known to facilitate his career aspirations.

So how could he? He couldn’t.

He did everything in his power to scrub your essence off of him: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He showered three times in succession. He blocked your phone number. Then, he made a couple phone calls to management with a request that carried no room for leeway this time around.

He dug through the cardboard boxes in the dark and dusty attic and stared at the crumpled up piece of vows with faded lead etched on it from all those years ago, reminding him why he chose Thea.

And that was it.

It’s been 4,320 seconds, 180 days, 26 weeks, six months since you last seen Roman.

Until now.

Now, as you sit atop a high stool at Naomi’s outdoor bar and lock eyes with him the second you toss your head over your shoulder— curious as to the influx of commotion at the backyard gate during her and Jimmy’s 4th of July cookout. You wish you didn’t feel it. The peace that you’ve made with the heat that blooms in your ribcage but spreads like wildfire. Your eyes dart to Naomi and she looks just as lost as you are when she inconspicuously slides her phone out her backpocket.

mimi ♡: He told us he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m so sorry

mimi ♡: U know I would’ve told u he was coming if I knew

2:21 PM.

You grip the spine of your mimosa a little tighter than you were two minutes ago,the sizzle of smoke, indistinct rowdy chatter, laughing children, and throwback jams wafting from the stereo of a hefty speaker overstimulating your senses now that you were far more distressed than you were two minutes ago.

There’s a lot of pressure on you right now. You’re in an uncomfortable situation, not only because you’re in the same vicinity as the man who is the direct source of every single issue you’ve faced in your professional career, but you’re on his turf. This is his family. You’re the outsider.

Unbeknownst to you, standing beside his brother at the grill, Jey is watching this all play out with the eye of an eagle. He watches Roman unlatch the backyard gate with one hand and carry a shiny package of TNT explosives under the other arm, Thea trailing in behind him as symphonies of greetings expel from family members scattered around the yard. He catches the silent interaction between you and his sister-in-law and sighs under his breath.

“Man, hold this, uce.”

He passes his seasoned pair of tongs to Jimmy and unties the knot of his apron behind his back as he makes his way to the backyard bar. An arched football slices through the blue sky when he slips the apron off and tosses it over his shoulder, sliding behind the bar before you see him.

“Uh-uh, where you goin?” he interrupts you before you can slide off the stool.

“Um, to the restroom?”

He smacks his teeth, “with your purse?”

You look down to the bag clasped in your hand before sighing, sitting back on the stool and placing your purse onto the bartop.

He grabs your mimosa by the spine and tugs some liquor from beneath the bar before pouring it into the mimosa. You laugh, so he laughs.

“I can’t stay, Jey.”

“Ion know whatchu talkin bout.”

“Yes you do. That’s why you’re over here, right?”

He looks up at you from his concoction and then closes the cap on the liquor, returning it back to it’s place.

“I’m over here cause you look like a wallflower at my brothers get-together. And if there are any wallflowers, that means the kickback lame,” he looks away from you, “Aye Jimmy! Is this kickback lame?!” he yells out for his brother and you scramble to slap him on his chest to get him to lower his voice as to not any draw attention.

“Hell naw! Who said that?”

Jey shrugs, tossing a finger at you.

You hear grass crunching under shoes from behind you and suddenly Jimmy is sitting to the left of you but you can’t peel your eyes off of Jey, your hand incredulously cupping your mouth at his outburst.

“Say it ain’t so.” Jimmy states, looking between you and Jey.

Shaking your head, you explain to him what you were telling his brother. The conversation shifts gears when Naomi joins and persuades the group into playing a round of uno over at the outdoor sofa. One round crossfaded into three which crossfaded into numerous other card and board games until the sun set.

When you find yourself growing restless, you separate from the group with a stack of dirty dishes in your palms and stroll into the empty house to discard of the dishes.

As the faucet’s stream polishes the ceramics in your hand as you hold it under the water, you feel it.

Eyes.

It instills a deep sense of paranoia within you. Your eyes have scanned the expanse three separate times, lazily and then slowly and then very meticulously in hopes of pinpointing the source. You sweep the hazy vicinity once more but this time you lock eyes with the source.

You expel a tight sigh past your lips. You don’t even have to turn around. You know he’s there.

