a/n: stephanie's intro of becky lynch on raw "a woman who's scratched and clawed for everything she's gotten" reminded me so much of dean, and the light bulb of pairing dean and becky together happened. my inspiration was "i always knew" by the vaccines.

~*~hit me like a hook of the right~*~

i constantly told myself i'm scared of it.

being so close to you is like

being closer to the sun.

although it's warm

it's dangerous.

but i want you to keep me warm

Dean could feel his jaw ticking, his teeth grinding, and his fingers twitching at his sides. None of these things were unusual. Since he was born – most likely – he could never keep still. He always had to be moving. Whether it was rolling his shoulders ala` Axl Rose or wiggling in the ring or shadow boxing with himself. He just could not be still.

But this – his jaw ticking, his teeth grinding, and his fingers twitching – was different. This wasn't because he couldn't keep still. No, this was because of... He shook his head, forcefully, and knocked his fists against his head, almost as if he could knock the very cause of his ticking, grinding and twitching, out of his head.

Cinnamon. Cinnamon. Cinnamon.

He inhaled deeply, unable to stop himself, and then there was the feel of arms wrapping around his waist. Hot breath against his ear came next and then a soft brogue, teasing and sensual, "Hey, Jameson."

Fuck, cursing inwardly, as he feels his dick jump in his jeans. He fucking hates 'pet' names and whatever and though 'Jameson' isn't as ridiculous as honey bunch or sweetheart or what-the-fuck-ever Tits McGee is always crooning at Cena, it's still not his name and seriously, she should not be calling him anything except his name, god-fucking-damn-it.

Pet names and shit – no matter not ridiculous – were just the beginning. Next she'd want to hold hands... He literally felt nauseous at the thought. And suddenly there went one of her hands – wandering – and then her fingers were sliding through his, which didn't feel that bad – no! his brain screamed, but before he could flip out, she gave his fingers a tug, turning him so they were face to face.

Those weird ass goggles she wore into the ring weren't covering her eyes and he could feel his lips curling upwards. He didn't see the point in covering her eyes. They were pretty; a warm hazel with these flecks of green, and what the actual fuck?! Since when did he even know what color her eyes were?! Who gave a flying fuck about her eyes?! Her tits were amazing and those legs – nice and toned – wrapped around his waist or cradling his head were what mattered, definitely not her god damn eyes.

"Dean?" The soft brogue saying his name brought him back.

"What?" Harsher than he intended and when she took a step back he felt like a dick. He pushed his taped fingers through his curly fringe and gave a shrug, "C'mon, Irish, y'know my bark's worse than my bite."

"Dunno..." Those strawberry lips – the ones he liked too much – were smiling. "That bite of yers," A naughty giggle as she steps into his personal space, hips swaying deliciously, and fuck, fuck, fuck. "Can be pretty gnarly, Jameson. I may be wrong, but I think those teeth marks from a week ago are still there on the right cheek. Just to be sure," Cheeky and spiced with another naughty giggle. "I'll have to drop trow for Charlotte in the locker room once the show's over, so she can double check."

Was she trying to kill him cause if she was fuuuuuuuck, it was working.

"If anyone's doin' checks for bite marks on," A hand reaches out to pull her flush against him and gropes both firm cheeks of her ass, stealing a moan from those strawberry lips. "Your ass it's me, Irish. I put 'em there. I should be checkin' to see if I need to add some more."

"And there you go tellin' me yer bark is worse than yer bite."

"Out here it ain't, but you didn't tell me we were talkin' about what it's like behind closed doors."

"Thought that's what was always on yer mind?" Heady and sensual and every syllable goes straight to his dick, which is straining, for the now familiar warmth of her mouth and/or pussy.

And, seriously, he really needs to get a fucking grip, because this needy thing that's happening needs to fucking stop. He can't be wanting and needing her like this. It's scary as fuck cause he don't need or want anybody that ain't Roman.

Roman is the only person he needs and the Samoan is sure as hell the only person he wants around.

Until her.

Until she showed up with the pretty face – especially those eyes – and that little upturned nose, he liked to tease her about, the damn freckles across its bridge and the apples of her cheeks – the ones you can only see up close, like, when their foreheads are pressed together as he's pounding inside of her or she's riding him. Until he knew what she tasted like. Bailey's and cinnamon. And that damn Juicy Fruit she won't fucking stop chewing. Until he knew what it was like to have his dick gripped like a vice by her tight-as-hell soaking wet pussy.

