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minteagalaxea · 3 months ago

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steep (sand) | r. reigns

roman and quynh . formerly john and quynh

genre: angst . smut (minors do not interact) content warnings: praise kink . sir kink . oral (m. receiving) . light bondage . nb character (afab) . multiple orgasms . squirting . voyeurism . exhibitionism (petty edition) . belly bulge word count: 5.02k inspiration: john cena's heel turn at elimination chamber . roman not showing up to work . roman reigns' several barbs about john and missionary position songs: sand by dove cameron (x) . bambi by baekhyun (slowed and reverb) (x) read also: "steep (xxviii reasons)" (x) . "steep (woo)" (x) note: thank you so so much @spiicii for being a soundboard for this one! i'm lowkey crashing out bc of school, but this one has been motivating me lol! and thank you @lov3rla03 for being lowkey the impetus for this entire trilogy <3

like most actions regarding the company and his career, quynh always played a factor in it.

john thought back to those four years ago, where he caught them with roman in the locker room fucking after roman beat him at summerslam—how he couldn’t ignore the signs anymore there was something dangerously enticing between the two of them. quynh had always gravitated towards ambition. fuck, they had once said it themselves that they appreciated that in a partner.

and well, the rock had given him an offer he couldn’t refuse now that he was going to go up against cody rhodes at his last ever wrestlemania. and that 17th title was too tempting to resist before he could retire. and perhaps it was irrational for him to hope that maybe quynh would see him in some different light. it certainly did with roman.

god, he hated how roman managed to do it so effortlessly with them. even from before, when he was still with quynh, there was a particular ease, a flow in how they interacted on and off the camera. john knew it wasn’t a secret that quynh was one of the few people who was able to ensure roman didn’t get booed by the wwe universe. and that tension seemed to continue and worsen as roman…evolved? maybe devolved was the better word given the carnage he left in his wake, the mythos crafted for the tribal chief.

and yet despite everything, quynh stayed with him, built a life with the tribal chief like nothing mattered. like the amount of people he decimated was irrelevant. it didn’t even matter that roman fucking lost the damn title to cody rhodes, that he caused cody to start losing his relationship with his trusted allies from partnering with roman after he was suddenly a good guy.

no, it didn’t matter to quynh that he had left them behind the way john did. if anything, it only strengthened their resolve with him, to be with him. and it also didn’t matter that roman didn’t fucking show up to work half the damn time, because quynh was so in love with roman fucking reigns. never mind that the two of them were going through the same thing he and quynh went through with the whole long-distance thing.

he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer when he confronted them backstage before smackdown. his feet sought them out, a cadence forged from years of habit, years of refusing to let go, years of trying to nurture rare tea leaves into a precious bloom. yet, when he saw quynh in the dressing room, settling their breath before a long night of commentary with wade barrett and tapping their artificial nails along the table, the sight was anything but precious.

john recalled vividly summerslam almost four years ago, how roman had pointed out that their new back piece was going to look beautiful. roman wasn’t incorrect—in that mesh cropped tank and their slacks highlighted the ink on their back, the delicacy of those weaving around their body like armor. and it only got worse for him when they turned around, their shorter hair exposing their most recent piece, and john’s breath hitched every time he saw it.

their latest piece was built for sin, etched around their throat like the pièce de résistance of the inked armor all along their body. paired with their nails—short almond press-ons that were deceptively innocent with the cat-eye jade with beautiful winter flowers—and their smoky jade eyeshadow with the black and mint eyeliner? it made quynh look like a creature of sin.

and yet, sin was the last thing on quynh’s mind as they asked, “am i supposed to congratulate you for returning to your roots?” their nails tapped against the dressing room table as they presented him with an unreadable stare.

his voice was cool as he answered, “well, i thought you’d appreciate it given that you seem to have a type with bad boys.” it wasn’t a joke that they found funny, and john could see the disdain in their eyes as they shook their head, muttering something in vietnamese that john knew wasn’t anything positive. it wasn’t until they said it again more clearly that it struck him to the core, despite the amount of times he has heard it by now.

sell-out.

and fuck, that pissed him off.

