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Jon couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
It had to have a massive oversight, right? No way the higher ups did it on purpose, or agreed to let it happen. It couldn’t have been some weird marketing ploy. No way they scheduled Rampage and Smackdown for the same city, the same night. Yet here he was, in fucking Colorado at the same time as—
Jon flipped his phone across the cool hotel sheets and pressed his palms into his eyes. No, no, no . He pressed harder, enough to start seeing brown static. None of that .
He shook himself out of the sheets and into the shower, letting the water run just a bit too hot until his skin was raw and his healing wounds stung. He probably wasn’t even here, he hadn’t made a live appearance in a couple weeks. But Jon had seen some stuff on social media, and maybe—
Jon knocked his head into the damp shower tile. What the fuck are you even talking about . An image flashed across his brain, a glimpse of tanned skin in city lights that streamed through closed blinds. He slammed his head into the wall hard enough to chip a tiny corner off one of the tiles. Someone in the room next to his slammed back. He turned off the shower. Like he’d even want to see you .
He felt himself dressing in a sweatshirt and jeans, slipping on some comfortable sneakers before he even realized what he was doing. The cold snap of spring mountain air almost pulled him from his daze. But he simply pulled his hood tight over his bare head and continued on the quick half mile walk to the nearest brewery.
It wasn’t until he was at the bar, stout glass in hand, that he realized what he was doing. So this is the plan, huh? Jon scratched at the back of his head, wishing he could scratch hard enough to rip the voices out from his skull like old scabs. Wait at some random bar out of all the countless bars in this city, pretending like fate will intervene? Jon took a long swig, signalling for the bartender to bring him round two. So if it’s really meant to be, he’ll just fall into your lap? Just like that? Stupid. Idiot. Coward.
“Moxley!”
Jon flinched as a hand clapped down on his shoulder, a thumb rubbing gently into his back before sliding off. Jon felt every hair on his neck stand up, his hackles rising like an alley cat.
“Seth fucking Rollins,” he grumbled into his glass.
“Down boy,” Seth chuckled, sliding onto the stool next to him. “I’m not gonna hurt ya. What would be the point, after all these years.”
Jon glanced up to see Seth’s smirk slip into something like hurt before he waved the bartender over with wiggly fingers. He ordered a cucumber sour while Jon gulped down half of his second beer.
“What do you want,” Jon sighed.
“A whole case of this beer, have you tried this shit?” Jon returned Seth’s wild eyes with a withering glare. “Still grumpy, huh? All I did was recognize a big bald head and some slumpy old man shoulders from across the room. And for your information, I was here first.” He cocked his head towards a back table, where Jon recognized a few faces laughing together. Kevin, Becky, that redhead that had been hanging around—
Jon turned, looking back into the bottom of his empty glass. Seth snapped at the bartender again, and his glass was switched out for a full one. “So really, I should be asking what you’re doing here,” Seth continued. “Although I’ve got somewhat of an idea. I know you.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Seth,” Jon growled. Seth sighed. That weird look passed over his face again, and Jon didn’t like looking at it. It was like someone suddenly turning a lamp on and off in a dark corner of his brain. It burned for just a second, before everything seemed even darker than before.
Seth sipped at his sour a few times, letting the echoey din of the brewery settle over them. Jon almost didn’t hear him when he spoke up again.
“He misses you, too.”
Jon pushed out of his seat, but Seth pulled him back down with a strong grip ripping at one of his belt loops. “You’re fucking sick, you know that?” Jon seethed. “Everyone always thought I was the crazy one, but you are really something else.”
“Stop playing martyr like this, Jon.”
“ Playing?! Me? That is fucking rich!” The bartender glanced over as he dried a pint glass, a warning. Jon showed him his teeth, not really a smile and not quite a threat, before turning back to Seth. “You’re a monster and a coward,” he harshly whispered.
Seth pulled back, an eyebrow raised. “Coward, huh? I guess I deserve that.”
That wasn’t the response Jon was expecting. He stared as Seth took another swig of his drink, cringing at the sour bite before smiling. He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card. He reached across the bar and the bartender started towards them, relaxing only slightly as Seth retrieved a pen.
“I think you should talk to him,” he said finally. Jon glanced down to see Seth scribbling a set of numbers on the back of the card.