Something softly thuds against the kitchen island and you turn your head to see your wallet placed there before his herculean frame— almost a silhouette due to the luminated backdrop of the tangerine sunset past his build, in the backyard. You soundlessly return to softly scrubbing the plate clean.

A minute passes.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move either.

“Jimmy and Naomi put alot of effort into putting this together.”

“So.”

“So don’t make me fuck it up for them, Roman,” you tuck a loose strand behind your ear, “don’t make me fuck it up.”

With his bottom lip bitten between his teeth in ponder, he takes a second to digest the sentiment. He’s never really taken you for a brazen daredevil at the mouth with the singular exception of the moments following the time he unintentionally caused significant damage to your ankle and became the catalyst of the first and only blip on your professional tracksheet thus far. Even then, that independent situation unfurled after months and months and months of subtle transgressions— equivalent to having a long, less than ideal day and bursting into tears only after you arrive home and your belt loop gets latched on a door handle.

It seems to be a pattern with you two.

The ebb-and-flow. The long periods of piling tension rolled into motion due to his inability to communicate and behave with you the way he truly desires and then manifesting in frustration but delivered to your front door in the final form of misdirected ignorance.

It never fails.

That usual sensual liveliness about you that piqued his interest during that fateful NXT interview almost two years ago has been stunted. He knows it. Everyone knows it. Now, you’re self-aware enough to recognize that falling out with the thickest pillar supporting the operations of a male dominated, billion dollar business was a major oversight on your behalf which has almost boxed you into the placement of a social outcast. The slippery politics sucking you dry and leaving you for a pile of bones.

There’s a varnish of guilt that lines his features, perhaps due to the hazelnut sadness in your eyes. He’s heard indistinct whispers through the grapevine for a while during his attempts to keep his distance that can be traced via a paper trail back to your coworkers and peers, ridiculous enough that he refuses to breathe life into them, but it’s hard to refuse when you’re standing before him. As breathtaking as you’ve always been, yet absolutely depleted, “Isabel…”

And perhaps it’s what propelled him into swiping your wallet from your table after ensuring his wife was deeply engrossed in conversation with a family member, crushing Jey’s attempt of a heroic intervention beneath the sole of his shoe like he was a slimy cockroach with a low and stern Shut Up when he saw Roman take your belonings and roam into the house behind you.

Your hand, fatigued from holding the grudge, drops the ceramic plates with a reverbrating clank into the sink. You rush past the kitchen and through the halls with every intent of preserving yourself from digging yourself into a deeper hole, disoriented when your elbow is gripped and tugged into an empty bedroom and bookended with the silky click of a lock.

The speed in which you tug your arm away from his possessive grasp startles you both once in the solitude of the empty sanctuary, but him more so than you. An unsuccessful organ transplant where the body deems the foreign entity as a threat rather than an antidote— you have emotionally marinated in your resentment towards him for so long that your body’s natural response to his touch is immediete rejection, “don’t touch me.”

Gathering the courage to apply your body weight on your other foot as you stand, you immediately scurry to your feet, inhaling a tight gust of air and squeezing your eyes shut.

His eyes spring around your features in multiple, quick successions, “what the fuck do you want from me? Huh!”

Peace. Uproar. Honesty. Transparency.

Despite your own desire for a dose of his honesty, you’re hypocritically far too polished and noble to admit what it is you truly itch for from him. Too honorable and righteous to peel the rug back inch by glorious inch and reveal the tight-lipped accumulation of pink dirt you’ve swept beneath the surface for a very long time in the name of a carrying a clear conscious and straying away from ruffling any feathers. And, he simply does not deserve that from you. He doesn't deserve your secrets. He doesn't deserve your vulnerability. He doesn't deserve a fleeting glance at the cards tucked in your hands. So you keep them close to your chest, “I want absolutely nothing from you. I want nothing to do with you.” Snapshots flit through your mind at unruly speeds: your conversation with Paul, the faint bone-chilling sensation of fire running up your ankle, eating lunch in isolation in your dressing room as a rookie, the tight finger-snap of rejection pooling red-hot embarrassment in your stomach at the hotel, his suave and effortless manuevers and dodging your every feeble attempt at an apology. Weak and shaky, “you’re pathetic.”

A whistling wind rolls a tumbleweed across the sandy soil of a Nevada desert.