“and roman wasn’t?” john knew his voice carried an edge, a bite that he hadn’t felt before when speaking to quynh. even after their breakup, the two had at least remained on neutral terms. enough for them to be able to do their jobs without letting barbs get in the way of their performance. roman, evidently, never had such scruples. he continued, “don’t tell me you’re carrying a torch for him now that you two are together.”

john forgot what it was like to argue with quynh. how it wasn’t always the best idea because fuck, they were ridiculously at tearing people down with a well-timed question, how they probably knew more about his reactions than he did himself. and despite them no longer being together, quynh’s perceptiveness had never changed as their lips curled into a smile sharper than steel and soft as silk as they crooned, “is that what this is about? because you’re jealous?”

shit. that stung. but…not entirely incorrect, was it? because every time he saw quynh—or really, quynh with roman—it made his blood whistle the way that kettle on his stovetop when the water was way past boiling and definitely too hot for tea. he didn’t bother to deny it anymore. they backed him into a corner so effortlessly that he couldn’t win. yet, was it about winning?

his voice hardened as he dug harder and firmer, “are you serious right now? what he did isn’t the same thing?”

“no, john. at least, i don’t think so.”

“and what makes it different, then?” he asked, taking a step closer, yet stopping as their nails tapped in a cascading rhythm against the table.

the counter came easily, “because your circumstances are selfish.” this time, they took a step closer, long legs flowing as they got closer to him.

“you’re about to retire, and you decide that because you want to win so badly, you’re going to sell out on the principles you’ve extolled for who the fuck knows how long because you’re so sick of how the fans treat you and want the best for you? instead of doing the people who supported you for your entire career justice and making them proud because they wanted that win for you.”

hisis blood boiled at that comment, and he snapped, “they didn’t care about me, quynh. because everything i do isn’t enough for them, and all they’ll do is demand more.”

“that's how fans are. but, the thing is you earned their respect. and now you’re throwing all that away because your ego can’t take it? you think they treated you like shit so instead of just maybe forcing them to respect you, you’re rejecting the people who got you here?”

his feet froze, and he could only gaze into the hard line of their grimace and the foreign steel in their eyes. john wondered if roman rubbed off on them, or if it had been there all along in their time together, and he hadn’t seen it. hadn't gotten to see it given how far away they were, where the title of being their partner was more of a formality than a legitimate description.

his voice steeled as their arms crossed, almost daring him to argue back as he said, “that's what roman did, didn’t he? came back because nobody was acknowledging him? took that title back, made everyone acknowledge him, became a monster, and you were into it?”

their tone carried that bellicose undertone of challenge, of annoyance as they raised an eyebrow, “you think that’s the reason i got with him? because he decided to stop playing…you?”

“i think you wouldn’t be saying what you’re saying if you weren’t in his bed while we were together.”

quynh didn’t say anything, the accusation did what it was meant to. but the look of frozen, icicile-esque vitriol in their eyes felt like he had just poured boiling water onto delicate, floral tea leaves to steep and burn.

at that point, their footsteps resounded less as a soft clack, morphing into the sharpening of a sword as they strode up to him with an elegant fury as their eyes flickered down to him just slightly. damn those heels of theirs, the ones that always put them above him by an inch and a half. the same ones that put them a half-inch shy of roman’s height. and their voice, a velvety dulcet contralto that always reminded john of a sweetened green tea, tasted astringent in the air as they hissed.