“I already have his phone number,” Jon said before he could stop himself. Seth’s pen paused for a moment over the card as he processed Jon’s words. Suddenly he threw his head back in a cackle. Jon felt a bit naked.
“I know you do. I catch him staring at your contact card all the time,” Seth chuckled. All the time, all the time, all the time, echoed in Jon’s brain. “I think you should talk to him.”
Seth flipped the card over and slid it over to Jon. It was simple, professional. Too demure for Seth, probably his manager’s card or something. He picked it up like a razor blade, gingerly turning it over.
Suite 1089
The Hyatt on Pearl Street
Jon’s mouth went dry, and he heard the click of his own teeth as his jaw snapped shut. He looked back up at Seth, but his face was trained into a blank stare. His brown eyes bore into Jon with a deep knowing that Jon squirmed under.
“He doesn’t know how to love anymore. Not since… And not since you left. The way he treats his cousins, it’s gotta stop. I know that’s not him. You know.”
Jon felt bile rise in his throat. “Why are you doing this? How do I know this isn’t just another one of your fucking tricks?”
Seth gulped down the rest of his beer. A rivlet of it escaped out the corner of his mouth and he rubbed at it harshly as he grimaced. “It’s too late for me to fix anything,” he murmured. “But maybe you can.”
With that, Seth was gone. He slipped off the stool silent and fast, like a large cat as he made his way back to his table. The only indicator that the conversation ever happened were his loud cackles, carrying over the brewery buzz.
The bartender shooed Jon away after five beers. He wasn’t drunk, it would take liquor to get his big body there. But he was pleasantly full and warm and he could blame the high altitude and strong Colorado brewing for what he did next.
His strides were oddly confident as he walked in the opposite direction of his hotel. He kept his nose up, taking in the artsy porch lights around outdoor eateries, desert-chic landscaping, and swaths of street art. It was a gorgeous night, despite the biting cold breeze that alcohol couldn’t dull. He only slowed as he stepped over a threshold, a blast of warm lobby air hitting him square in the face. He flinched, like he’d burst into flames at any moment for entering uninvited. It shouldn’t be this easy. He gave the receptionist a quick smile, but he didn’t stop walking. It shouldn’t be this fucking easy, this is crazy. I’m crazy. He stepped into the elevator hallway, abandoned this late at night. A hotel full of WWE staff and talent, and he was just going to walk in? He thought about CM Punk getting thrown out of the locker rooms in Chicago. But this was just some hotel. Neutral ground, probably. Crazy. Idiot. Stupid.
An elevator arrived at the lobby floor with a pleasant ding, yawning open without a care in the world. Jon stepped into it, felt his stomach flip as the car swayed under his weight, and slammed the tenth floor button with his knuckle. His knees buckled as the car came to a stop. He pushed himself off the wall and onto the plush hallway carpet. The elevator doors closed behind him, and he was alone.
It was too loud and too quiet all at once. Somewhere down the hall, someone dug a metal scoop into their ice bucket. An AC unit turned on, a man laughed, a TV explosion went off in muffled bass tones. But still the silence suffocated Jon, pressing in on him as he felt sweat start to bead at the base of his neck. He knocked a fist against his thigh a few times before stepping forward. Too late now, idiot. What are you going to do, get all the way here and just turn around? A thousand scenarios raced through Jon’s mind as he walked. He knocked on the door, and someone else answered it. Roman wasn’t even in that hotel. He knocked on the door, and someone else answered it. Roman was in the room behind them. He knocked on the door, and Roman answered it. He punched Jon in the jaw, laying him out instantly.
He knocked on the door.
Jon gasped, his fist still raised. Too. Late. Now. Idiot. How many times had he knocked? Was it a nice quick three? Did he do shave-and-a-haircut? Had he been knocking this whole time?
“Just a second!”
Jon’s eyes rolled back into his skull. First scenario out of the question. He would recognize that voice in a whisper across a crowded room. The door opened, and the second scenario went out the window.
It was a bit odd, looking up at Roman Reigns in front of him in three dimensions. Not down at his laptop screen, not a sideways glance at someone else’s phone, not down at his own phone half-hidden in the pocket of his hoodie backstage at a show. He moved without the imperceptible clip of frame rate, without the glare of television lights. He was in a pair of nondescript basketball shorts, shirtless. Jon could see his freckles.
“D— Jon,” Roman gasped. Jon felt the warmth of his breath, smelled expensive whiskey on the end of it.
