claymore king ⚔️

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the first day was chaos. producers shouting across headsets, techs tripping over cables, talent running lines, security radios crackling. the arena hadn’t even opened its doors to fans yet, and already the air felt charged, adrenaline, ego, and sweat clinging to the concrete walls.

you stood just off gorilla, mic in hand, watching cathy kelley review notes on her phone. she looked impossibly calm in the middle of it all, her posture relaxed, her hair perfect. "you’ll get used to the noise" she said, flashing you a quick smile without looking up. "eventually, it just becomes static."

you nodded, though your chest still felt tight. you’d been through interviews before, worked on live segments for smaller promotions, but this was wwe. this was the real stage.

cathy glanced at you. "you’ll be fine. just remember, keep your questions tight and don’t flinch when someone cuts a promo in your face" before you could reply, a low voice spoke behind you.

"she’s new?"

you turned. he stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, black hoodie clinging to his frame, damp hair still hanging from his post-match shower. his eyes, dark, sharp, unreadable, were locked on you.

cm punk.

you knew who he was, obviously. everyone did. the buzz backstage when he arrived was unmistakable, everyone noticed him. some watched in awe. others, with something closer to caution.

cathy nodded. "new interviewer. just started this week."

he stepped forward, offering a hand. you shook it. firm grip. calloused palm.

"i've seen your work" he said, voice low, almost flat. "you ask better questions than most." it caught you off guard, not just the compliment, but the way he said it. like it was a statement of fact, not praise. his gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flick away after the handshake. it lingered on you a second too long.

"thanks" you managed, surprised he’d taken the time to look you up.

punk gave a slight nod, then walked off without another word, disappearing behind a curtain. you exhaled, unsure why your skin felt warm.

cathy watched him go, then leaned toward you with a half-smile. "don’t take it personally. that’s probably the most he’s said to anyone all week."

you laughed awkwardly, shaking off the weird weight in your chest. it was nothing. just a weird moment. a superstar noticing the new girl. he probably did that with everyone.

still, you caught yourself glancing toward the curtain where he’d disappeared, wondering for just a second

was he already watching you before he spoke?

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

a few days later you were running behind. you weren’t supposed to be on that side of the building.

someone from production had handed you the wrong set of run sheets, and now you were holding a thick stack of scripts, walking fast down a hallway that definitely wasn’t marked on the arena map you’d been given.

you turned a corner and slammed directly into someone. the papers in your hand exploded onto the concrete floor like confetti.

"shit, sorry, i wasn’t looking"

you knelt down instantly, already gathering pages. a pair of black boots stopped in front of you.

"it’s alright."

you looked up.

punk. again.

he was dressed in ring gear this time, taped fists, kick pads, shirt slung over his shoulder, tattoos stark against sweat-slicked skin. he knelt down, helping you pick up the scattered pages.

you scrambled to regain composure. "these aren’t even mine. wrong hallway. wrong time. great first impression."

he didn’t laugh. he just looked at you, that same sharp focus as before. "you’re the interviewer" he said. "you were with cathy."

you nodded, offering a half-smile. "that’s me. still figuring out where i’m not supposed to be."

"you’re not in the way." there it was again, the intensity. like he wasn’t just looking at you but reading you, memorizing everything.

you stood. he handed you the last of the pages, and your fingers brushed, fleeting but enough to send a buzz of static up your arm.

"i’m punk" he said, despite you obviously already knowing that.

"i know."

his lips quirked. not quite a smile. more like acknowledgment. "you’ve got a good voice" he said suddenly. "for interviews. not fake. not overly polished. you listen more than you talk. that’s rare."

you blinked, caught off-guard. "thanks. i didn’t think anyone noticed."

"i do." there was no hesitation, no embellishment. just those two words. simple. final.

he stepped back, eyes lingering just a moment longer than comfortable. then he turned and walked into the nearby practice ring, where no one else had been. you hadn’t even noticed the ring was set up. he’d been rehearsing. alone.

and you had just walked into his space. you started walking again, heart kicking slightly faster in your chest, unsure if it was embarrassment or something else.

that night, after the show aired, you got a notification.

an old post, a tweet from years ago about your dream interviews in wrestling, had been liked.

the account?

@.CMPunk

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you saw him again the next morning.

you’d decided to hit the hotel gym early, wanting to avoid running into any of the roster and risk looking like a deer on a treadmill. the place was mostly empty when you walked in, just one guy on an elliptical and someone stretching in the corner.

you stepped onto a treadmill, plugged in your earbuds, and tried to focus.

fifteen minutes in, the elliptical guy left. that’s when you noticed him.

cm punk was seated on a bench press nearby, hoodie pulled up, earbuds in, but not working out. he wasn’t even sweating. he was just sitting. watching you between reps. casually. like it was nothing.

you weren’t even sure when he’d walked in. you tried not to let it get to you. maybe it was coincidence. maybe he just liked quiet gyms, too.

still, your pace quickened.

after your run, you wiped down the machine and turned to leave. as you reached the exit, he pulled out one earbud and spoke your name.

you froze.

"didn’t figure you for mornings" he said.

you gave a light, awkward laugh. "trying to get a jump on the day."

he nodded once, then said, without missing a beat "your segment with becky last night? good framing. you let her drive the narrative but pulled it back just enough. most people would’ve let her steamroll them."

you stared at him, surprised. "you watched that?"

he shrugged. "i watch everything."

there it was again, that way he said things. not as a compliment. not even flirty. just as truth. flat. certain. like it would be impossible for him not to have seen it.

you opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off before you could. "you’ve got instincts. you listen. you wait. that’s why people open up to you."

it was flattering, sure, but more than that, it was specific. too much. too close.

you shifted slightly, tightening your grip on your water bottle. "thanks. i guess i’m still learning the ropes."

his eyes didn’t leave yours. "you don’t have to learn" he said. "you belong here. they just don’t see it yet."

the room suddenly felt smaller.

you forced a polite smile, murmured something about needing a shower, and walked out, his gaze burning into your back the entire way.

back in your hotel room, you opened your phone to check your messages.

a dm request blinked at the top of your screen.

no message. Just a single post from your old wrestling blog, something you'd written years ago, back when you were still in college. a piece analyzing long-form promos, buried on a site that hadn’t been updated in forever.

the post had two likes.

one was from you.

the other?

@.CMPunk

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the whispers started small.

you caught the first one when you passed a cluster of production staff near the catering table. the moment you stepped into the room, the conversation dipped, not abruptly, just enough to notice. one of them gave you a quick, awkward smile. the others looked away.

you brushed it off. long week. early call times. everyone was exhausted. still, it kept happening.

a few hours later, you were standing beside cathy near gorilla, going over cue cards for the night’s backstage segments. she flipped through your notes, nodding.

"your formatting’s good" she said. "some of these questions are actually smart. you’re gonna make me look bad."

you laughed. "that’s the goal." her expression softened, but then her eyes flicked over your shoulder, briefly and something about her body tensed.

you turned to look but saw no one.

when you faced her again, she was chewing the inside of her cheek, weighing something.

finally, she asked, low and casual, "he’s been talking to you a lot, huh?"

you frowned. "who?"

she gave you a look. you didn’t need her to say it.

"punk?"

you tried to play it off. "he’s been around, i guess. just talks shop. he’s kind of intense, but nothing weird."

cathy’s mouth twitched. "that’s just it. he doesn’t talk to anyone." she said it like a warning, though she couched it in a shrug.