There was no getting out of this now. He was in too deep, not that he'd ever say so out loud, but where it counted most – deep down, in places he didn't acknowledge – he knew he was. And every instinct was telling him to run, like always, but he couldn't. He wanted it all. To be close to her. To touch her. To tease her. To hear her laugh. To see her smile. To watch her in the ring. To have the smell of cinnamon linger everywhere.

This was fucking dangerous as hell, and he knew it, but he never ran away from danger; even if he could end up getting burned. And he knew, it would be him – not her – that would get burned.

Even though it was always supposed to be the other way around.

He left before he could get left. But not this time. He could feel it, he couldn't leave – no matter what his baser instincts – told him to do.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

feeling what i feel is easy to express

through my actions.

holding onto your hand like i'm holding on

for my life.

Dean didn't listen to backstage gossip. Oooooh Fox and Barrett were caught in a supply closet in San Jose! OMG did you see the Louis Vuitton handbag Cena got Nikki?! Eva Marie's getting private training – wink, wink – lessons with Brian Kendrick! It was so ridiculously high school and he hated – no, loathed – high school, so he tuned it all out. He kept to himself – all the way back in FWC – and that habit hadn't faded when he was called up to the main roster.

Seth usually was the one to chatter away about this and that, and he paid the other no attention. Who was fucking whom and the latest call ups from developmental were as interesting as watching paint dry.

Okay, so which people on the roster were fucking was still as interesting as watching paint dry, but the call ups from developmental were a little more interesting.

Especially this particular call up.

Finn Balor.

He cracked his neck and then his knuckles as the name rattled around his head. He knew about Balor long before he was ever Balor. He was more familiar with Prince Devitt's work on the independent circuit. He would watch his matches from Japan, being a wrestling junkie and all. The guy was a promoter's wet dream. How the higher ups hadn't gotten their claws into him before now, was something he wold never understand.

But there he was – a conquering hero – just a few months back in Japan at the Dome in Tokyo, having beaten Kevin Owens for his precious NXT Championship. And now – tonight, specifically – he'd be making his main roster debut. Typically, he'd be answering Cena's Open Challenge for his debut, which would most likely end with Owens ambushing both of them since he was still acting like a toddler and throwing the most prolonged tantrum ever over losing at Money in the Bank and then losing the championship at Beast in the East a week later.

"Ambrose..." There was his name, spoken in this low, throaty tone, and sounding like there was a 't' added to the end. He didn't have to turn to confirm that Balor – Devitt, whatever – was behind him. He still turned around, though, and met the other's dark eyes head on as he drawled lazily, "Balor," sounding as dry as the Vegas desert he called home.

"Fergal!" Shrill and ear rattling as a flash of orange streaked across Dean's vision and the next thing he knew Balor was being pounced on by her. They toppled to the ground from the force of her impact and the stoic, blank look the Irishman had fixed him with, disappeared. His eyes were bright and a smile was stretched across his thin lips as he laughed heartily.

"Bex," He grunted. "Yer gonna hafta get off. I got a match later, remember?"

"Tha' big lug Cena's a lot heavier than lil' ol me." A teasing reminder and this smile – all teeth and as blinding as the sun – breaks across those strawberry lips and Dean feels his stomach tighten. "Maybe I should put yer in the STF to make sure you can handle it."

"I'll Rack Attack yer before I'd let yer STF me."

"Never in a million years would yer Rack Attack me before I'd STF yer."

Every inch of him is tense. Dean feels like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. One more touch of Balor's fingers against Becky's smooth skin or one more blinding smile, and he'll snap. He'll grab her by the waist and toss her over his shoulder, dragging her away, as she kicks and screams. Or... or he'll push her off of Balor and punch his lego-loving-body-paint-wearing face into next week. Whichever comes first.

Balor easily lifts Becky from his lap and Dean nearly lunges for the other man. Where the fuck does he get off just touching her like that?! Just putting his hands on her, like, she won't knee him in the balls or bite his face off?! Like he has the right to touch her! Doesn't he know his fingerprints – fuck, his lips and teeth – are all over that trim waist of hers?!

Or maybe he does... Dean's about to rip his hair out by the roots when Charlotte's voice suddenly enters the fray, "C'mon, Becky, we're up next!"

"I'll be watchin', so don't disappoint me, yer hear?" Warm and soft, a tone he's never heard from her, and yeah, he's gonna punch Balor's face in as soon as she runs through the curtain.

"I don't know much about you, Ambrose," Balor straightens to his full height after Becky has bounded through the curtain, leaving the two of them behind. His eyes narrow as he adjusts the heavy belt that is slung over his shoulder, continuing on, "But what I do..."