“Ro? Is it room service?”
Jon felt the world shatter around him. It wasn’t falling apart, not yet, but the spiderweb cracks slowly spread into his vision as he took in a shaky breath. “This was a mistake,” he rasped, and turned as fast as his swimming brain could let him. Roman caught him by the arm, and it took a moment for Jon to register the painful vice grip around his bicep. Roman seemed to realize it at the same time, pulling his hand back with a start. There was the sound of movement from the room and Roman pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Jon and Roman in the hallway alone.
Jon stepped back, out of Roman’s personal space. The stale, artificial heat of the building was burning his eyes. Roman took a step forward. His face was too open, too relaxed. Jon wanted to take the edges of his eyebrows and smoosh them together. He didn’t look like this in videos and pictures. Not anymore.
“Why are you here?” Roman murmured, his voice strained and unkind. Jon tried not to read too far into it, not like he used to. Tried not to remember that Roman got angry when he was scared.
“I’ll come back some other time,” Jon shrugged. It was a ridiculous lie. They wouldn’t even be in this city tomorrow. “You’re obviously busy.” Roman’s stare kept him frozen in place. If he tried to run again, would Roman grab him again? Tackle him down? Roman reached into the pocket of his shorts, and Jon’s eye twitched. Knife?
Roman pressed a keycard into his hand, the warmth of his fingers tingling against Jon’s cold palm. “Wait for me at the pool,” he said. “This won’t take long. I’ll find you.” The last sentence sounded enough like a threat, so Jon just nodded. He turned and walked back towards the elevator. He could feel Roman’s eyes on him the entire time, two holes boring into his shoulders. It wasn’t until he turned the corner that he heard the room door open and close.
He could just leave. You should just leave. The pool door beeped a little song as it unlocked. You’re going to get kicked out. He grimaced at the overwhelming smell of chlorine. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. Leave, leave, leave. He rolled his pants up to his knees and lowered himself to the ground, slipping his feet into the lukewarm water. Jump in. Sink to the bottom. Drown. Jon chuckled. “Which one is it, leave or drown?” he wondered aloud. Freak. Jon sighed. “Yeah, sure.”
“Sure what?”
Jon looked up, but didn’t turn. He heard the glass door close. As his feet swirled under him, he felt oddly calm. Like it was right before a match. He could almost taste the metal of a blade between his teeth.
“Just debating whether or not to throw myself into the water and never surface again.”
Roman sighed. Two designer slides clattered against the concrete before Roman sat down, a body of distance between them. The room was quiet save for the sound of water lapping against their legs.
Jon wished more than anything that he could be normal about this. That they could laugh and shove each other around. That would be so much easier than this overwhelming silence that was swallowing Jon whole.
“That was Jimmy’s wife.” Jon’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Jimmy was there,” Roman continued quickly. “We were just discussing some things. As a family.”
Jon’s eyebrows dropped back down and pressed together. Family. That was the whole reason he was here, wasn’t it? On assignment from the man who had betrayed them in the first place to fix Roman’s family. Because it was too late for theirs.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Jon grunted. His toes were starting to get pruny and the chlorine was stinging his legs. He pulled his legs from the water, the splash like a gunshot to his ears.
“You’re bald,” Roman said suddenly, his body leaned in towards Jon like he was reaching out without his hands. Jon used to kiss him on the top of his head when he made that look. Jon blinked hard, horrified at how easy his old habits returned to him.
“I’m bald,” he nodded.
“And bigger.”
Jon almost smiled. His face twitched involuntarily, and he clenched his teeth together to force it still. Roman still had that open look on his face, the pool reflecting ethereal flashes of color across it. He felt a drop of pool water run down the back of his calf and he shuddered.
“And bigger. I got bald and fat and old,” Jon shrugged.
Roman frowned, and Jon relaxed. There he is. That’s what the head of the table looks like. “I didn’t say that.” Roman stood and immediately shoved his feet back into his sandals. Jon cringed at the thought of wet rubber. “Come on, let’s talk back in my room.”
Jon put his socks and shoes back on as quickly as possible, feeling every bit like a child under the gaze of his impatient father. Roman kept his hands on his hips, that overwhelming calm ever present in the weight of his limbs. They took the elevator in silence, and Jon felt about ready to explode by the time the hotel room door shut behind him.
