a/n: i was inspired by listening to lana del rey's song "born to die." idek but it reminds me of dean and paige, and i've wanted to write them. hopefully this doesn't suck.

~*~come on take a walk on the wild side, let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain~*~

(you like your girls insane)

not all love is gentle. sometimes it's gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it's not supposed to be careful and soft all. sometimes it feels like teeth.

- azra t, via tumblr -

"You'll basically be giving the title away, if you go out there and do what we both know you're going to do." Seth Rollins' voice floated into the Diva's locker room, but the lone diva inside didn't raise her head, she kept lacing up her boots, as if he hadn't said a word. "We know you don't want to do that, Paige. You want to beat Naomi fair and square. To prove yourself worthy. To prove that you're not just a flash in the pan, a comet shooting across the sky, and beating Naomi in Boston on Sunday is going to do that. She's the best you've faced since you became Diva's Champion. Not Tamina at Extreme Rules and not Alicia Fox at Payback. Especially now that she's all but officially dropped the dead weight in Cameron."

"What do you think's going to happen if I go out there? Stephanie will show up and strip me? I don't think so, and I don't think you do either. Stripping me of the Diva's Championship isn't," The ravenette's lips quirked into a smirk. "What's best for business."

"You have a very promising career ahead of you; why would you throw that away for a lunatic like Dean Ambrose?"

"I don't know, why don't you tell me why you betrayed your brothers – oh, wait I'm sorry – your business partners to become The Authority's new bitch?"

Seth shook his head, clicking his tongue. "You can't fix what's unfixable, Paige. I kept him in check for two years, took him as high as he could go, and it's only going to spiral down from here. You should sleep with one eye open; you never know when he could snap."

Paige knew what the two-toned Superstar was trying to do. He was trying to get under her skin, to provoke a reaction out of her. But she wasn't going to give him what he wanted.

Once upon a time, it felt like decades ago, honestly they had been friends. They purposefully would play their favorite songs at maximum volume in the car just to startle Roman into wakefulness, thinking it was hysterical every single time. They would geek out over new music being released on iTunes every Tuesday. They would train together, sometimes, too. As long as Dean wasn't working out at the same time, because training was forgotten as soon as he'd take off his shirt.

Now, they were enemies. On opposite sides of a war.

It made her sad when she thought about it for too long, not that she'd ever say so out loud.

Coming back to herself, the Diva's Champion, flipped her long raven hair over her shoulder as she confidently strutted toward the door. Patting Rollins' shoulder, her voice was pure saccharine sweetness, as she tugged at his cheek, "I hope Summer Rae or Eva Marie or whoever Triple H sends to your hotel rooms at night keep your bed as warm as Nikki did."

"You shouldn't go out there." Anyone else would have jumped at the sound of Dean Ambrose's gravel tone in their ear. It was like he had materialized out of thin air. One moment she was alone backstage, watching as the other Divas and Superstars moved about, warmed up and prepped for their matches, and suddenly she wasn't.

"I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"Trust me," Paige purred, black lacquered nail trailing along the waistband of his jeans. "I'm aware."

"For once, I ain't talkin' dirty, Bevis." Though he smirked at her innuendo, dimple peeking through, and she mirrored his smirk, her fingernail circling the button of his jeans with obvious intent.

It starts out so innocuous, just two people walking down the hallway of the arena, and no one bats an eye. But once they've reached their destination, whether it is a closet, supply room or one of the bathrooms that the arena staff has sectioned off just for talent, it's all a blur.

Suddenly, it's a flurry of movement; it's hands gripping hair, fingers digging into whatever they can latch onto, lips smashing against each other, teeth gnashing.

It's anything but pretty and nothing like what little girls are always told they should want.

Paige breaks away first and as if he knows why she did, he growls, "Fuck your damn boots; keep 'em on. Hell, keep your shirt/bra thing with all its damn straps and whatever on. Just take off your fucking shorts and your panties."

Her lips bloom, slowly, into a smile that's far too innocent. Only adding to the effect is how she bats her lashes coquettishly as she murmurs, "Who says I'm wearing panties?"

She isn't surprised when he doesn't say anything. She knows he won't call her perceived bluff with words. No, he'll do it with his hands. He'll grip her hips tightly, slamming them into his own and hike her leg around his waist, knowing he'll be able to feel if she's wearing panties just by having her that close to him.

Instead, he just cups her, and fuck, she can feel her body's temperature rise at least ten degrees. She grows hotter [wetter] as his [surprisingly] nimble fingers slide under the waistband of her shorts and drift slowly to her most intimate place, finding her bare.

"Fuck." He groans. "You're seriously going out there with no fucking panties? How the hell am I supposed to remember to bash that weasel Rollins' face in knowing there's nothing between your bare ass and these damn little shorts? You tryin' to kill me?"

"Why would I be trying to kill you? Don't you know? You've fucking ruined me for anyone else." She's being surprisingly candid in this moment. "No one can do what you do to me."

It's not waxing lyrical and poetic. It isn't prose worthy of Shakespeare, but the truth in the words is there. He has ruined her for anyone else. There isn't anyone who can manipulate her body as well as he can, who can send her heart racing with just a smirk and a peek at the deep dimple that rarely shows itself. He can reduce her to a quivering mess with just a well-timed lick of her lips, a pinch of her clit and somehow it's even better when he's twisting her nipple at the same time.

He plunges two fingers inside of her without a second thought. The sound of her scream echoes in the confined space, and it's as beautiful as one of Jimmy Paige's legendary riffs to him.