"you’re probably fine. just, if he starts getting in your space, trust your gut. don’t let the legend status cloud your instincts."

you didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, pretending it didn’t feel like your skin was too tight all of a sudden.

later that night, after the show ended, you found yourself walking through the halls to your car, the production lot half-empty now, lights dimmed, the hum of post-show breakdown echoing off the walls. you passed seth and becky as they walked by, deep in conversation. as you moved to pass them, becky caught your eye.

"hey" she said, pausing. "you got a ride?"

you blinked. "uh, yeah. rental."

she nodded. her tone was light, but her gaze lingered. too focused. "if you ever feel like someone’s following you, don’t be afraid to yell. seriously. some of these guys are wound a little too tight."

seth glanced at her, brow raised, like she’d said too much.

you laughed nervously. "okay thanks?"

they both smiled, said goodnight, and kept walking.

you stood there for a beat too long, listening to the soft crunch of their footsteps fade. you didn’t want to admit it, not yet, but they weren’t the first ones who’d looked at you like that lately.

like they knew something you didn’t.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you almost missed it at first.

when you got back to the hotel after a long night of post-show edits and cleanup, all you could think about was food and a shower. you barely noticed the envelope on the carpet just outside your door, small, white, with your name written across it in all-caps black Sharpie.

no room number. no return address. just your name.

your fingers hovered before you picked it up.

inside was a flat object wrapped in tissue paper. you peeled it back, confused, then stopped breathing. a wrestling pin.

not just any pin, a vintage enamel one from the 2002 ring of honor event in philly. the exact one you’d blogged about obsessively years ago. the event where cm punk had cut that twenty-minute promo about loyalty, pain, and pride. you’d written a whole analysis piece about it back in college, buried deep in your old wordpress.

and somehow here it was. perfect condition. a collector’s item you hadn’t seen available anywhere in years.

your first instinct was disbelief. there was no note. no joke. no explanation. just the pin. and your name.

you looked up and down the hallway. empty. you stepped inside your room, locked the door, and stood there in silence for a long moment, heart thudding like a warning in your chest.

you set the pin down on the desk. tried to shake it off.

maybe it was a coincidence. maybe one of the crew had found your blog. maybe someone thought it would be a funny callback. maybe...

your phone buzzed.

new dm – @.CMPunk

no message. just a link.

you tapped it with a shaky thumb.

it took you to an archived version of your blog post, your old words in black text, the title: "what cm punk taught me about control."

your throat tightened. he hadn’t just seen it. he’d kept it. dug it out of an old, dead link. one no longer even visible on google unless you knew exactly what to type.

another message came in.

"still holds up."

that was all.

you stared at the screen, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. some part of you knew you should be unnerved. violated. angry.

but you weren’t. you were shaking, yes but beneath the chill on your skin, a strange warmth coiled low in your stomach.

he’d read your words. he’d remembered. he knew you.

you sat down slowly, phone in your lap, and stared at the pin on the desk. it felt heavier now.

not just a gift. not even a message.

a claim.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you left the building later than usual that night.

a rewrite had come down last-minute, and by the time you uploaded the corrected segment notes and handed off your headset, the locker room was nearly empty. just a few stray staffers loading up road cases. the buzz of post show adrenaline had faded into quiet hums and steel on concrete sounds.

you pulled your jacket tighter and stepped out into the cool night air. the lot was dimly lit, only half of the overhead lamps working. your rental car sat in the back corner, where the light didn’t quite reach. of course.

you walked faster than you meant to, shoes crunching softly against the pavement. Your key fob clicked uselessly in your hand.

the car didn’t respond.

you frowned and tried again.

nothing.

a soft click behind you made your stomach twist.

you turned quickly.

and froze.

cm punk was leaning against the hood of his car, parked just three spaces away from yours.

arms crossed. hood up. silent.

you hadn’t seen him leave the arena. you hadn’t even seen him after the show. he hadn’t been on the run sheet, hadn’t done a promo, hadn’t even wrestled.

still here he was.

waiting.

watching.

your mouth went dry. "what are you doing out here?”

he didn’t answer right away. he pushed off the hood with one foot and walked toward you, calm and unhurried.

"you shouldn’t be alone this late" he said.

you forced a laugh, shallow and nervous. "i’m fine. just car trouble."

he held out his hand. "keys."

you hesitated.

he tilted his head slightly. not threatening, not exactly but his tone left no room for argument.

you handed them over.

he popped the door, sat down in the driver’s seat, adjusted something under the dash, and tried the ignition.

the engine roared to life on the first turn.

he shut it off, stepped out, and handed you the keys.

"battery connection was loose."

you stared at him, trying to find the words. "how did you know?"

he didn’t answer. just looked at you, head tilted, gaze unreadable.

"you shouldn’t be parked this far out" he said. "too dark. too many corners.”

"i park where they tell me."

he stepped in closer, just enough to make the air shift between you.

"then tell them you’re not walking out here alone again. or call me. i’ll come get you."

you tried to pull back, but he was already stepping aside, opening your door for you like it was nothing.

you slid into the seat, adrenaline thudding behind your ribs. he leaned down, arm braced on the frame.

his voice was softer now. lower.

"you don’t get it yet, do you?"

you looked up at him. "this place?” he said. "it eats people like you. the quiet ones. the ones who don’t know how to bite back. they’ll smile to your face and gut you the second you blink."

his hand touched the edge of the door, just that but you flinched anyway. he didn’t pull away.

"i’m not like them" he whispered. "i see you. i’m the only one who does.” then he shut the door gently, like he hadn’t just cracked something open in your chest.

you sat there in silence, fingers gripping the wheel, heart pounding against your ribs. you didn’t drive away for almost a full minute.

when you finally did, you didn’t check the rearview mirror. you didn’t want to see if he was still watching you.

you already knew he was.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was quiet, lit only by the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp. your shoes were off, your hair damp from a too-hot shower, and your phone sat charging on the nightstand as you flipped aimlessly through the channels, not really watching.

you should’ve been exhausted. but your body was wired, your thoughts spinning in tight little circles.

everything felt off.

punk hadn’t spoken to you all day. not backstage, not in passing, not even hovering in the distance like usual. and somehow, that made it worse.

you hated that you noticed. hated that you missed it. hated that some dark part of you wanted him to show up again, wanted the attention, the intensity, the way he looked at you like you were the only real thing in the building.

your phone buzzed once.

you reached for it automatically.

unknown number

no text. just a photo. you blinked at the image for a second before your brain caught up. it was you.

taken through the window of your hotel room. you were standing in the exact same room, facing away from the glass, half-wrapped in a towel, holding your phone in the shot unaware. completely unaware.

the angle wasn’t from the hallway. it was outside. the window.

the floor of your hotel was high, at least the third story. which meant the photo wasn’t casual. it wasn’t someone walking past. it was deliberate. planned.

your blood ran cold. a second message followed:

you should close the curtains, baby. not everyone looks at you the way i do.

your breath caught in your throat. your hands were trembling.

you stood slowly, turned toward the window. the blinds were half open, your own reflection dim against the glass. beyond that: nothing but black. you couldn’t see anyone.

but someone had been there. someone had watched you. and you knew exactly who.

your heart thudded wildly, adrenaline spiking. you knew you should call someone. security. hotel management. the police. becky. anyone.

but instead you stood there.

frozen.

flushed.

and beneath the fear, there was a thread of something else, something colder, stranger, tangled up in your chest.

he had watched you. he had chosen you.

you reached up slowly and pulled the curtains shut.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you waited three agonizing hours after arriving at work before you finally texted him.

  i know it was you.

no reply. your heart hammered in your chest; every minute felt like a lifetime. finally, your phone buzzed.

  meet me backstage. five minutes.

you almost dropped the phone. backstage wasn’t safe, you’d seen him tower over people there but anger and fear propelled you forward.

you found him leaning against the wall beside the load‑in doors, arms folded, hood down, that unreadable expression on his face. the hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, distant echoes of crew packing up road cases.

he didn’t look surprised when you stormed up.