“Okay I can’t do this,” he spurted, pressing the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. He took in a deep, shaky breath. The smell of Roman’s cologne was everywhere, the lights were low, and there was R&B playing from some unseen speaker. Roman’s steely expression cracked, sputtered, and finally fell into something close to despair.
“Oh. Okay, um—”
“I miss you,” Jon gasped. “I miss you, but I don’t miss you.”
“What— what does that even mean.”
“I don’t miss you now, the you you are now. I miss who you were, but I don’t miss who you’ve become. What the fuck is going on, Roman? Who is this? Who are you anymore?”
Roman’s jaw clenched so hard, Jon could hear the hinge pop. “Who am I? Who are you? Who the fuck is this? You’re running around with Daniel Bryan of all fucking people, and you have the nerve to ask me who I am?” Roman’s voice was approaching a roar.
“You don’t have to be like this to be on top, Roman. You don’t have to do all that stupid shit with Paul,” Jon felt himself whispering, as if he could somehow even out Roman’s volume. “You don’t have to talk to your family like that, Big Dog.”
“
Don’t
call me that!” Roman shouted. His voice cracked on a few vowels, his next inhale shaking and ragged. He blinked, and Jon couldn’t believe his eyes. “I did what I had to do! I said what I had to say! Those fucking people out there, they didn’t respect me! They didn’t acknowledge me!”
“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Jon scoffed.
“ You weren’t there!” Roman screamed. The sound of his voice echoed off the thin hotel walls. No one screamed back. Jon wasn’t hallucinating— Roman’s eyes were starting to turn glassy. “You weren’t there, Seth wasn’t there, and I did what I had to do to keep my fucking hold on it all. I kept it together. I provided for my family. You ran away!”
A sick part of Jon wanted to keep arguing. Wanted to see if he could force those tears out of Roman’s eyes, see him finally break under the pressure of it all. What an honor. I am the man who made the tribal chief cry.
“You’re right. I left. I ran away. What do you want, an apology? You want me to grovel and throw myself at your feet? You want me to do anything you say, no questions, like Solo? You want me to put my hands together and bow to you like Paul does?”
Jon heard the slap before he felt it. He pulled his right arm back and shot a devastating punch across Roman’s nose, sending him into the kitchenette counter with a crash. He looked down at his hand. He was shaking.
“Shit, Roman.” Roman’s shoulders were trembling. Jon sucked in a breath. “Shit, I’m sorry. It was instinct, I didn’t mean—”
Roman flipped his hair back, loose and damp around his shoulders. He laughed. Blood started to run down from one of his nostrils, and it pooled around the corner of his mouth as he laughed and laughed and laughed. He was crying too, but Jon could blame that on the ugly bruise starting to bloom around the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes and Jon stopped breathing. He’s beautiful.
“Fuck, I haven’t taken a hit like that in years, “ Roman sighed. He sniffed wetly, pressing the back of his hand into the stream of blood. Jon tore off his hoodie, balling it up under Roman’s nose.
“Pinch it, but don’t hold your head back. Does it feel broken?”
Roman shook his head. He glanced down at the grey sweatshirt slowly turning burgundy.
“Hey, Jon?”
Jon gulped. He couldn’t look Roman in the eye. “Yeah?”
“There’s a washcloth right there.”
Jon looked down at the counter, spotting not only a washcloth but three towels of various sizes, all fresh and white and untouched. “Fuck. I’ll be damned. That there is.”
Roman laughed again and Jon finally joined him, the nerves rattling out of him with every sound. The quiet they settled into was different. Charged, but with a different frequency. The blood finally slowed to a stop, and Roman pulled the sweatshirt gingerly away from his nose. He pushed it gently into Jon’s chest before grabbing the washcloth to wash the dried blood from his face. Jon stared down at his sweatshirt. The stain was bloomed across the chest like a bullet wound. Like a badge.
“You really have gotten bigger,” Roman murmured, following Jon’s eyes down. He hadn’t bothered putting a shirt on underneath when he left his own hotel. He started to squirm under Roman’s steady stare. He had always liked Roman’s natural eye color better than those stupid contacts, because it made his eyes warmer, deeper, more intense. It still made his mouth go dry to have that gaze turned to him.