Despite his own desire for a dose of your honesty, he’s hypocritically far too dutiful to admit what it is he truly itches for to himself. Too obligated to promises he’s already made to indulge in the forbidden fruit that haunts him in his dreams and stirs him awake in the midst of stormy nights. His conscious torn into two, split evenly in the middle. Snapshots flit through his mind at unruly speeds: his heart nosediving into his stomach at the haunting sound of your scream piercing the air the night of your injury, his conversation with Paul, lingering glances despite your awareness, eyes pinned on you during your first night back at gorilla. But he’s too obligated to promises he’s already made. His jaw wired tightly shut in indignation, he stares at you in silence as tension rolls off the blades of his rigid shoulders.

You’re a hellcat on turbo with a dark tint and severed breaks when you get like this, “look at you. You know it too. You can never confront shit. Ever. All you do is run.” You pause and desperately rummage for something that will elicit a reaction from him even half as equivalent in intensity to the kinds that you’ve been grappling with, “like a bitch.”

And you get it.

His thumb and forefinger press into the plush flesh of your jaw with analytical precision and a tilting force just enough that you’re resorted to eyeing him down the slope of your nose before you even get the chance to blink. Your chest rises and falls in sharp cycles, your stomach tied in a tight knot as he furrows his brows while looking down at you, “oh yea? I’m a bitch?”

“Yeah.”

“And what else? Tell me.”

When it gets too intense, when his gaze starts to feel like he’s talking to you without saying a word, when it feels like you’ve known him forever and just met him all at once, when it feels like he’s a second away from unearthing your most depraved impulses, when you start to feel small at the foot of his scrutiny, you shove his hand off and watch the floor as he emits a low scoff beneath his breath.

His hunky frame inches away from yours, his arms across his chest, “gon ‘head. Tell me about myself since you know every-fucking-thing Isabel.”

In biology, the way in which we ensure immunization from foreign bacterias and virus’ is by taking it upon ourselves to insert those virus-causing organisms within us via vaccination with the intent of familiarizing our body enough to the organism to build the antibody to fight it— that way, the illness doesn't have a profound effect on our immune system should we ever contract the virus again, since we were proactive and already trained our body to combat it. In life, resistance to fear is built the same way. You have to be foreseeing enough to inject yourself with temporary toxins for the greater good despite it feeling like you’re nosediving into deep waters, swimming with blood-thirsty sharks as cinderblocks hang tied to your ankles, “no. I don’t know everything, but I do know one thing.” Your eyes latch with his like a lock and key, your voice small as a mouse, “I know you feel it too.”

All the air in the room has been sucked out.

You’re in the middle of the ocean, one blood-thirsty shark slowly circling you.

“It’s why you ripped me off of you like I was a venereal disease and almost shattered the foot I stand on. It’s why you haven’t been able to look me in the eye for the past six months, right?” You have to know. You have to. Because whether he knows it or not, the career you’ve sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears for hangs on the line tied by a thin thread. And apart from that, you don’t care about what else really hangs in the balance in the moment: not his wife, not his self perception, not even yours. If you know the why, then you’ll know just how to manuever this dillema so your career is in safe hands.

His chest puffs out once, a chuckle barren of humor entirely spills from his nostril— eyes ablaze. Deciding against dignifying you with a response, he turns and walks to the door.

“It’s why you put in a good word for me, isn’t it?”

Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all.

Stillwater.

His back prevents the sight of his eyelids rolling shut as his fingers mold around the door handle.

His unresponsiveness feeds the fire of your spiel, “I’ll violate my contractual obligations. I’ll go elsewhere. Tell me I’m making this all up and it’s a coincidence. Tell me I just keep on stepping on your toes and that’s where it starts and ends. I’ll make all of our lives easier. Because I don’t want this. I don’t want my position in this organization to be dependent on the state of my relationship with you. I deserve better than that, Roman. So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.”

If regret was a color, it would be the film of deep navy blue that envelops the morning just a couple footsteps before dawn. Nostalgic and self-depricating. Something like the faint billow of Bobby Womack’s If You Think You’re Lonely Now wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of funnel cake at an amusement park does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melting on borrowed time.

Perhaps the worst part of regret is the alternative, the masochistic relish in marinating in another universe in which your decision is slightly or entirely different than the one you landed on, resulting in a completely different outcome. Is the grass greener on the other side? Or is it green where you water it? Was the grass doomed from the start, sprouting from contaminated soil with infected toxins?