"You don't know shit, Lucky Charms," Growled and menacing. "So you should shut your fucking mouth or I'm gonna rearrange your teeth before your big debut. Where do you get off, anyway?" Circling the other man, pacing like a caged tiger, as his hands ball into fists at his sides. "Just showin' up here and doing this overprotective Daddy routine? You, of all, people should know Irish can handle herself, so just what the fuck are you tryin' to prove, huh? That you're better for her? Is that what you're tryin' to prove, Fergal?" Grit out through grinding teeth as he grips the lapels of the suit jacket the other is wearing, lifting him from his feet, face only centimeters away.

"Rebecca is as tough as they come. Tougher, actually. There ain't no denyin' tha. But even the toughest can break. She's been through a lot, and all of this..." He motions to all the backstage hustle and bustle around them. "Brought her back from the brink. I don't want to see her lose it all because..."

"I told you, you don't know shit, Lucky Charms. She ain't Little Red Riding Hood who needs to be protected from the Big Bad Wolf. You're lucky Hunter and Steph don't ever flip the script around here. Cena won't tear you apart, but I sure as hell would."

The show's over and there she was sprinting from the ring, Paige and Charlotte, all over her as she got her first win on RAW. It was a night worth celebrating, for sure. Not only had she gotten her first win, but it was on a pin – executing her finisher, Dis-Arm-Her, perfectly – of the Diva's Champion, Nikki Bella. He – not that he would tell her – watched every second. He might have – again, not that he would tell her – told Roman to shut the fuck up as they watched in his locker room because he didn't want to miss anything.

There's Balor, just off to the side, as if he's waiting for her to rush into his arms, and there's a sickening feeling coating Dean's stomach. They share a hug and hushed words, their foreheads, touching. His fingers are touching her cheek and if they push her hair back, Dean will give the so-called 'Demon' the beating Cena didn't, that's for damn sure.

They break apart and the next thing he knows is cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon.

He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing as she jumps on him, legs winding tight around his waist while her arms loop around his neck, and she's just staring at him – wide-eyed and this goofy as hell smile on her pretty face – and he's pretty sure she's babbling about the win, but he doesn't hear any of it.

All he knows is the feel of her weight, the scent of cinnamon, and the tang of sweat.

"That was somethin'," He rasps out, reaching to push strands of orange behind her ear. "Gettin' your first win against the Champ. Banks better watch her back."

"Sasha ain't gonna underestimate me. She knows what I'm capable of. Now, Tamina, Naomi, Brie, Alicia and Nikki know what I can do."

She loosens her legs and slides down his frame, but instead of letting her walk ahead, he grabs for her hand. His fingers wrap, tight, around hers and they walk together. He hopes he's not cutting off her circulation with his hold, but he doesn't know how to hold her hand any other way. Except so tight, he's sure her knuckles are white. He can't let go, can't loosen his grip, if he does she could see what Balor already knows and what he knows, deep down, that he ain't good enough and he never will be.

That he'll only drag her back to where she was. Not build her up like he [Fergal] did.

But he can't say that out loud just like he can't say out loud what he's feeling inside, that he wants her and needs her, more than anyone or anything.

He sure as hell can hold her hand in a death grip, though, and hope that's enough.

kissing your lips

like i need to.

like a defibrillator to jump start

my heart.

It's fucking amazing, the way she looks, naked and with her wrists cuffed to the headboard. He had heard of actors taking souvenirs or whatever from the sets of their movies, and while a nightstick would definitely come in handy, the gleaming silver of the cuffs are what caught his eye. He swallowed thickly, his tongue slipping to lick his dry lips, as he drank in her every inch like a man begging for water in the desert.

Fuck.

"Dean..." A throaty, begging whimper. "Please..." Her back arching, offering herself.

"Has he ever," He can't stop himself, his mouth is working faster than his brain. "Seen you..." A hand gripping her throat, tight, for just a fleeting moment before sliding along the side of her body. "Like this?"

Her auburn brows burrow and confusion sweeps across her pretty features, the lust disappearing in an instant. Before the "who" can leave those strawberry lips, he crashes his down on hers. For one painfully heart stopping moment, her lips are stock still – immobile, really – and his heart is hanging by a thread, because if her lips don't start moving, he's going to have to talk about what he meant, and he doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want her to know that he's jealous as fuck of Balor, and that deep down – where the voices, always snarky and always dark, remind him that Balor's the better man – he knows she should be with Balor and not him. He doesn't want her to know just how much he needs her, because wants he does, everything will spiral down.