“You just gonna look at me like that all night, or what?” Jon joked. He didn’t really mean much by it. But as Roman’s brow raised for a moment before his eyelids dipped, Jon realized with horror what he had implied. He coughed, turning to toss the soiled sweatshirt into the sink. He had a vague intention to rinse it off, but maybe if he let the stain set a little longer—
“Jon.” It was weird, too weird to hear that name in Roman’s voice.
“Yeah?”
Roman took in a deep breath. “I missed you, too. Both of you.” Jon felt his gut sink. Both of us. Me and Seth. Obviously. Like a unit. Like brothers. “I miss Dean,” Roman continued. “And I miss you, Jon Moxley. The weird old man you’ve become.”
Jon’s eyes went wide as he spun around, realizing very suddenly how tight the little kitchenette was. The edge of the counter dug into the back of his thighs as Roman loomed over him. Once a loomer, always a loomer. Even when Roman wasn’t looming, he loomed. Too close, too close, too close—
Roman pulled away, and Jon instantly shivered at the loss of Roman’s overwhelming body heat. Sleeping in the same bed as him had always been a fireside burn in the winter, a test of strength in the summer. Jon ripped the sink on, fixating on the sound of water. Streams of pink flowed down the drain.
“Leave it.” A large hand reached around his elbow and turned the sink off, resting back on the counter beside his. Roman’s hands were so elegant, tanned and moisturized and well kept. Jon’s hands really did look like a weird old man’s beside him. Scarred, cracked, a smear of blood in the crook of his thumb. Roman put his other hand on the counter, caging Jon into it. Jon’s eyes travelled up his arm in the mirror, and he watched Roman’s tattoo ripple as the muscles underneath it flexed. “I missed you,” Roman murmured. Jon closed his eyes. He felt searing heat envelope him as Roman slowly draped himself over his back. It was like muscle memory, a dance he’d learned once and never forgotten. Beat one, Roman’s chest against his back. Beat two, Roman’s chin digging into his shoulder. It always hurt, but he never said anything. Beat three, Roman’s hands—
“I didn’t come here for this.” Roman’s hands hovered for a moment, before dropping back to the counter. Jon wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Put your head under the sink. Drown. Jon shook his head and shakily placed his hand over Roman’s on the counter. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I didn’t come here just to— I just wanted to talk to you. To see you. Seth gave me your room number, and I—”
“Seth?” Roman hissed. He pulled his hands off of the counter. Jon’s eyes stung. Slam your skull into the faucet. That will be faster.
“I just ran into him at the bar, I swear. I didn’t even know—”
“Seth sent you here?” He was slipping, Jon could tell. He was slipping away, and soon he’d be head of the table again and his Roman would be gone forever.
“Yes, he did.” Confessions on your deathbed? Might as well. “But only because he knew I was looking for you. I didn’t even know if you would be here, but I had to try, and— I know it doesn’t help, but he’s hurting, too.”
Roman barked out a cruel laugh, rolling his eyes. How did that song go? Slipping through my fingers…
“We’re all hurting, Roman. We’re all fucked up. You can blame Seth or you can blame me, but you can’t blame us for what you did after. For how you acted. We’re all fucked up weird old men with a chip on our shoulders, aren’t we?” Jon sniffed, staring up into the ugly florescent hotel light. “So can’t we just be fucked up old men together?” He glanced back down, relieved to see Roman’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. “I missed you. And I missed Seth, too. In a weird way. But I missed you more. I’m always missing you. It’s just… Part of my personality, at this point. The blood guy. The kiss guy. The guy who’s missing Roman Reigns like he’s missing a limb.”
Roman was quiet for a moment. His eyebrows turned upwards, screwing up his face into an awkward twist. Like he didn’t feel that emotion often enough to have a practiced face for it. Like he hadn’t let himself feel it at all for a long, long time. And just like that it was gone, a shaky breath smoothing out the chiselled planes of his face.
“The kiss guy? Just how many bastards have you kissed in the ring?” Roman growled.
Jon tried to remember that Roman got angry when he got scared.
“Just a few,” he smiled. “Are ya jealous?”
Roman held his glare for a few more seconds before breaking into a smile, the blinding prince charming grin that made Jon fall like a brick in the ocean in the first place. “You’re still such a bastard.”