Perhaps the grass is green under you and there is no contingency.

It’s nomansland. It’s quicksand except every single grain of sand is an alternate outcome, engulfing his lungs as the ground swallows him whole, belching, and spitting out nothing but his bones.

A thin tube of brown velvet lies nestled between your index finger and thumb, tracing the lining of your razor sharp cupid bow with your eyes glues to the compact mini mirror the size of your palm in the back of the black escalade. When the grandeur golden marquee of your hotel approaches into view, you place the liner back into your clutch and exit the vehicle, tossing a curt Thank You to the chauffeur.

Pure kismet, he spots you instantly.

Pure kismet, you spot him instantly.

It isn’t discernible to neither of you when his knee begins to bounce beneathe the guise of the hovering counter as you begin to approach, his head hung low as if there were something suddenly very interesting on the napkin under the foot of his whiskey.

The last conversation you two had two months ago marked the beginning of something else entirely for you. The response you were fishing for that night returned an empty hook, but there was something final in its essence. After all, there’s only so much water you can fit under the bridge before it overflows. As luck would have it, or just the natural cycle of good karma, you were offered a contract at AEW with benefits that chucked your current arrangement with WWE out of the frame, including complete creative control of your character and likeness. An iridescent, silky pearl discovered within the jaws of a grueling tough-as-shit clam, “you didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

His glass meets his lips, his body facing forward entirely, “I did, actually.”

You have a newfound sense of calm within you. The type of peace that only the knowledge of what’s to come can ensure. The type of peace that envelops you when you see the sun yawn over the sky after a very dark night. Trusting what you can’t exactly see. Blind faith, “I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

This draws him to you. He eyes you behind his drink. His hooded eyes take you in before the glass contacts the wooden counter with a clank. He rolls his lips into his mouth and looks away, “that’s not your color.”

“Excuse me?”

Silence.

You raise your hand in the air and point to his drink when the bartender catches your eye, signaling one for yourself, “whatever that means.” You watch him mindlessly roll the band on his finger before peeping out again, “what’s my color then?”

The color you were in the first day he saw you, “cherry red.”

You glance down at the minimalistic black silk clinging onto the skin of your frame, dipping and divoting along with the natural curve and pivot of you. You shrug, thinking nothing of it, “my date liked it.”

How do you mourn the loss of something you never really had? How do you bury something that never even lived? Perhaps the reason why the thought of you out with someone else is lighting his skin on fire is because he’s silently aware of where the fingers of fault should be pointed at and there’s nothing he can do to negate it. But hurt men are impossible men, “well you’re here with me so I take it he was a dud.”

The sound you emit is half a laugh and half a scoff. You thank the bartender with a curt nod and nurse the glass with your palm, “You’re unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?” he mindlessly shrugs, “anyways. i just wanted to stop by and… clear the air before I left. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but last night was my last ni—”

“—I was introduced to wrestling when I was in the Airforce.”

When the inital slight surprise of the unexpected revelation wears off, a phantom thumbnail of a polished silver dogtag swinging on the neck of Roman’s olive green fitted tee— tucked underneath camo cargos comes alive in your minds eye. A location somewhere confidential. Somewhere top secret, but sandy and hot, his skin tanned and freckles indulgent. His hair unkempt and glossy with sweat as his upper body folds in situps when in the privacy of isolation.

He runs his fingers through his rough beard, still faced forward, “whenever any one of us had a bone to pick with one another over there, we’d handle it like men; with our fists. Cut our losses if we were defeated. First blood would end the fight. But it started getting messy. Rules were getting bent. Our men were getting hurt.” He takes a sip, “one time one of the boys stole one of the airmen’s breadrolls at lunch. The concussion put him on his back for a month. Our sergeant held our feet to the fire.”

You fill in the blank, “so they started wrestling instead.”

He lips purse in acknowledgement once.

The Airforce was the perfect solution to the troubled adolescent. There tends to be a haunting trail of overcompensation that’s left in the aftermath of trauma. Ghosts that whisper indistinctly in your ear, of which only your insecurities and weaknesses and fears are audible— telling you that you’re weak and that you won’t ever amount to shit and that you should just quit while you’re ahead. Or maybe not. Maybe that just applies to him, “there was something about the opportunity to discipline myself that drew me to enlisting. My pops was a piece of shit. No way around it. Used to beat on my mom. Used to belittle me, taunted me when I tried to help her.”