  "you took the picture" you spat.

he tilted his head. calm. precise. "i did."

your pulse spiked. you’d expected denial. anger. something more. but not those two flat words.   "why?" you demanded, voice cracking. "why would you invade my privacy like that?"

he unfolded his arms and stepped closer, too close. you could see every freckle on his cheek, every tiny scar along his jawline. his eyes were darker than the hallway.

  "because i needed to make sure you were safe" he said.

your breath caught. you narrowed your eyes. "safe? how is watching me through a window ‘keeping me safe’?"

he paused, as though considering whether you were intelligent enough to understand. then he shrugged, casual.   "people do worse things than watch. would you rather it was someone else? some random creep?"

you swallowed hard. a flash of doubt: what if he was right? but you shook your head, furious.   "it’s not the same" you hissed. "that’s..."

you stopped. you couldn’t finish. his gaze pinned you. his next words were soft, coiled in obsession.   "i don’t want anyone else looking at you. not like i do."

there it was: devotion, twisted into ownership. your legs trembled.

  "i should report you" you whispered.

he reached out, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle enough to feel like care, terrifying enough to feel like a claim.   "you won’t" he said. "because you know i'm right."

you glanced away. you wanted to run. you should have run. but your knees felt weak.   "maybe i will" you said, though you didn’t believe the words.

he let his thumb linger.   "try" he challenged. "tell them you’re scared. tell them i crossed the line. they’ll laugh you out of the locker room."

your chest tightened. he was right. who would believe you?

he stepped back, folded his arms again, voice flat.   "i only do what i do because i care about you.”

you swallowed. his confession, one part endearment, two parts threat hovered between you.

you turned and walked away, head held high, but you didn’t dial security. you didn’t call cathy. you didn’t text a becky. you just walked.

he already knew.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

it was small, at first.

his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through a tight hallway backstage. the press of his fingers didn’t linger, not exactly, but you felt the heat long after it was gone.

you told yourself it was just a gesture. just spatial awareness.

except he kept doing it. not constantly, but often enough to notice.

when you passed each other at gorilla, he’d brush his arm against yours, fingertips dragging like static. after interviews, he’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, slow, deliberate. a thumb brushing your jaw after a long day, an almost absentminded squeeze of your shoulder when no one was looking.

he was careful about it. but it was never casual.

once, after you interviewed seth rollins live on raw, punk passed you in the tunnel.   "good job" he said low. then, with no hesitation, he reached out, fingers coiling loosely around your wrist. just for a second.

you froze, pulse spiking.

he didn’t pull. didn’t speak. just touched. and then walked away like nothing happened.

you stared after him, breath caught in your throat. it got harder to hide. and harder to explain.

you started feeling like everyone could see it. that maybe they’d always known, and you were the last to catch up.

after a taping, you laughed, once at something finn bálor said in catering. punk was at a different table. he didn’t even look up.

but that night, as you left the arena, you heard your name. you turned.

punk was leaning against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, expression unreadable.   "what was that?" he asked.

you blinked. "what was what?"

  "with bálor."

you paused. confused. "he told a joke. i laughed. that's all it was." he stepped closer.

  "don’t" he said, voice low. "don’t play dumb."

you opened your mouth to argue, to remind him you weren’t his, that he had no right, but then he grabbed your arm.

not rough. not violent. but tight.

tight enough that your breath hitched. his eyes searched yours, full of heat and fury and something deeper, something sharper.

  "you don’t understand what it does to me" he muttered. "when someone else looks at you like that." his grip loosened. he stepped back.

you stared at him, throat dry.

he saw the question in your eyes, the fear, the warning, the need for him to say it wasn’t what it looked like.

but he didn’t. instead, he softened. voice quiet. almost sad.

  "i’m not angry at you" he said. "i just can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you. laughing with you. having you."

then, as if that cleared something up, he turned and walked away.

you stood there for minutes after. long after the sound of his boots had faded.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t even know what city you were in.

you’d stared at the hotel room ceiling for twenty minutes, trying to remember, the same beige wallpaper, the same sterile lamps, the same hum of the air conditioner too loud to ignore but too quiet to drown out your thoughts.

it was your third week on the road without a break. nonstop shows. airports. rental cars. sleep-deprived mornings. glitter still clinging to your knuckles in the shower. you hadn’t seen your family since the month started, hadn’t spoken to them in a few days. every time you meant to call, you didn’t know what to say.

they wouldn’t understand. they’d ask how the job was going, and you’d lie. you’d say it was exciting. that you were adjusting.

you wouldn’t tell them you felt like you were slowly disappearing into the walls. you wouldn’t tell them about the stares, the silence, the rumors no one would say to your face.

you wouldn’t tell them about him.

the knock at the hotel door was soft.

you ignored it at first, curled on the bed in your sweats, hoodie pulled tight around you. eyes puffy. phone facedown. you hadn’t eaten since catering, if you could call black coffee and a protein bar a meal.

another knock.

you stood slowly, cautious. when you cracked the door open, punk was there. hoodie. backpack slung over one shoulder. eyes unreadable. you didn’t speak. you didn’t need to.

he took one look at your face, red-rimmed, tired and stepped inside without asking. you sat on the edge of the bed. he stood a few feet away.

you didn’t look at him when you spoke.

  "i hate this." he didn’t ask what you meant.

you kept going. quiet. honest.   "i hate being tired all the time. i hate feeling like i’m in the way. i hate that cathy barely talks to me anymore, that people stare like i've done something wrong. i miss my sister. i miss my dad’s awful sunday calls. i miss being able to breathe."

your voice broke on that last word.

he was silent. still.

you finally looked up.

  "i didn’t ask for this" you whispered. "any of this."

something shifted in his face. he moved closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

when he spoke, his voice was soft. low. intimate.

  "i know."

he knelt in front of you. hands on your knees, light but grounding.

  "i know you didn’t ask for this. you were just doing your job. you walked in and i saw you. really saw you. and it scared the hell out of me."

you stared at him, throat closing.

  "you’re not alone" he said. "even if they make you feel like you are."

his fingers curled gently around yours.

you didn’t pull away.

you should have.

you didn’t.

you didn’t remember who moved first. maybe it was you. maybe it was him. maybe it didn’t matter.

one moment, his hand was on your cheek, warm, steady and the next, his lips were on yours.

it wasn’t frantic. it wasn’t rushed.

it was slow. deep. almost reverent.

and when he pulled back, when your breath stuttered out in the quiet of the hotel room, you didn’t say anything.

you just let your forehead rest against his.

you should’ve asked him to leave.

when his hand slid to your thigh, slow and deliberate, you should’ve said stop. when he kissed you again, deeper this time, hands firm against your waist, you should’ve told him it was too much, too fast, too confusing.

but you didn’t.

because when he touched you, the noise fell away. for the first time in weeks, your body stopped buzzing with anxiety. everything, the travel, the loneliness, the stares, the whispers, melted under the heat of his hands.

you weren’t scared.

you were seen.

"let me take care of you" he whispered, breath warm against your neck. "let me show you how i see you."

you nodded before you meant to.

he smiled, not arrogant, not smug. soft. like this was something he’d been waiting for. hoping for. obsessing over.

punk peeled your hoodie off like it was made of silk. like it was something delicate, like you were delicate. his hands brushed your waist, your ribs, then your face, every motion slow, reverent.