“You’re still an arrogant ass.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Roman surged into him, all lips and tongue and teeth and Jon took it all with a starving man’s hunger. He licked at the back of Roman’s teeth, that expensive whiskey still lingering in his mouth. Now it was almost overpowered by the taste of copper, and Jon felt his brain start to melt. He reeled back as pain shot through his bottom lip, and the finger he pressed to it came away slick and red.
“It’s not fair if I’m the only one bleeding,” Roman chuckled. His nose had started up again, just barely, and his teeth were pink. So fucking beautiful.
“You’ve really done it now,” Jon growled. He flipped them in an instant, slamming Roman into the counter hard enough to rattle the mirror. He ran his hands over every inch of smooth skin he could find, groaning as Roman scratched his fingernails over his scalp. His hands ran down Jon’s shoulders and onto his chest, pulling slightly at the curls there.
“This all the hair you’ve got now?” Roman teased.
“Got a bit more down lower, if you wanna see,” Jon replied without skipped a bit. Roman gasped as Jon bit down at the junction of his throat, throwing his head back and knocking it against the mirror. He grabbed a handful of Roman’s hair and pulled, keeping him arched in place as he trailed bites and kisses down to his chest.
“Fuck, missed this, missed you,” Roman rambled, his body going limper and limper as Jon manhandled him onto the counter. He bit down on a nipple and Roman hissed, a warning hand coming to rest on the back of Jon’s neck. He finally let go of Roman’s hair and Roman slumped forward, knocking his forehead against Jon’s skull. “Fuck, fuck me, Dean—” Jon looked up, nudging Roman with his nose until they were face to face. Roman was starting to turn red around the edges, something that turned Jon on incessantly whenever they went to bed together.
“Fuck me, Jon Moxley.”
Jon scooped his arms under Roman’s thighs and lifted him off the counter. Roman wrapped himself around Jon, skin burning with heat and want. He sucked bruising kisses into Jon’s neck as he walked them to the king-sized bed, nearly taking an earlobe with him as Jon tossed him onto it.
“Com’ere, bastard,” Roman slurred. Jon was always amazed at how quickly Roman could keen under the touch of his hands. He was even more surprised to see it after all this time, after what Roman had become, had been through. But maybe he needed it; needed someone else to be in charge for once the same way Jon needed to feel like maybe, just maybe he could be in control of something. Someone.
Jon knocked Roman’s thighs apart with his knees, nestling himself into the neat space left behind. They fitted together like puzzle pieces, a few of the edges worn away by time but the joints still locking together all the same. Roman reached up for him, scratching his nails against his scalp again like he was trying to find something to bury them in. He settled on a vice grip around the back of Jon’s neck. Jon gasped as Roman bucked up into him, using his hold to lift his ass against Jon’s cock.
“Fucking hell Ro,” Jon whispered, grinding down to meet him. They found a steady rhythm, already one brain again as they melted into each other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Roman chuckled. “Don’t die until I get that dick in me, or else—fuck!” he arched as Jon wrapped his mouth around a nipple again, “Or else I’ll be so fucking mad.”
Jon bit down one more time before letting go. “Deal.” He grabbed Roman by the ankles, pressing his knees towards his chest in a swift pull. Roman resisted him for a moment, his eyes wide, before he seemed to remember himself. He relaxed in Jon’s hold, and Jon rewarded him with a sloppy kiss. “There you go, big dog.”
“Shit.” Roman ran his hands over his face. His ears were beet red. “I don’t know if I can do that anymore.”
“What, me calling you big dog?” Jon pouted. Roman swallowed, and Jon leaned down to lick at his adam’s apple as it moved. “But how are you gonna be my good boy, if you aren’t my big dog?” Roman’s whole body clenched, but Jon also felt his dick twitch against him in his thin shorts.
“I’m not yours anymore,” Roman frowned. It was laced with something too lonely and sad for how they were positioned. Roman seemed to realize it too, about to backtrack before Jon reached down to wrap a hand around Roman’s throat.
“Oh really?” Jon hummed, dipping his voice into his chest. “Then maybe I should jog your memory. Maybe you need a refresher lesson in who you fucking belong to.” Roman’s hips stuttered upwards and his eyes fluttered shut as Jon closed his thumb against Roman’s artery. Jon hoped he wouldn’t feel how his hand was shaking.
“Yes,” Roman nodded, keening. “Fuck yes.”
Jon smiled as Roman’s knees folded a little deeper into his chest, pressing into him for a moment before pulling off. He ripped at the waistband of his shorts, pleased to see nothing underneath. “Looks like you were waiting for it. You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you this whole time.”
