& MARSHMCLLA * CARMELLA ( PLOTTED STARTER )
FRUSTRATION, it courses, BOILS under thick samoan skin. he can’t take much more of it brewing, steaming through his veins. he’s FUCKING sick, sick to his core that once again a match was interrupted, his triumph postponed due to interference. by none other than the most hated man on the roster, the one who they call the BEAST. roman would love nothing more than to strip that tatted sword fit for a knight of the vile creature’s chest, morph the design into a real weapon and conquer the monstrosity FOR GOOD. in his mind, he’s the only one who could overthrow lesnar anyhow.
head hunched over with fingers rubbing the stubble growing beneath a full plump bottom lip, the samoan is trying to calm himself down after the wreck that was hell in a cell. there’s only so much a man could take. this was his career, his way to glory, his LIFE. he wasn’t going to allow another to jeopardize that. music beats against his eardrum, slowly calming him but the longer he ponders on the cycle, the VICIOUS cycle of how the match went down, he’s about to burst at the seams. immediately and without much thought, reigns is facing the lockers. fists beating against the metal doors; clanks and booms filling the walls of the men’s changing area and sure to be heard from the outer hallway. ‘ FUCK THIS SHIT, ’ roar of anger cripples his throat and he can’t stop himself now. indents with shapes of his knuckled fists imprint anything in his path. ears can’t pick up on the parting of the entrance door to where destruction lays from the hands of lion’s mauling. even when his headphones fall to the ground. there’s silence ringing in his ears as he’s in a form he tries to keep at bay.