As amazing as feeling her walls spasm and clench around his fingers are, he wants [needs] more. He needs to feel all of her, all that perfectly smooth porcelain skin that's in perfect contrast to the raven of her hair and the almost pitch black of her eyes. He'd undress her himself, but as easy as her little shorts are to take off, her bra contraption thing with all of its straps is just as hard.

He doesn't have time for that shit. And it's not like he's got anything with him to cut off the straps.

Though, if he cut them off, she'd probably [definitely] beat the shit out of him.

"Strip."

And that's what she does. It's not some show, like she's Summer Rae dancing down the ramp, she just slips the straps from her shoulders and tosses the fabric behind her, baring her perfectly pert breasts. Her shorts go next, the length of her nicely toned legs revealed and he can see her wetness glistening along her thighs, fucking hell, at this rate he might just stick his hand down his pants because he's never been patient.

He, somehow, manages to exercise restraint and just flips open the button on his jeans before sliding the zipper down and stepping out of them. He swallows thickly, as she closes the space between them, small hips swaying just so, and he isn't surprised when her slender hand finds its way into his shorts, teasing his throbbing length.

"If you've still got that little heart of yours set on coming out with me, you'll have to stop your goddamn teasing."

"How about," Her hand is gone, making his eyes burst open, not that he knew when he closed them and she's down on her knees in front of him. "You make me, Ambrose?"

Paige doesn't give him a chance to utter a syllable. The only reprieve she gives is the brief moment of when she snaps the waistband of his shorts against the smooth line of his hip. Then he's got his hands buried in her hair, fingers clutching at the silken raven strands as she takes him in her mouth, cheeks hollowed and tongue swirling around the head of his length.

They're a sweaty mess, his dirty blonde hair matted to his forehead and her porcelain skin is shimmering with a soft sheen of perspiration. Her heavy eyeliner's smudged and her lips are bruised and plump.

"Fuck, Paige," Dean huffs. "It's like I've died and gone to fucking somewhere."

Again, their 'romantic' utterances are not worthy of Shakespeare or even some cheesy CW supernatural drama, honestly, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want sonnets and poetry and jewelry and all of that, she just wants everything he can give her. Because other than when she's in the ring, when she's with him is when she feels most alive.

She regains most of her wits and as if his compliment as just registered with her, after she's put her gear back on, she curtsies like she would if she were in front of a dignitary or nobleman. She giggles at the furrowing of his brows and with a cheeky wink, remarks, and "You're welcome."

He's pressed against her back, his large palms cupping her breasts and he sighs heavily. "Guess you can't go out in just your shorts, huh? Now, that'd be a distraction."

Paige rolls her eyes. "Yeah," She snorts. "Because you'd let me walk out there with my boobs out for everyone to see."

"Any of those losers including that corporate weasel Rollins and that dick Triple H can look at your boobs, I don't give a fuck. I know that I'm the one who gets to touch 'em, and that's the best part. Looking don't mean shit."

The ravenette just shakes her head as she runs her fingers through her hair. "I bet I look like a fucking raccoon right now. My makeup's gotta be a freaking hot mess. Marlene's going to be so sodded off if she sees me."

Dean turns Paige's chin so they're face to face. His eyes flicker over the soft features of her face. "You look good to me."

"You," She pokes him hard in the chest, twisting out of his arms. "Are biased. And also a boy, which means you no shit about makeup."

"Man," He corrects, tone low and menacing as he reaches out with his hand, slapping her ass. "And don't you forget it, Bevis."

Paige watches Seth's match against Rob Van Dam from backstage, just waiting for the moment when Dean is going to rush in. She's so focused she doesn't notice Roman looking over her shoulder. At least not until, he touches her right shoulder, nearly jostling the Diva's Championship belt.

Whirling around, she clutches her hand to her chest. "Jesus," She hisses, eyes narrowing at the Samoan. "For someone so damn big, you sure as hell don't make a lot of noise."

His lips curl briefly, but almost instantly his handsome features grow serious. "You've got his back, right?"

She doesn't have to ask whom he's referring to. She smiles as a warm feeling bursts in her stomach. She knows Dean and Roman are on different paths right now, paths that could possibly never converge again, but it's nice knowing the Samoan hasn't forgotten about his friend, his brother.

She nods, her tone fierce, "You know I do. As soon as he rushes out, I won't be far behind."

Roman eyes the young Brit curiously. Tapping the hardware on her shoulder, he says, "Even if it costs you the belt?"

"Nothing like that is going to happen tonight. Stephanie will probably give me a verbal tongue lashing, issue her usual threats and think she can scare me into backing off, but she won't be able to." Paige shrugs her shoulders. "I'm not afraid of losing the title. With AJ gone, I'm carrying the division. Naomi's the best shot I have at a rival and don't Stephanie and Hunter," Her lips curl. "Always do what's best for business?"

Roman laughs as he ruffles the Brit's hair affectionately. "Knock 'em dead, kiddo. And tell Ambrose the same."

"Will do, Reigns. Will do."

And with that, Paige turns on her heel just as Michael Cole shouts, from ringside, "Oh, there's Ambrose! Coming in from out of nowhere, ambushing Rollins!"

There's her queue. Instead of wearing the leather jacket that has become her signature, she's wearing a hoodie that mirrors Dean's. Strutting confidently, she makes her way out to the ring, mic in hand and Diva's Championship proudly slung over her shoulder.

"That," She announces from the apron of the ring, as the crowd roars. "Was just a preview of what's going to happen in Boston on Sunday, Rollins." She's slipped past the ropes and now she and the two-toned Superstar are face to face. "You think everyone's going to be calling you Mr. Money In The Bank when it's all said and done, but you're wrong. The contract in that briefcase might be blank now, but on Sunday the dotted line is going to be signed," She stepped into his personal space, so they were chest to chest. "Dean Ambrose."