"beautiful" he muttered. "you don’t even know, do you?"

you opened your mouth to answer, but he kissed you again, not to shut you up, but to devour something unspoken between you.

when he got you onto the bed, he didn’t rush.

he kissed down your collarbone with aching precision. his lips lingered at your sternum, your stomach, your thighs, hot and slow, like he needed to memorize every inch of you. his hands gripped your hips like he was grounding himself, like if he let go, you’d vanish.

you weren’t used to this. the quiet. the care. the way he looked at you like you were a gospel, and he’d built his faith around you.

every sigh you made was answered. every twitch of hesitation, met with a whisper:

"i’ve got you."

"you’re safe."

"no one else touches you like this. no one ever will."

when he finally slipped between your legs, his tongue was just as focused, deliberate, reverent. he groaned against your skin like your pleasure was oxygen. every reaction pulled a deeper obsession from him. his hands held your thighs apart like they were his, not roughly, but with ownership.

when you came, he didn’t stop.

not at first.

he watched you, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, lips wet.

then he climbed up, chest brushing yours, arms caging you in.

"i dream about you like this" he whispered, voice shaking with restraint. "you have no idea what you do to me."

you kissed him again. he tasted like you.

he slid inside you like it was inevitable.

no games. no teasing.

just home.

he didn’t pound into you, he pressed, slow and deep, every thrust a confession.

you felt him in your ribs. your lungs. your throat.

he kept whispering things you didn’t fully register, only that they made your chest ache and your eyes sting.

"you’re mine now."

"i’d burn the world down for you."

"you don’t need anyone but me."

his rhythm never faltered. he was too in control. too focused. and when you clenched around him again, trembling under him, he buried his face in your neck and let go with a ragged groan.

he didn’t pull out.

he didn’t apologize.

he just held you afterward. hands in your hair. breath hot at your ear.

"i won’t let them take you from me" he murmured. "not now. not ever."

you didn’t respond.

because part of you wasn’t afraid anymore.

you just didn’t know why.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t know how he did it.

one minute you were dreading another taping, already bracing for the low buzz of stress that sat behind your teeth every day. the next, punk (who had told you he was going to meet you at the arena) was standing in front of your hotel door, holding two coffee cups and a keycard.

"no arena today" he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "you’re with me."

you blinked. "what are you talking about? i’m booked"

"i cleared it." his voice left no room for argument. "trust me. you need this."

you should’ve argued harder.

but when you looked at him, all black hoodie and dark eyes soft around the edges, something in your chest unknotted. you followed him.

and he took care of everything.

it wasn’t flashy.

he didn’t whisk you off to some distant spa or try to impress you with money. instead, he drove you out of the city. windows down. one hand on the wheel, the other always reaching for you, your thigh, your fingers, your wrist. always touching.

he took you to a lake.

not crowded. no cameras. just late autumn trees and pale sky and the sound of wind slipping through the leaves.

he spread out a blanket and pulled lunch from a canvas bag like he’d done this before, your favorite sandwich, the chips you were addicted to, even the weird green juice you only ever bought in airports.

you stared at it.

then at him.

he gave you a look.

  "you think i don’t know what you like?"

you didn’t ask how he knew. you didn’t want to know.

it was quiet out there.

he didn’t pepper you with questions. didn’t push. you lay back against his chest, the late sun warm against your skin, and for a while you felt okay.

"i hate not being good enough", you said, voice barely above a whisper.

he didn’t flinch.

"you are" he murmured. "they’re just too stupid to see it."

a beat.

"i do."

later, you dozed off, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing behind you. you felt his lips press to the top of your head.

over and over.

like a prayer.

when you opened your eyes, he was watching you. not smiling. not blinking. just watching.

"feels better, doesn’t it?" he said. "being with me. just us. no noise."

you nodded slowly.

you meant it.

but something inside you shifted when he added:

"you don’t need anyone else. not when you’ve got me."

and in that moment you didn’t disagree.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the next morning, he was waiting again.

rental car already humming. coffee, your exact order, in the cupholder. hoodie pulled over his head like he hadn’t slept. his thumb tapped the steering wheel once, twice, and stilled the moment you opened the passenger door.

"good girl" he said, quiet, like it was just for you.

that day at the arena, punk didn’t leave your side.

not like he was shadowing you, not exactly. but he was always there: at catering, in the hallway, outside your interviews. never interrupting, just watching. just a touch too close. a little too still. too quiet.

when you finished an interview segment with drew mcIntyre, only fifteen seconds of polite small talk afterward, punk’s hand was already at your lower back before drew even stepped away.

"you looked beautiful on camera" he murmured. "he didn’t need to stand that close."

you didn’t respond.

but you didn’t pull away, either.

the gifts started again.

tiny, curated, perfectly you.

a new hairbrush in your makeup bag, the same kind you lost in college.

a travel-size lotion in your purse that hadn’t been there yesterday, your signature scent, discontinued two years ago.

a silver chain in your locker with a tiny, engraved charm. your initials.

you told yourself they were sweet.

you didn’t ask how he got into your locker.

your old phone vanished.

you tore your hotel room apart looking for it, contacts, photos, texts, everything gone. the only thing left was the sleek new phone he’d given you a week ago, screen already glowing with a message:

don’t panic. you’re safe. you don’t need that old one anymore.

you stared at it for a long time before you turned it over.

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t ask for the old one back, either.

cathy stopped sitting next to you at gorilla.

becky kept her distance.

sami zayn gave you a strange look when punk kissed your temple backstage.

and when triple h asked, again, if everything was okay, his tone careful, measured you smiled like you’d rehearsed it.

"i’m fine."

"are you sure?"

you swallowed.

"he’s not dangerous. he’s just intense."

hunter looked at you for a long time.

then he nodded.

and walked away.

that night, at the hotel, you found punk already in your room.

he didn’t explain how he got in.

you didn’t ask.

he just reached for you, pulled you gently onto the bed, and said:

"you don’t need to carry all this. let me."

you let him.

and when he brushed your hair back from your face and whispered:

"they don’t deserve you. but i do."

you didn’t argue.

because some twisted, tired, hollowed-out part of you had started to believe it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you hadn’t meant to overhear it.

you were just cutting through the hallway behind gorilla, trying to get to the media room. your badge was flipped under your jacket, and you were half-scrolling your phone when the voices floated around the corner.

two producers.

men.

laughing.

"i’m just saying, you don’t get ahead in this place without playing the game."

"sure, but that game? with punk? you think she actually likes him, or is she just smart enough to ride the obsession?"

that laugh, low, smug, razor-sharp, made your stomach turn.

"doesn’t matter. either way, she’s not exactly suffering. have you seen the way he looks at her? shit, if i stared at a woman like that, i’d be in jail."

more laughter.

you stood frozen, fingers clenched around your phone.

it wasn’t the first time. you weren’t naïve.

but tonight it hit different.

raw.

heavy.

your throat burned.

you didn’t even think before you texted him.

two producers were talking shit about me near gorilla.just wanted to tell someone. i'm fine. just needed to say it.

you locked the screen and shoved the phone away, not expecting a reply. not needing one. you just wanted to feel less alone for a minute.

you didn’t see it happen.

you only heard about it after.

punk found them near the loading dock.

no cameras. no agents. no production crew in sight.

no witnesses, until the shouting started.

you didn’t see the first punch.

or the second.

you didn’t see the way he slammed one of them against a supply crate, hand fisted in his collar, low voice seething something you couldn’t make out.

you didn’t see the blood.

but you saw the aftermath.

they pulled him off just before it escalated further. two security guys. a ref. one of the writers. all of them yelling. one of the producers had a busted lip. the other couldn’t make eye contact with anyone.

and punk?

he didn’t even look winded.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that night you found him in the hallway outside your hotel room.

hood up. hands in his pockets. leaning against the wall like he’d been there for hours.

you hadn’t expected him.

you hadn’t needed to.

he lifted his gaze the moment your keycard beeped and the door clicked open. didn’t say anything, just followed you in with the quiet certainty of someone who knew he’d be welcome.

the door shut behind him. the silence stretched.

you turned to him slowly, your heart thudding a little harder than you wanted it to.