Roman’s eyes flew open for a moment, still fighting himself to give in, give up,
submit. He
scrunched them closed again and just nodded.
“Hey.”
“Jon don’t stop, please—”
“ Hey.”
“Come on, don’t do this to me.”
“I’m scared, too.” Roman could barely open his eyes as tears started to gather at the corner of them. Jon was a watery blur above him, wiping gently at his cheekbones. He stared down at him, expression blank but gentle, until Roman’s breath came back to a steady rhythm.
“This is fucking stupid. I’m not crying while we fuck.”
“I don’t mind it,” Jon murmured. “It’s kinda hot.”
Roman smacked him upside the back of the head. “You fucking lunatic.”
Jon bit his tongue against you love it and gave him a cheeky grin instead. Too early. Too much. Don’t ruin it. He was keenly aware of Roman’s now naked cock still hard and wet and brushing against the coarse hair of Jon’s stomach.
“Let’s do something else then,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to Roman’s lips. Roman moved to protest before it was caught in a long, drawn out moan as Jon wrapped his lips around the head of his cock. He guided Roman’s hands to the back of his head, and pulled his knees closer around his neck. “Take control,” he murmured against the inside of a full thigh before biting down. Roman’s legs flinched closed for a second before he stacked his knees on Jon’s shoulders and guided Jon back to his dick.
“Good, fucking good,” Roman said as he guided Jon back down, starting a steady rhythm on himself. He started to shudder and twitch under Jon’s careful work, the last vestiges of his embarrassment falling away as he rambled on. “Fuck baby, that’s good, I— Fuck me, just like that. You like that? You like my cock, I know you do— shit, fuck me, I can’t—!” He whined, and it was music to Jon’s ears. He was transfixed, watching Roman swing between this cocky persona and something more desperate, his Roman, his—
“Good boy,” Roman sighed, his fingers massaging into Jon’s neck. Jon pressed himself into the sheets. Whatever. He could be the good boy, that was fine. Whatever kept Roman making those noises and scratching his nails up his back and choking him a little with his thighs. He could call Jon anything, if it meant he could stay here forever.
“Hey, bastard. Get up here.”
Jon tried not to grumble as Roman pulled him off, and shuffled back up his body. His hips settled back into the plush cradle of Roman’s thighs, and he quietly bemoaned not taking his jeans off earlier. Roman seemed to have the same idea, reaching down between them to work open his button and fly.
“I want you to fuck me,” Roman said simply. “And don’t ask me if I’m sure, I swear to fucking god.”
Jon sucked in a breath as Roman snuck a hand over his boxers. Fuck this, I’m never wearing underwear again. “You don’t have to.”
“What did I say?” Roman demanded, a bit of authority sneaking into his voice over the shaky arousal. Maybe new Roman wasn’t all bad. “I said you don’t get to die until I get that dick in me. Now move. ”
Jon stumbled off the bed to get out of his jeans, pulling everything else off with them. He dove into a bedside drawer for lube and a condom after a lazy point from Roman. He pressed a heated, angry kiss to Roman’s lips to wipe away the far too bemused smirk he had formed while watching Jon scramble.
“Don’t take too long,” Roman gasped as Jon slipped a lubed finger inside him. “You know I—”
“Like when it hurts a little,” Jon finished as he quickly slipped in another finger. “I remember.”
Roman rolled his eyes as he grinned, his eyes closing as Jon worked him open. He rubbed his palm over the back of Jon’s head, slowly relaxing into the mattress.
“I think it’s growing on me,” he murmured, and Jon raised his brow. “Your stupid bald head.”
Jon smiled, wide enough to feel the corners of his mouth strain. How long had it been since he’d smiled like that? “It better be. That hair ain’t coming back.”
Roman chuckled, resting his head back against the pillow. He had started pressing down on Jon’s fingers, pulling them deeper inside him, and his breathless sounds were coming more and more often. “Okay,” he nodded, more to himself than Jon. “I’m ready.”
Jon slipped his hand away gently, using what he had and a little more to slip on the condom and lube himself up. Roman stared at his cock, still a little breathless.
“Ro? You good?”
“Take it off.”
“Take— What?” Jon sputtered.
“Take off the condom. I don’t want it.”