“how fucking dare you.”

john knew he erred. monumentally. for a lot of reasons.

the first reason was that quynh wasn’t just an interviewer anymore. they were at the commentary desk full time. and that meant anything and everything that happened in the ring got filtered through them. john forgot about that part, about their words were perhaps one of the greatest weapons that could be wielded. it shaped a lot of public perception. he knew that a fair part of what made the bloodline so successful was quynh’s ability to weave a mythos around them.

and their career, inextricably, would always be tied to roman reigns. before the bloodline, before the tribal chief. all the way back to when roman was supposed to be another him, and yet quynh prodded roman at the seams. their questions and silence made it easy for roman to give in, to show something that wasn’t whatever the company projected. and roman got over because of it, because their disconcerting, calculated silences gave roman that space to basically reveal the true parts of himself. the ambition, the ruthlessness.

john also knew that roman wasn’t entirely subtle with the way he looked at them back then, when they were young yet sharp and intolerant of anyone’s coddling, patronizing, and condescension. while he couldn’t attest to the frequency of it, given that he wasn’t physically there for most of it, he did watch the show, and he had witnessed it once firsthand how the other man admired quynh. respectful, certainly, but when quynh stared back with that same admiration, it made that one theory that spread around a whole lot more probable about how close they really were when john wasn’t there.

quynh wasn’t giving him such a luxury to talk, to bury himself even more, and he could hear it in their voice as they released a maelstrom of bitter words, anguished as if trying to hold back tears, “the fucking audacity to act like i didn’t continue holding that torch for you when you left me and took all the pieces of me that i’ll never get back. but, i had nothing of you because you took all of that with you to hollywood and you sold out there, and you came back to sell out now to the man you used to despise.”

that stung. but, in the recesses of his mind, he considered heavily that perhaps they were right. their long-distance put a major strain on them, given their youth, and perhaps that was the thing they resented him for most. that youth of theirs was something he took, shackling them both in a relationship where they couldn’t grow because who could they grow with? like a plant expected to grow without any sunlight or water to help it thrive, maybe a part of them died because of that distance, the complacency, the pains of him not being there.

feebly, he countered, “roman’s part-time like me, how often is he showing up to these things?”

“he still travels with me. he still makes the point to ask me things instead of blindly accusing me of things that would damage any good standing i have with my colleagues here. he gives as much as he takes from me.” their voice is plaintive, and john found the words dead in his throat as quynh’s eyes flitted towards the clock outside. it was almost showtime, and that meant they had to be out at the commentary desk.

before they left, though, quynh offered him some parting words with those beautiful eyes that glowed under the clinical lighting in that shade of tea brown that john caused a lot from burning and steeping his tea for too long.

“you know, had i actually cheated on you, i wouldn’t have gotten with roman two years after our breakup—i would have gotten with him thirty minutes after it.”

as their heels clacked against the floor, it sounded like the worst echo of his life.

cruelly, or perhaps not, given quynh’s general way with words, those words lingered as he watched on the monitor them running play-by-play with wade barrett, smackdown their entire kingdom as they spun their pen. they gave him, still, a somewhat courteous, snipe about his heel turn, but that was it. and evidently, wade didn’t want to entertain it longer given that was going to influence how quynh dictated commentary for the next few hours.

the worst thing was that they left after, not bothering to stick around after thanking all of the production crew. and if what they said were true, then john was watching them enter their ride back to the hotel with roman driving. those words came back with a vengeance, pounding like a hangover of goliath-like proportions. and that pounding only continued to escalate as he returned to the hotel, with the intention to go back to his room.

until he heard rapid-fire vietnamese mixing with whatever stray bits of english he could catch to piece together stuff. john didn’t need to do that much thinking to figure out it was quynh most likely talking about him. and not in a good way. he kept his footsteps quiet as he made his way to the door, trying to hide better than the last time this happened, pressing himself up against the wall so maybe they wouldn’t catch him this time.

“he just…he questioned my integrity, ro,” they griped, feet bare as they paced on the balls of their feet, ethereal and yet strong. it was the only complete english sentence quynh had said the entire time before they spiralled into another grumble in vietnamese. from what john could also catch, he saw roman’s patient nods and comprehension of whatever else they groused in their other language.