"your hand" you said.

it was the first thing you noticed, the raw, bruised skin across his knuckles, the thin split along one finger.

he looked down at it like he’d forgotten.

"oh. right." his voice was quiet. almost casual.

you moved without thinking. to the bathroom. grabbed a towel, wet it, rummaged through your travel kit for the tiny first aid set you never used.

when you came back, he’d sat on the edge of the bed.

he didn’t protest when you took his hand.

didn’t flinch, didn’t joke, didn’t try to explain.

you cleaned the blood away gently, pressing the cloth around each knuckle with care. it wasn’t much, a couple scrapes, a bruise that would ache tomorrow, but it felt more intimate than anything you’d done with him before.

"i didn’t ask you to do that" you said softly, eyes on his hand.

"i know" he murmured.

you wrapped a bandage around one finger, slowly. "you could get in serious trouble."

"they talked about you like you were nothing" he said, tone flat. "like you weren’t real. like you were available. like they had the right."

you looked up.

his eyes were already on you.

and for once, there was no heat in them. no sharp hunger. just this calm, devastating certainty, like he'd already made peace with the consequences.

"i’ll always protect you" he said.

your hands froze on his.

even now, even after all of it you believed him.

you let go of his hand. he didn’t move.

"i know it scares you sometimes" he added, softer. "the way i feel. the way i see you."

you didn’t respond.

he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them.

"but i need you to understand something. what i did tonight? that wasn’t a mistake. that was love."

you should have pushed back.

should have told him that love didn’t mean fists and blood and bruises on coworkers' faces.

but instead your throat closed.

and you whispered, "i know"

his expression didn’t change. but you saw it in the way his shoulders dropped, in the slow breath he released.

you weren’t running.

you were here.

and that was enough.

the silence had weight.

you sat beside him on the bed, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. his hand rested between you, wrapped in the bandage you’d just placed. the rest of him was still, too still , like he was holding something back.

you should’ve stood up.

you should’ve gone to the bathroom, or checked your phone, or done anything to loosen the tension choking the room.

but then his hand moved. slow. purposeful.

he reached for your face like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him, fingers skimming your jaw, thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. he looked at you the way someone might look at something they didn’t think they deserved to keep.

"you didn’t run" he said, voice low.

you shook your head.

"you’re still here."

"i'm here" you whispered.

something inside him snapped.

you didn’t see him move, just felt it: the press of his mouth against yours, hot and desperate. his unbandaged hand found your waist, dragged you across his lap like he couldn’t stand the inches between you. you gasped, and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper, hungrier, his lips rough, unforgiving.

he didn’t ask.

he didn’t need to.

you clawed at his hoodie, pulled it over his head, revealing the taut line of his shoulders, the cut of his tattoos, the scar down his ribs. he shoved your shirt up, lips trailing the curve of your stomach like a prayer.

"i almost lost it" he muttered against your skin. his teeth grazed your hip. "they speak about you like they have a chance"

"they don't" you breathed.

his head lifted. His eyes met yours, wild, dark, possessive.

"i know." a beat. then, quieter: "but i need you to show me."

he pulled you to your feet, walked you backwards toward the full-length mirror beside the hotel desk. you were still catching your breath when your back hit the cold wall.

he dropped to his knees in front of you.

his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your hips. he kissed you there, soft at first, then harder, like he wanted to leave a mark. his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down slowly, savoring the way your legs trembled.

"look at yourself" he murmured. "look at what i get. what’s mine."

you tried to glance away, but his hand came up, fingers under your chin, tilting your head back toward the glass.

"don’t hide. not from me."

and then he ruined you.

tongue firm and slow between your legs, licking you open with devastating patience. he didn’t close his eyes. didn’t stop looking up at you. every whimper, every gasp, every twitch of your hips, he devoured it like it fed him.

you reached for his hair, dug your nails in. his groan vibrated through you.

"more" you begged, already shaking.

"you’ll come for me like this" he whispered against you. "pressed up against the mirror so you can watch. i want you to see what i do to you."

your legs started to give, but he held you up. both hands locked around your thighs, mouth relentless, tongue fucking into you until the pressure broke and you came with a cry, your forehead thudding against the glass, breath fogging the reflection.

you were still trying to breathe when he stood, hands sliding up your waist.

he kissed you, slow this time, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"i’d do anything for you. you deserve it"

and in that moment, you believed it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the room was quiet. you were curled into him on the bed, sheets tangled at your waist, skin still warm and humming from everything he’d given you. the mirror across the room was fogged with breath, smudged with your back.

you should’ve felt self-conscious.

you didn’t.

you felt wanted.

his fingers moved slowly across your spine, lazy, tracing invisible lines as if memorizing your shape again. he hadn’t spoken in a while, just kissed your shoulder every so often, like reminders. i’m still here. you’re still mine.

then he broke the silence.

"i want to show you something."

you blinked, barely lifting your head off his chest. "now?"

he nodded, eyes unreadable.

"come here." he sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed. you followed, still bare, wrapped in a bedsheet, confused but curious. he stood, back to you, and then

he pulled his boxers down just enough to expose the curve of his hipbone.

at first you didn’t see it.

then your breath caught.

there, tucked just beneath the ink of an older tattoo was your name. small. scripted in delicate black letters. it wasn’t flashy. it wasn’t loud. it was intimate.

permanent.

you stared at it, heart thudding hard in your chest.

"you—when did you"

"a week ago" he said, not turning around yet. "after our first time i knew it was done. that you were it. that i wouldn’t survive loving anyone else."

you reached out, fingers brushing over the skin just above the lettering. he tensed, not from discomfort, but from the way you touched it. like reverence. like it meant something sacred.

he turned slowly, eyes locking onto yours.

"you don’t have to say anything" he said. "i don’t expect you to"

"i want one" you interrupted.

his brows lifted.

"i want one too" you said again, voice steady now.

"of me?" he asked, cautious.

"no. for us" you stepped closer. "something only we understand."

the silence between you changed. grew warm. heavy.

he reached for you then, one hand cupping your jaw, the other resting just over your heart.

"you don’t know what that does to me" he whispered.

"you could show me" you breathed.

but this time, no rush. no fire.

just closeness. possession without pressure.

devotion, worn like skin.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the morning light filtered through the gauzy hotel curtains, turning the room soft and silver. you hadn’t moved much. his arms were still around you, one leg tangled with yours, your body curved perfectly to his.

you’d never slept so deeply.

or woken up feeling owned. in a way that didn’t scare you anymore.

he stirred behind you, nose brushing your hair. "you still mean it?"

your heart beat once, loud and sure.