Jon’s hands were starting to shake again. He was sort of hoping the condom would help him not blow his load the second he slid into Roman after all these years. “Are… Are you sure? I mean I’m clean, I test all the time considering the shit we pull in the ring, but like—”
“I’m clean too, whatever.” Roman grabbed at the condom himself, peeling it off and chucking it to the floor as Jon shuddered at the feeling. He pushed Jon back onto the mattress while he was distracted, straddling him and lining himself up in one fluid, dangerous movement. “I wanna feel you.”
Jon gripped Roman’s hips so hard he was sure he broke skin, but Roman just continued to sink down onto Jon’s cock with a contented, confident sigh. “Shit, Ro. I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Roman slumped back on his hands, an obscene arch to his back as he started to fuck himself. “I have waited way too long for this for you to come in two seconds like some horny teenager.”
“So you were waiting for this?” Jon teased, and was rewarded with a long whining groan.
“Yes, fine. You win, Jon. I’ve been thinking about your cock for years, and now you’ve got me where you want me.” He tilted his head to look down at Jon, his hair cascading over his shoulder. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
Jon slammed Roman into the mattress, not waiting for him to catch his breath before pushing back in and fucking into him at a grueling pace. There wasn’t enough lube, there was too much, Jon couldn’t tell. It was all mess and sweat and blood and Roman, Roman, Roman, Roman—
“I’m right here, big guy,” Roman panted, and Jon snapped his jaw shut on his whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.” Roman threw his head back as Jon bit into his neck again, surely breaking skin with the force of it. His nose had started dripping blood again with all the movement, and Jon lapped at it before licking into Roman’s mouth.
“You’re so gross,” Roman groaned. “So gross and weird, and— fuck, fuck me right there, like that!” Jon had pressed Roman’s knees into his chest again, pinning him to the mattress with one hand over his wrists. “Oh fuck, so good, too good, Jon—!”
“So pretty,” Jon murmured. He licked the blood off of his lips and Roman half-laughed, half-whined. “So fucking pretty, Ro. I missed you, I missed your fucking hole.”
“Please,” Roman’s eyes rolled back. “Please, please…”
“Please what? You’ve gotta use your words, baby.” Jon grabbed an ankle and hefted it over his shoulder, slamming into Roman at angle that pitched his voice up an octave. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want— I just want you, I want you back, I want to be— fuck, Jon I’m gonna come— I wanna be…!”
“Do you wanna be a good boy?” A tear escaped Roman’s eye as he shouted, his face a beautiful misery of blood and sweat and open want. He had finally let go, finally surrendered, and Jon’s brain could only echo mine, mine, mine . “Of course baby, look at you. You’re so good for me. So open, so tight. You’re so fucking good, you’re my good boy. ”
Roman came with another shout, the strength of his arms rippling under Jon’s grip as he held Roman open through it. He whined as Jon kept going, slowing his pace but pressing deep and deeper into him, nearly folding him in half, like maybe if he fucked it in deep enough he could keep some of himself inside forever.
Jon came with his teeth around Roman’s shoulder, sunk into the ink and sweat and skin of him. Roman shuddered as he came, feeling the warmth bloom sticky and wet. As Jon panted, Roman gingerly lifted his knee from Jon’s shoulder and locked his ankles around his back. Jon raised an eyebrow in question as he felt himself softening inside him.
“Keep it in,” Roman whispered. “A little longer.”
Jon kissed him, and probably kept kissing him, but he couldn’t remember. Within seconds, he was blissfully asleep.
He woke up still inside Roman, half hard and skin buzzing with the feeling. Roman stirred a bit as he pulled himself out, but let Jon untangle himself from the long, beautiful legs roped around him. The washcloth was still covered in blood, but he could probably just get one of the towels damp. Roman hated feeling sticky, that much couldn’t have changed about him. The man was very serious about his showers.
He got halfway off the bed before a hand shot out and wrapped around his bicep. It didn’t hurt this time, not at his arm. Roman opened his eyes, but said nothing. His chest heaved, like he’d just woken up from a nightmare. He stared at Jon with something so desperate and angry and hurt in his eyes that it made Jon’s throat close up. He put his hand over the one on him, hoping his cold fingers would soothe some of the feverish emotion bubbling just under the surface of Roman’s skin.
“I’m right here, big guy,” he managed to choke out. “I’m not going anywhere.”