And fuck, wasn't the shoe supposed to be on the other foot and what-the-fuck-ever?! Wasn't she the one who was supposed to be falling, hard and fast?! Isn't that how it always went? The girl – whichever nameless, faceless one – that was stupid enough to get attached, would fall for him, and he'd have to let them down easy?

"Dean?" Soft and curious, head tilted to the side, and how can she fucking look so innocent when she's still naked and cuffed to a headboard?

"Fuck," He curses, desperate and angry. "Don't fucking say another word." Sky blue eyes darkening like a storm's approaching, hard edge of his jaw ticking. "Just fuck me, Irish, just fucking fuck me."

"I..." Hesitant and confused, teeth drawing in that full bottom lip, and he can't.

"Fuck." Growling. "Me."

There's no hesitation in her kiss. It's everything he needs. Rough, heady and all-consuming, banishing those voices that haunt his nights and plague his days. She's taking all that way, and it's like – as she slides ardently against him, seeking his every inch – she's breathing life back into him, jump starting the coldness of his heart and making him feel alive.

And it's fucking scary as hell.

but telling you how i feel?

that's where i choke.

"Eventually you're gonna have to tell her," There was Roman's baritone in his ear and Dean wondered what would happen if he decided to turn around and punch the Samoan right in the face. "At the end of the day, fucking's not gonna be enough, man. If you let her walk away," Grey eyes bore into steel blue. "You might not get her back, and is that really what you want, Dean? To see her with someone else? Holding hands? Laughing? Carpooling together? Kissing..."

"Fucking shut the fuck up before I wreck your pretty face," Low and deadly, staring straight ahead, in the ring Becky and Charlotte are practicing before tonight's house show. "And I end up with a kangaroo trying to poke my eyes out while she does her stupid little dance."

Roman sighs as he ties off his hair into a bun at the nape of his neck. He knows 'kangaroo' was a dig at Emma, but one that Dean didn't really mean. Surprisingly, Dean actually liked his girlfriend even if he thought she was weird as hell. A smile curled at Roman's lips at the thought of the bubbly blonde. He felt sunny warmth burst in his veins and he knew Dean felt that same kind of warmth when it came to Becky.

He just had to finally admit it.

"You know you don't want her doin' any of that with anyone but you."

Roman braced himself for the haymaker he thought was coming, but instead of feeling knuckles connect with his jaw, there was only Dean staring at him with cloudy, defeated blue eyes. "You're that guy," Nothing but a whisper, shoulders slumped. "The one who gets the girl at the end. You're a regular Samoan Prince Charming, you god damn smooth motherfucker. Me?" A lazy shrug. "I ain't that guy. I drop 'em before they can drop me. I'm the guy that's around before they realize you're around."

It was strange seeing Dean like this; down on himself and defeated, for lack of a better word. He was normally brimming with confidence, so much, it was like his ego took up an entire room, sucking up all the oxygen and becoming – if it was possible – more inflated. He would fight anyone, anywhere. It didn't matter if they were bigger, faster, stronger and he believed he would take them down.

Handicap matches didn't cause him to break a sweat. Ladder matches barely made him flinch. Steel cages, a theatrical yawn. Even the vaunted Hell in a Cell – WWE's most demonic structure – didn't faze him.

But Becky Lynch – all 5'6 of her – caused him to curl in on himself and believe what everyone had always told him. Even though, Roman knew Becky herself didn't believe any of those things. No, he could see it in the flame-haired diva's hazel eyes, she loved Dean. It was the way those lips of hers wouldn't snarl or sneer, but smile. How her eyes – normally laser focused and narrowed with intensity – would soften, around the edges, appearing more gold and less green. The way the apples of her cheeks would flush, her smattering of freckles standing out. Her brogue softer and with this lilt, like, a fresh breeze coming off the sea every time she said, "Jameson" or "Dean."

"Maybe you ain't a traditional Prince Charming, but Becky wants you to be hers, and isn't that the only thing that matters?"

"How the fuck do you know that?"

"She don't have to say a damn thing, but the way she looks at you, man, it fucking says it all. Just like the way you look at her."

Roman's gone and there's a long stretch where he's just standing there alone and then there's cinnamon.

Steel blue meets golden flecked hazel, and fuck, does she have to look like that right now? T-shirt tight over her breasts, impressively toned stomach bare, and sweat glistening like diamonds along her flawless skin? He's about to say something, but his throat goes dry, as his eyes drop – her perky breast heaving with exertion, drawing his attention – and he notices her shirt. It's his merch that she's wearing. Specifically the Ambrose Stole My Heart Design.