"i meant it last night" you said. "i mean it more this morning."

he kissed your shoulder. "get dressed. i know a place."

the shop wasn’t in the glossy, public part of town. it was quiet, tucked into a corner of a narrow side street. private. low-key. punk clearly knew the artist, a man with too many piercings and no nameplate, who nodded at him and said nothing when he introduced you.

it didn’t feel like a spectacle. it felt like a ritual.

you knew what you wanted before he even asked.

a sparrow, small, stylized, black ink only, wings spread wide as if caught mid-flight. but the detail was in the centre: its talons clutched a tiny red thread. and woven into that thread, almost hidden in the lines, were his initials.

you didn’t want it loud.

you wanted it yours.

you chose the spot just beneath your left collarbone, high enough to stay private, low enough that you’d always know it was there.

punk sat beside you the whole time.

he didn’t speak. didn’t need to. his hand stayed curled around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles with every buzz of the machine. his eyes never left your face, not even once.

when it was done, he helped you sit up.

the artist handed you a mirror.

you looked.

it was perfect.

punk stood behind you, both hands on your shoulders now. his voice was quiet, low in your ear.

"you let me mark you."

you nodded.

"i’d never ask you to" he added. "but you did it anyway."

"because i wanted to." you met his gaze in the mirror. "because i belong to you too.”

he kissed the side of your neck. not rushed. not greedy. just reverent.

and for the first time, you realized: he didn’t just want to claim you.

he wanted to be claimed right back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t keep your own calendar anymore.

punk knew your call times before you did. he woke you up before your alarm, always with a hand stroking gently down your spine and his voice low in your ear: "time to get up, sweetheart. i've got breakfast."

he fed you. always something warm and protein-packed. no excuses. he’d sit across from you and watch you eat like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. sometimes he’d reach out just to brush his thumb over your lip if you got a smudge of syrup or coffee. always gentle. always his.

then he drove you to the arena.

you didn’t remember the last time you’d called an uber or booked a ride through wwe's travel desk. punk handled everything. he waited for you after every segment, no matter how short, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, black hoodie half-zipped, looking at you like you were the main event and no one else existed.

when you tried to sneak off once, just to grab water, not even ten steps out of his sight, your new phone buzzed before you even made it to catering.

where are you going?

why didn’t you tell me?

you okay? i can’t breathe when i don’t know.

you stood in the hallway, staring at the screen. your heart should’ve raced. should’ve felt panic or dread or at least unease.

instead, you smiled.

you typed one word:

thirsty.

two seconds later, he turned the corner, bottle of water in hand, jaw tight, eyes scanning you like he’d almost lost something.

he handed it over without a word, brushed your hair back, and kissed your temple.

and that night, you showed him how much it meant.

you barely made it to the bed.

his hands were everywhere, rougher now, desperate. his mouth crushed to yours as your back hit the mattress, his weight following close behind. teeth caught your bottom lip. you gasped, and he took it as permission.

clothes came off in pieces, pulled, torn, tossed. he didn’t speak until he was inside you, moving hard and hungry, his fingers laced with yours, pinning them to the pillow.

"you’re mine" he gritted. "all mine."

you moaned his name, soft, needy and he snapped his hips harder, dragging another cry from your throat.

"say it" he demanded, voice ragged.

"i'm yours" you breathed.

he dropped his mouth to your throat, biting just enough to leave proof, sucking until you whimpered, until you arched for him, until he lost rhythm trying to keep himself from breaking.

"you’ll never need anyone else" he growled, voice shaking with it. "ever."

his grip tightened. his body trembled against yours as he spilled into you with a shudder, breath harsh in your ear.

he didn’t pull away.

just buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

you held him there.

and you believed him.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you’d never seen his hotel room.

not really. he was always at yours, crashing after long drives, feeding you, waking you up before call times. his things would appear in your space: a hoodie slung over a chair, his toothbrush in your bathroom, his boots by the door. he inhabited your life like it was his.

but tonight, he said something different.

"come to my room."

you blinked at him, still curled up in the hotel bed, wearing his old straight edge society t-shirt. "why?"

he didn’t smile. just offered his hand. "because i want you to see it."

the room was one floor up. same hotel, but when the door swung open, it didn’t feel like any place you’d stayed before.

the lights were low. the curtains drawn tight. there was no luggage on the floor, no clutter, nothing impersonal or temporary.

everything here was about you.

a candle was burning, it smelled like your shampoo.

your favorite snacks sat neatly on the dresser, next to the exact lotion you kept in your nightstand at home.

and then you saw it.

against the far wall, lit softly by the glow of a bedside lamp, was a shrine.

there was no other word for it.

printouts of your tweets, screen captures from your backstage segments, torn pages from magazines where your face appeared in background shots. selfies from your instagram, including ones you’d deleted. a photo of you sleeping, one he must have taken weeks ago, back when you first started sharing rooms.

and more.

a black lace bra you lost in la. a pair of panties you hadn’t even realised were missing. a script packet with your scribbled notes in the margins.

all yours.

all arranged with careful, reverent attention.

you turned to him slowly. he hadn’t moved. just stood in the doorway, watching your reaction with that same unreadable stillness.

"you’re not scared" he said finally.

you stepped closer to the wall, fingers brushing one of the photos. "should i be?"

he exhaled, not relief, but something heavier. older. his shoulders dropped a little, like he’d been waiting a long time for this moment.

"i've been building this since the day i met you" he said. "every arena, every city. i couldn’t stop. even when i tried."

you looked back at him, not afraid, not shaken.

touched.

"you didn’t need to hide it" you said softly.

his eyes searched yours, dark and shining. "you think it’s too much."

"no" you whispered. "i think it’s you."

you stepped into him, slid your hands under his hoodie, pressed your body close.

"and you’re mine."

he crushed you against him in a heartbeat. His hands tangled in your hair, his mouth devouring yours like he’d waited a lifetime.

he kissed you like he was starved.

not just for your body, but for permission. for closeness. for proof that he hadn’t made it all up in his head.

that you wanted this.

wanted him.

the shrine was still glowing in the corner. candlelight flickered over the photos, the lace, the torn scripts and ink-blurred notes. but your eyes weren’t on the wall anymore.

they were on him.

he pulled your shirt over your head, slow, careful. you tugged his hoodie off too, baring the heavy ink of his chest and the thin scar below his eye. that old, serious face cracked wide open with heat and hunger.

he laid you out on the bed, his bed, like you were something breakable.

and then he just looked at you.

for a long, aching moment, he didn’t move. didn’t undress you the rest of the way. just hovered above you on his elbows, thumb brushing over your jaw.

"do you know what it does to me?" he whispered. "knowing you sleep in my shirt. let me take your clothes. let me watch you."

you swallowed hard, breath hitching.

"i want you to know everything i've taken from you" he said, voice raw. "because i'm going to give it all back. tonight. over and over."

when he finally moved, it was deliberate. worshipful. his mouth traced every line of you, collarbones, sternum, ribs, hips, whispering soft mine, mine, mine against your skin.

he kissed between your thighs, eyes locked on yours the whole time, and you swear he almost came from the sound of your moan alone.

and when he was inside you, slow, deep, dragging every second out like it might kill him, he didn’t just move.

he prayed.

"look at me" he panted, forehead pressed to yours. "i want you to see how much i love you."

your fingers tightened in his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist, and he choked out a groan.

"you’re it" he gasped. "you’re the only fucking thing i need."

you came twice before he let himself finish, shaking, biting your shoulder, voice breaking:

"i’d die for you."

you kissed him silent.

and when you rolled together into the pillows, bodies tangled and sweat-slick and trembling, his arms locked around you like chains.

"i don’t want to wake up without you ever again" he murmured.