“and he questioned your integrity, too! like you’d go after someone who was in a relationship or fresh out of one.” their voice echoed in john’s head as the other man hummed, most likely agreeing with their sentiment. yet, they weren’t done, spewing out another stream of words in vietnamese until they felt it was enough.

tilting his head inside to peek at the slightly ajar door (why was it even open, john wouldn’t know), saw the other man standing up at a measured pace. he grabbed their wrists, both of them easily fitting in his hands as he stood behind them, pressing up against them in an act of domineering kindness. his eyes could only widen as roman’s hands looped a length of silk ribbon, weaving a delicate pattern around their wrists.

“you’re not scratching yourself anymore tonight, understand?” his voice resonated into the room. yet, the thing was, the more insane and yet hot thing in john’s eyes, was how easily quynh went with it, the tension immediately dissipating with each binding of the ribbon.

roman’s back had obscured quynh’s wrists, but when he moved to face them, john caught it properly. angry little rivulets and marks on their palms, glowing menacingly under the warm hotel light alongside the ink on their back. quynh hadn’t responded, but their voice came out in a breathy assent when roman tilted their chin up with a raised brow, the silent demand for words evident.

“yes, sir.”

john hadn’t gotten hard that fast in a long time.

and perhaps it got worse when john had to press himself up against the wall further, trying to become one with it when he felt the heat of roman’s gaze at the door, as if finally noticing its slightly ajar state.

“leave it open,” quynh murmured, slightly wavering on the balls of their feet in spite of the other man holding them steady.

fuck.

quynh had to have done this on purpose—there was no way neither of them realized john was there, right back where they were just over 3 years ago, where john was watching the two go at it in the locker room after summerslam with the door accidentally ajar. he wasn’t sure if that was always a thing, or if this was just reserved for him as roman tangled them up into a kiss, stabilizing their form to effortlessly lift them into the air and onto the ottoman, jettisoning the fabrics off of their body before he sat on the edge of the bed. john observed the way the tattoos on their waist flexed as roman spread his legs up enough for them to slot effortlessly into, his large hands carding through their shorn hair. mauve now. it suited them as he watched how the other man kissed their forehead first before guiding them to his shaft. as he leaned forward, quynh settled back onto their haunches; john’s eyes couldn’t leave their form, how the artwork on their waist and thigh flexed and rippled as if it wore their body. that same curvature applied to their spine, which arched so beautifully as they leaned down to suckle on the tip.

that particular tableau was hard for john to resist, for him to try and replace the image in his mind with him there instead of roman. yet, that fantasy contained a hindrance—a lack of appreciation of quynh’s sinuous form as they suckled on the tip, dark eyes peering up at their partner as he cupped their face in his hands. he guided their head down, their body blooming under roman’s expert hands the way a flower would.

john definitely felt like he was hallucinating as he stroked himself that those flowers on quynh’s thighs felt as if they were blooming even more as they bobbed their head, taking roman to the hilt with each incremental pass down. “that’s it, baby,” roman’s baritone-bass crooned, a hand carding through their hair as they settled down to the root, resting there and making him groan as they suckled around him. john’s hand worked himself harder as he listened to their muffled moans and gazed upon their inked form.

roman continued his praise, a growling sort of thing when they started to shift their head in an unencumbered, leisurely cadence, “fuck, you’re so good to me, baby. look so pretty with your mouth full of cock.”

and the sound quynh made was crafted of shredded silk and crushed sin as their movements escalated in pace just barely. yet, roman seemed to be able to tell the difference in a way john never quite could. like knowing the subtle difference between a tea leaf being ripe for harvest and one that needed more shade. he wasn’t good at that, with the clumsiness of distance. roman was attentive to them, and his groans and grunts reflected that innate knowledge of them just like he knew everything about quynh’s tattoos.