Roman tries to lower and sit on his haunches, looking immensely out of his element as this is the most concerned he’s ever been about you since meeting you, “hold o-,”

Perhaps the fuel to build his body came from the fire of helplessness that afflicted him as a doe-eyed child, hiccuping tears away as his father scoffed and laughed at his feeble attempt at intervention. Perhaps the opportunity to disipline himself was never that simple, but rather a way to become the man he’s always aspired to be; stronger, tougher, resilent. Because our past is never truly in the past.

And if you listen close enough, it sounds like there’s something he’s telling you without telling you.

He chuckles, but it’s absent of any humor, “I’ve spent my entire life wanting to believe I was nothing like him, that I was better than him, but shit, maybe I’m my fathers son after all.”

Half of a man, just like his father. Wandering eyes, just like his father. Except the circumstances are vastly different. Except the context is vastly different. Except he’d never dream of laying a hand on you with the intention of hurting you. Except his father never felt a damn thing for any of those women. Except nothing is the same at all.

“Why are you telling me this, Roman?”

So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.

“I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”

The fact that he’s too little too late isn’t lost on him, the optimistic hurl of a basketball piercing through the air mere seconds after the game-ending buzzer. But the opposing team is already celebrating, bottles of champagne popped and confetti sprinkling from the sky.

“I don’t think that’s true at all. I think you’re the most conflicted man I’ve ever known, but you’ve never wavered. You face adversity in whichever form life decides for it to manifest that day yet you’ve never compromised your values. Your father sounds like a wet sock and I’m sure he’d be devastated to hear that you’re nothing like him despite what your mind tells you, Top Gun.”

A subtle tight-lipped smile sparks to life, warmth radiating in the ribcage of his chest.

And suddenly there is a lightness that settles between the two of you that can only be compared to the calm after the storm. The gradual sway of the trees to a slow halt after a particularly devastating hurricane, when the winds slack and the dark clouds part to make room for the sun. Because there are no more questions to ask, and you aren’t in the dark anymore.

The two of you spend the night immersed in the longest conversation you’ve ever shared under the soft lighting of The Belliago’s bar in the name of a bid farewell. He tells you tales about his time in the force that make you laugh and you fill him in on things he missed in the six month time span during the fallout. The bartender brings you two a bowl of macadamia nuts that he mindlessly shoves to the side because you’re allergic. He slyly mentions your dress again with the intent of you elaborating more on the man you just returned from a date with so he can dissect him and make him lesser of a man for his own pride but you don’t take the bait. You tell him how happy you are about the height this new endeavor is going to take your career. He can see the light in your eyes again.

When you excuse yourself and wander off to the ladies room, he blows a gust of air that’s been repressed in the deepest pit of his lungs all night and rubs his hand down his face. If regret was a color, it would be the forlorn warm lighting of a hotel bar somewhere in Nevada. Melancholic and self-loathing. Something like the faint billow of The Temptation’s My Girl wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of chlorine at a pool on a summer day does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melted.

And it dawns on him that you don’t plan on returning when he finally notices you took your clutch to the ladies room with you.

He watches in slow motion with baited breath as you exit the bathroom, toss him one last glance over your shoulder, and leave the bar for the lobby. Quicksand. The empty archway carved into the bar’s wall instead of doors facilitate the view of you entering the elavators when the stainless steel doors slide open. Quicksand. His eyes glued on you, he tosses a wad of cash onto the counter as his feet move on their own accord. Quicksand. All the air is sucked out of your lungs when you see him approaching with the prowess of a black panther with every intention of pouncing. Quicksand. His body barely slides inbetween the constricting steel plates before his mouth is latching onto yours so intensly that even a pack of hungry wolves couldn't rip him off. His palm wrapped around your throat, your back collides into the corner of the elevator as your fingers grasp onto his tee for dear life. A deep rumbling of I fucked up I fucked up tumbling past teeth, moaning lips, and writhing bodies.

sorry for the wait. school been turning me every way but loose i fear. but cimtfyk is back andddd it’s about to get uglier than vince mcmahon. thank u for reading <3

tags : @cyberdejos2 @annfg8 @looneyloser0 @joannasteez

#roman reigns #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns x reader #wwe #roman reigns one shot #wwe one shot #roman reigns x black reader #CIMTFYK 🧋

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