"you won’t."

you meant it.

and beside the shrine of everything he’d stolen you fell asleep in the arms of the man who would never let you go.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the car was already waiting outside when he helped you zip your suitcase.

he hadn’t said much all morning, just followed you like a shadow through your hotel room, stealing glances when you weren’t looking. or maybe you were looking, but pretending not to notice.

the silence was heavy. and it said everything.

you knelt to grab your phone charger from the wall, and he crouched next to you, hand brushing your shoulder.

"you packed the hoodie i gave you?" he asked softly.

you nodded. "yeah. smells like you, too."

that earned the smallest smile. a flicker of relief.

but it vanished just as quickly.

you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and he took it from you before you could protest, like always. one hand gripped the handle, the other settled on your lower back. grounding. possessive.

"remind me why you’re going again?" he said as you stepped into the hallway.

you glanced up at him. "because my sister had a baby?"

he blinked slowly, like that hadn’t fully registered. "right. yeah. no of course.”

the elevator ride was silent.

but the air between you was loud.

at the car, the driver opened the trunk and you moved to say goodbye but he didn’t let you.

punk pulled you into him hard, arms circling your waist, face buried in your neck.

"you sure you’ll be okay without me?" you teased gently, running your fingers through his hair.

he didn’t laugh.

instead, his mouth brushed your ear.

"i’m not okay with you gone" he said. "that’s the problem."

your breath caught.

you pulled back just enough to kiss him. soft. reassuring.

"i'll only be gone a week"

"that’s two days too long."

you smiled but it faded fast when he looked at you. his eyes were empty of calm.

like he was already counting the minutes.

"i’ll call you when i land."

he nodded, then pulled you back in, tighter this time, his hand pressing at the small of your back like he could will you to stay.

as you slid into the backseat, you rolled the window down.

"i love you."

he stepped forward, fingers curling around the frame of the door.

"i know."

then, voice like gravel:

"just don’t forget who you belong to, okay?"

you didn’t flinch. you just held his gaze.

and whispered, "never."

the door shut.

the car pulled away.

and as you turned the corner, you didn’t see him still standing there, fingers twitching at his sides, jaw clenched, mind already spiraling into every version of what could go wrong without him there to watch you.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you hadn’t even made it to the airport before your phone buzzed for the first time.

punk:

already miss you. are you sure you want to go?

you smiled, thumbs hovering, but didn’t reply right away. you were rushing, bags in hand, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion you hadn’t admitted out loud.

he knew you needed this. he said he understood.

but understanding didn’t make him less obsessive.

by the time your flight took off, he’d texted six more times.

punk:

i keep checking the clock. i feel like you’re disappearing. i hate this.

and then:

you’re not coming back different right?

you stared at that last one a little too long.

because it wasn’t a joke. it wasn’t insecurity.

it was fear.

that first night, he facetimed you three times. the first was sweet, just his face, lit by the glow of the hotel tv, asking about the baby, about your sister.

by the second, he was quieter. lying in your shared bed, jaw tense.

"i don’t sleep without you" he admitted.

you tried to laugh it off. "you slept fine before we met."

he didn’t smile.

"that wasn’t sleep. that was passing time."

the third call came after midnight. you were still awake, alone in your childhood bedroom. he didn’t say hello. just held the phone at chest level, shirtless, hand trailing low, voice rough.

"i was thinking about that night in front of the mirror" he murmured.

you swallowed.

"the way you looked at me. like you wanted me to wreck you." he shifted the camera lower, fingers sliding beneath his waistband. "i miss the sounds you make. i miss the way you taste."

"punk" you whispered, eyes wide, heart pounding.

"touch yourself,” he said. "now. let me see you."

your hand trembled as you set the phone on your pillow and shifted back on the bed, propping it to give him a full view. you weren’t even sure if it was the right angle, but the sound he made when he saw you told you it was perfect.

"that’s it" he murmured, eyes dark, breathing already heavier. "god, baby you’re beautiful like this. all mine."

you slid your fingers under the waistband of your shorts slowly, eyes flicking back to the screen. he was watching you like he was starved, like the distance between you was offensive to him. his hand moved beneath his own waistband, slow but possessive, like he was already imagining your skin under his palm.

"go slow" he said. "i want to see you fall apart. don’t rush. let me feel it through the screen."

the sound of his voice, low and gravelly, controlled but cracking at the edges, made heat roll through your stomach like a wave. you followed his words like they were gospel, like they were the only thing keeping your mind anchored in that moment.

every gasp you let out was met with a groan from him. every moan he pulled from you sounded like it shattered something in him.

"you miss me?" he rasped, hand working harder now, brow furrowed.

you nodded desperately, body aching, teeth tugging at your lip.

"say it" he growled.

"i miss you" you whimpered. "i miss the way you touch me. i miss your mouth. i want you so bad it hurts."

he groaned low, eyes fluttering shut for a second, then snapped open again.

"keep going, baby. let me watch you come."

you whimpered, legs tensing, his voice in your ear and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. his hand was working faster, his breathing ragged. you could hear it, feel it, like he was there, just inches away, whispering filthy promises into your neck.

when it hit you, it hit like lightning. your back arched, mouth falling open as a cry escaped you, his name, raw and wrecked.

and then you heard it, his broken moan, deep and strangled, as he found release with your name on his lips.

the screen went still for a beat.

"i will always remind you who you belong to."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

your niece had finally fallen asleep again, curled into your chest with the warm heaviness only a newborn could have. the house smelled like coffee, lavender laundry detergent, and something nostalgic, a hint of home you hadn’t realized you missed until just now.

it was quiet. a rarity.

your sister was upstairs napping. your dad was outside somewhere, probably fixing something that didn’t really need fixing, the way dads did. and for once, your phone hadn’t buzzed in over ten minutes.

you weren’t sure if that made you feel relieved or on edge.

then the knock came. hard. precise.

you startled slightly, the baby shifting against you.

you peeked through the small window next to the front door and froze.

he was standing there on the porch. hoodie pulled over his head, one hand stuffed into the front pocket, the other holding a black duffel. the hood shadowed his face, but you knew that posture. that stillness.

it was punk.

you unlocked the door slowly, your voice low and confused.

"phil"

he looked up at you like a drowning man. his eyes were bloodshot, sunken, but burning.

"i had to see you" he said simply.

you stared at him. "you didn’t tell me"

"i didn’t want to give you a chance to say no."

you blinked. his bluntness shouldn't surprise you anymore. but here, in this hallway where your middle school backpack still hung on a hook, it rattled something inside you.

"i said a week" you said, shifting your niece gently as she stirred. "it’s been two days"

"i couldn’t sleep. couldn’t breathe" he stepped forward. "you were here without me. i didn’t like that."

you stepped aside wordlessly. not out of fear, just instinct.

he brushed past you with a familiarity that felt surreal in this space, this childhood version of your life where he didn’t belong.

and yet here he was. breathing your air like he owned it.

he stopped in the entryway and looked around. Family photos lined the walls. your childhood shoes still tucked on the bottom row of the hall rack. his eyes landed on one frame in particular, you, in braces, beaming with a science fair ribbon.

a flicker of something softer passed through him. "you were cute."

"i was a nerd" you replied.

"you still are" he said, smiling faintly. "mine, though."

you shifted awkwardly, still holding the baby.

his eyes moved back to her. for the first time, his expression cracked, just a little.

"she’s beautiful."

you nodded, watching him. "she’s new."

his gaze dropped to your arms, where the baby was nestled against your chest. something in his throat moved like a swallowed groan.

"i pictured this" he murmured. "you holding a baby."

you said nothing.

before you could respond, footsteps thudded down the stairs.