“shit, just like that, baby, i’m so close.” roman’s voice barely broached the soft environment of the hotel room, one of the few things he had said for the majority of the evening. that wasn’t something he or quynh ever tended to struggle with—the weight of the silence, what was unsaid as much as what was. john felt that ugly pit of jealousy and anger seep through his veins while he escalated the pace of his strokes, the sight of quynh bound and kneeling and that delicate, deliberate pace they had set. they still maintained it despite roman’s words, but john knew that roman could tell the difference as something shifted, his low sounds blending with their muted moans in a mesmerizing melody.

his own hand increased its pace to that, grip firmer as he tried to emulate perhaps what quynh could do, but he knew he was failing—failing to be quiet, failing to slow down. because that was the thing, wasn’t it? how what roman was doing, or rather, what he was instructing quynh to do, wasn’t about the speed or the urgency of the act. it wasn’t about second winds or wrecking them.

john was used to that urgency, to that adrenaline that festered after anything, just like tonight when he went out and got jeered in five billion different iterations because of him spilling out his rage, his torment to the audience. that used to happen a lot with quynh back then when they reunited, the urgency of seeing them before he would have to leave again ending in a lot of quick, borderline marathon sessions because he wanted that sort of moment, or simplistic things because the thing he missed most was them.

maybe, he pondered, that was selfish. that wasn’t something he could shake off as roman tenderly carded through their hair when he spilled into their mouth, their nose pressed up in his abdomen as they bloomed for him, drinking from him akin to a dehydrated plant soaking in the rain. and that had made john spill into his hand with a groan that he knew the two definitely heard given how quiet they were.

when the samoan eventually pried quynh off of his cock, he instantly lifted them onto his lap, their legs straddling his waist. john’s eyes widened as roman asked, “you feeling better now, baby?”

because, of fucking course, the otc had an entire reason for what quynh just did for him. it was about them both, through the care he had been attempting to give them, a respite from the burning fire that john branded into their veins. that sort of twisted care that only the tribal chief seemed to understand in them, john pondered as they nodded in confirmation, kissing him with that shyness that seemed to only show up when they had the understanding that they were being watched. his cock sprung to life and got even harder, if possible, as they whispered just loud enough, “yes, sir.”

john thought that it was peculiar that their shyness still occurred in spite of them evidently leaving the door open with the understanding that he was watching. he had seen their body naked more than enough times to count. but, perhaps this was different, this new self of theirs since roman became the tribal chief, the snapshots of what he saw when he returned every now and then when he saw the way both seemed to sharpen and soften one another. the worst thing was that he couldn’t pull his gaze away as they kissed, the samoan stabilizing them given their bound wrists. he finally noticed that they didn’t develop any more rivulets or scratches on their hands.

“did so good for me, baby,” roman murmured into their lips, and quynh preened as he shifted them, carefully tipping them back to have their upper body dangling off the edge of the bed. those clawed hands gripped the ottoman with a dainty ferocity. from john’s angle peering through the door, he caught the way the tattoo underneath the swell of their chest ripple from the position with how they arched towards the tribal chief with a certain magnetism as they begged for him. that same begging that had john frozen in his self-gratification.

“sir, fuck me, please. please, i’ve been good.”

and, by john’s metrics, they might have been. but, he wasn’t the one calling the shots. he stopped calling the shots a long time ago when it came to quynh. hell, they never entertained this sort of thing despite his knowledge that quynh wanted it, wanted to explore it. that didn’t prevent him from ruminating over the hypothetical if it was him. in that hypothetical, he wouldn’t have. he would probably prolong their begging, make them apologize for the shit they spewed at him earlier.

however, roman wasn’t such a man, spreading their legs enough to tap his tip against their long-neglected entrance, slipping in without resistance, leaning down to press a kiss to their stomach before he sank into them—a slow, careful thing this time around as he grasped their waist. those large hands eclipsed the ink work as he worked up an impactful, yet slow rhythm. and that cadence had everything quynh needed to mewl and cry out in bliss with the force of it, but also the care behind it. the intention there as john could only imagine the blood rushing towards their head compiling to their bliss. and holy fuck, he was hard all over again and the only thing he could consider despite the strain on that one hand was to keep using it.

