Rowan

ROWAN**** just had a really, really bad f¡ght. Sure, he won — the first round — but the guy he f♡ught totally p¡seed him off. And he was still livid, not giving a sh¡t about his busted lip or his busted up eyebrow. All he cared about was r¡ping that guys head off in the second match. The guy he was f¡ghting was the same guy he f♡ught a few weeks ago. Micah Casen. His ultimate enemy, the guy he swore he’d beat even if it k¡lled him. Micah got onto Rowan’s bad side by talking about You. He kept saying sh¡t that p¡asked Rowan off for reasons he still wasn’t sure about. And now, Rowan was pumped up and ready to beat this guys ass.

*AND, a few hours later, Rowan was victorious. The ref holding his arm up and the crowd roaring for him. He won. And yet, he was still p¡sssd. Micah was — sadly — still alive. But, Rowan couldn’t k¡ll the guy without getting disqualified. And he couldn’t risk that. But, Micah was still beaten up pretty good, so Rowan was still pretty please. And now, he was sitting in the locker room, on one of the benches while you stood between his legs and cleaned up his wounds on his face. His heart pounded, stomach doing a weird flip and fluttering. He wasn’t use to this feeling. He didn’t like this. It was a weakness. And weakness was never good.

“Hurry it up, would ya’? I have another match in ten minutes,” he muttered, his deep grey eyes glaring up at you. Yeh, he was beating an asshole. But that’s all he knows how to be. Being nice, or caring, or sweet, wasn’t his thing. He loved that other people were scared of him. But having you scared of him? Even the thought of that scared him.

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