His heart stutters inside his chest before beating erratically, like, it's going to burst from its prison, grow an arm and literally run away with her, which wouldn't surprise him if that happened.

"It's true, y'know." Soft and there's this flush staining her high cheekbones, adorable freckles, standing out and he swallows thickly. "You did..." A burst of happy laughter, flush sinking in deeper, as she shakes her head. "Fuck, I am one giant cheese ball. Don't tell anyone, okay?" Fingers threading through the curls of his fringe.

"Your secret's safe, Irish." He wants to tell her, she's done the same to him – stolen his heart – but the words and his brain don't match up, one is too fast and the other's too slow, and so that's all he says.

Not even close to what he really wants to tell her.

they may before little letters.

but fuck is it ever a big word.

"Do you think it's possible to be tha happy?" The brogue he'd recognize anywhere, soft and wistful, in his ear.

He knows what she's looking at – or well, more accurately, who she's looking at. Roman and Emma are at the far end of the bar, huddled, in their own little world, swaying – prom style – even though Hank Junior's Family Tradition is warbling through the old speakers of the jukebox. Not exactly the most romantic song, but he doubts they even know what song is playing.

He feels queasy watching them, but swallows the feeling down as he turns to meet hazel eyes.

"Dunno," He shrugs, picking at the label on his beer. "Thor's," A bark of laughter at his own joke. "One smooth motherfucker, and Bubbles is lookin' at him like she's got hearts for eyes, so for them I guess it is possible."

"What about for you?" A quiver in her voice and Dean's throat goes dry. He wouldn't classify himself as claustrophobic, but yeah – the walls are totally closing in – and he feels sweat break out across his brow. His hands, which are always hot, are suddenly cold and clammy. He didn't know – until right now – that choking on air was something that could happen.

He knows what she's getting at, in a roundabout way, the fact that – even though he's been playing it off like he didn't – he heard her – two weeks ago – tell him she loved him. They were coming down from their combined high, skin sticking against skin, foreheads pressed together and then she said it, brogue softer than ever, "i love you."

"Look, Irish," He's practiced this speech – he's made it plenty of times and after tonight, he'll make it a hundred more times till he's in the ground – but just as he's about to deliver the blow, the words are jumbled. They're caught in his throat, his brain shutting them down, and the other words – the words that are the only thing in the world he fears [besides spiders] – are there, on his tongue, so close to spilling that he can taste them.

And those words – i love you – taste like her. Warm like Bailey's with a hint of bitter like Jameson, all coated in the sweetest, richest chocolate. His tongue licks his dry lips, like, he's tasted her essence as if he was just buried between her thighs moments before, and it's real. Coating his tongue like her release had hours before they wound up here, in this bar, on a definitely not double date with Thor and Bubbles.

"You don't hafta say it back. I'm not expectin' yer to say it back. It's not what I'm after. I just wanna know where you stand, Dean." Hazel eyes glistening with tears, strawberry lips trembling. "I need to know."

"You fucking know," Growled through gritted teeth as he reaches out, pulling her, harshly, against him. "You fucking know where the fuck I stand, Becky."

Only when they're naked does he call her Becky. It's a tell-tale sign, and he swears, he can feel her heart lift. There's a shift in her eyes – the sadness disappearing – a twinkle is there, glinting and bright. He leans in, head bent, so they're foreheads touch. His hand slips around her waist and drifts lower, possessively cupping her right ass cheek, fingers digging in, proving a point he can't say with his words.

His lips curl and there's his gritty tone, a little lighter, and with an edge of something that's never been there.

"I'm getting there. Cause, fucking hell, Becky there's no one else. It's just you, Irish. Every fucking fantasy I have when we're on separate tours is of you; fucking you, touching you, holding you. You're there even when you're not. Ro had told me back from rearranging Paige's face when she was out there – basically – feeling you up in the ring and in front of the crowd, and I kinda like her. If that ain't romantic," Steel disappearing to make way for a cloudless, perfect blue sky. "Then I don't know what the fuck is."

"Every fantasy, huh?" Pure sin as hazel eyes turn into liquid gold, so hot, he's being burned from the inside out.

"Every fucking one."

note: in the breaks, i used a poem called "big word," which i found on my tumblr. i don't own the poem, and /i actually don't know who does. the blog i reblogged it from is lost-skeletons, and as soon as /i found it, it screamed "dean" to me, just like "i always knew" by the vaccines. also the hints at roman/emma are because of dashingincoverse's latest fic "lost and found" which features dean and paige as the main pair, but has a cute scene of roman/emma in it as well, and now i'm hooked on them. they'll be the main attraction in my next fic ;)