as far as he knew, this was a warped, skewed form of caretaking, a proper sort of blossoming in hot water at the right temperature, the proper amount of water, every detail precisely accounted for. roman’s hands, large and calloused with enough blood on his hands in the company, handled quynh with precision and a certain level of expertise that was equal parts innate and trained. john forgot that, that innate sense of gentleness that only seemed reserved for quynh. one of roman’s massive hands rested under the curvature of their arched back; the other fell on their abdomen, palm digging into their sensitive, neglected nub, while his fingers tapped against the imprint his cock made against their body. they had flexed and swiveled their hips upward, their inked arms on full display as their grip on the ottoman grew ironclad.

“fuck, you’re so deep,” their voice carried through the rather silent air, wrapping around john’s cock that spurred him on deeper with the intensity of an inferno. working his hand harder wasn’t even a suggestion at this point, that breakneck chase for release in diametric opposition to the crafted experience roman fostered for them.

it wasn’t even a surprise that he was about to burst, but the way that quynh’s strong, lithe frame fucking seized up when roman’s palm didn’t cease their movement, only hastening for them to just…spray a fountain of release, their nectar thin and explosive that made roman growl lowly in approval and awe. john could only concur as he stained his hand again with pearlescent ropes to coalesce with the ones drying on his skin and boxers.

apparently, the other man was similar as he praised them for being so fucking beautiful and perfect as his hips stuttered and stilled, undoubtedly spilling his cream inside of them. john couldn’t catch it past the roar of his head, barely hearing the baritone croons of “that’s it, baby” and “taking it so well, yeah?” over the squelches caused from quynh’s feat as his fingers continued their onslaught on their pearl, his cadence paradoxically unforgiving and doting. their voice came out in wispy staccatos and cries of “sir” for the man that caused them to flower in such a way.

he should have left. he really should have. the show was over, and john tried to catch his breath with heaving pants from the sheer magnitude of his crest. it didn’t go past him that he mirrored the couple in the room. everything roared in his head, and maybe that was why he couldn’t look away from them.

his eyes lingered as roman helped pull quynh back up to properly rest and straddle his lap, tucking their face into the crook of his neck and running his massive hands down the flowers winding down their arms. his lips lingered on their throat, husky declarations of praise and admiration tumbling past his lips in their name while undoing their bindings.

“how are your arms, baby?” quynh’s arms wound around his neck, impaled on his length with soft whimpers as they tried to recollect themselves.

he couldn’t catch what they said, but it was enough for them to share tender kisses with roman fucking reigns in ways john didn’t think he was capable of doing. their foreheads pressed against one another before the sight of them evaporated from view, akin to a mirage or the steam that always wafted from a hot cup of tea.

and as the tea cooled and he remained watching, john couldn’t help but wonder what inspired him to stay there despite his release drying uncomfortably with the two heavy climaxes. perhaps it was because the door hadn’t closed yet, or maybe the wishful thought of seeing quynh in that blooming glow, fully blossomed and beautiful.

john wouldn’t get his wish. the tea cooled too long.

roman’s heavy gaze met his own as he approached the door. there was no point in hiding his presence from the man, given how they all knew the door was open solely for john. however, it was never in invitation, but always in spite.

he said nothing. neither did roman. there was nothing to say. however, when roman offered steely eyes as he shut the door shut, john knew that quynh had slipped through his fingertips like the finest grains of sand, molded into the perfect counterpart for the (original) tribal chief. or, he supposed, they were a beguilingly rare tea that would never have steeped right under his clumsy hands, no matter how much he would attempt to refine it. roman showed them what it was like to steep properly, without astringency and with all those floral complexities that shone with every sip.

it didn’t matter now—he’d never get another chance to try his hand, with how much and how little they lingered on the tongue of his mind.

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