"who’s at the door?" your sister’s voice came around the corner, then froze. "oh my god. wait. is that..."

she was already grinning, eyes wide.

he turned and offered a polite smile, voice low but friendly. "hey. i’m phil."

your sister gaped. "you’re cm punk. like her cm punk"

he chuckled modestly. "just phil is fine."

she practically lit up. "wow. this is wow. we didn’t know you were visiting!"

"she didn’t know either" he said, nodding toward you. "surprise."

your sister looked between the two of you, then nudged your arm with a smirk. "you weren’t kidding when you said he was intense."

you gave a tight-lipped smile. "he doesn’t like being away."

"well, that’s sweet" she said. "you want coffee? or are you two gonna hole up in her room like teenagers?"

"i could take coffee" he replied, eyes not leaving yours.

your sister disappeared into the kitchen, and you were alone again.

the baby stirred, and punk stepped closer. "let me?"

you hesitated. then, you handed her to him.

he held her like he’d done it before. careful. reverent. but it was the way he looked at her, like he already knew what it would feel like to see you holding his child, that made your chest feel too tight.

"she’s perfect" he said softly. "but she’s not ours."

your breath caught.

"i want that" he whispered, eyes still on the baby. "with you. one day."

you should’ve said something. something normal. something grounding.

but instead, you just watched him.

and in your father’s house, under the roof where you once had dreams about becoming someone normal, you realised:

you didn’t want to live without this version of love anymore.

even if it wasn’t safe. even if it wasn’t sane. it was yours.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

it was surreal, watching punk step into your childhood bedroom.

the posters were long gone, the twin bed had been upgraded to a queen at some point, but the ghosts were still here, the stack of dog-eared books on the dresser, the lacy curtain your mom picked out, the photo booth strip pinned above the mirror from senior prom.

he stood in the center of it like a shadow that didn’t belong.

like a wolf in a museum of your softness.

"wow" he murmured, running his hand along the desk. "you really grew up in here."

you leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.

he turned slowly. his eyes were darker now. calmer. but charged, like he was trying not to detonate.

"it’s fucking crazy" he said quietly, "seeing you in this room. knowing this was yours. the bed you used to sleep in. the closet you cried in. the floor you probably paced the night before your first kiss."

he took a step toward you.

"i think i hate that" he whispered. "that someone else ever got here before me."

you didn’t move. your heart fluttered like a warning. but you weren’t afraid.

you were already his.

he closed the distance and cupped your jaw with both hands, staring into your face like he needed to memorize you again. "you feel it, don’t you?"

you nodded, barely.

he leaned in and kissed you, slow, but consuming. the kind of kiss that doesn’t just want to taste you but own the moment. the kind of kiss that says mine.

your back hit the bedroom door as he pressed you into it. his hands gripped your hips hard, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. your name left his mouth like a curse as he trailed open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

"this room" he murmured, tugging your shirt over your head, "it’s where you dreamed about getting out. about living a big life. about being seen."

he dropped to his knees in front of you, his voice reverent and low.

"and now here you are" he said, sliding your underwear down slowly. "and i see you. every part."

you gasped as his mouth replaced his words, hot, possessive, worshipful in the way he touched you. he didn’t care that your childhood bed creaked behind him. he didn’t care that your family was a hallway away.

he just needed to taste the part of you no one else had touched.

your fingers gripped his hair as he devoured you, his moans lost in your skin. when he finally stood, his mouth slick, pupils blown wide, he looked wrecked.

"you are everything" he whispered, tugging his shirt over his head. "every damn thing i’ve ever wanted and never thought i could have."

you pulled him to the bed, both of you stripping fast now, hands frantic with need. when he sank into you, his forehead dropped to yours, and he let out a shaking breath.

"this is it" he rasped. "this is the only place i've ever felt sane."

you moved together slowly at first, but the desperation built quickly, years of longing crammed into one moment. he whispered things you’d never forget, pressed kisses to your temple between thrusts, held your face while you broke apart beneath him.

and when he finished, deep inside, voice cracking with the force of it, he didn’t move for a long time. just stayed there, wrapped around you, heart pounding against your chest.

"i need you" he whispered into your skin. "more than anything. more than breathing."

you kissed him, sweat-slick and shaking, and for once, didn’t try to stop the truth from blooming inside your chest.

you needed him too.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the sun had barely risen when he woke up alone.

for a man so often coiled with instinct, his reaction was immediate: alert, tense, halfway sitting up in your childhood bed before he even registered the silence.

but then he heard it , your voice. soft. distant. not afraid.

he slipped on his hoodie and padded quietly down the hall, barefoot on the carpet. the house smelled like coffee and baby powder and something faintly floral, the way homes smelled when they were full of women who loved deeply.

he followed the sound of your voice into the den.

you were sitting on the couch, hair messy from sleep, one leg tucked under the other. the baby was cradled to your chest in a white cotton onesie covered in little yellow ducks.

you didn’t hear him enter.

"and when you’re big" you were saying to her, voice gentle and dreamy, "you’ll get to pick whatever you want. you can be a scientist or a wrestler or a poet or i don’t know. maybe you’ll own a bakery."

the baby gurgled.

you smiled down at her. "i just hope someone loves you"

punk stopped in the doorway.

he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. hadn’t meant to see this moment. but now that he had, he couldn’t breathe around it.

you looked ethereal. a little tired. beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with belonging.

you were a woman with a whole world tucked into her arms.

and he wanted in.

he wanted all of it.

you noticed him then. your smile didn’t falter.

"hey" you whispered, "she just fell back asleep."

he didn’t speak right away. just stared. at you. at her. at what you looked like wrapped in a kind of peace he’d never tasted before.

his voice was low when it came. rough from sleep and something else.

"you looked like that in my dreams."

you blinked. "like what?"

"that." his hand gestured vaguely. "you. holding her. talking like that."

you tilted your head, amused and curious. "like a mom?"

he nodded. his chest rose like he was holding something in.

"i want that with you" he said suddenly. too loud for the sleepy room. "i want you. pregnant. with my kid."

your breath caught.

he stepped forward, voice softer now. more dangerous in its gentleness.

"i want to come home and find you barefoot in our kitchen with swollen ankles and a baby on your hip. i want to watch you fall asleep in a rocking chair. i want to see your belly stretch. i want to see you glow."

you couldn’t look away.

"i want to give you everything that matters" he said. "and i want to tear apart anyone who even thinks about taking it away."

the baby stirred slightly against your chest, and you glanced down instinctively.

he smiled.

you didn’t respond.

but he saw it, the flicker in your eyes. the part of you that was afraid because you wanted it too.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you hadn’t spoken much after the baby moment.

not because it was tense. but because it was heavy. something had shifted. you saw it in punk’s eyes every time he looked at you now, like he’d tasted something he couldn’t let go of.

and now you were back in your old bedroom. the door locked. the house dark.

you were on the bed in just a t-shirt, sitting against the headboard, when he came in and closed the door softly behind him.

the air changed.

his eyes swept over you, bare thighs, sleepy face, soft lips and something in him broke.

"you shouldn’t look like that here" he rasped, voice low and ragged. "not in this fucking room. not after what i saw."

you swallowed. "what did you see?"

he came closer. crawled onto the bed like a storm building.

"i saw my future. in your arms. in your eyes. on your skin."

you opened your mouth to speak, but his mouth was already on yours, crushing, bruising, needy. there was no teasing this time. no slow unravel. just his body against yours like he wanted to sink into your bones.

"take it off" he muttered against your lips, tugging at your shirt. "wanna see you. all of you."

you pulled it over your head. and that was all he needed.

he shoved his sweatpants down and hovered over you, hands already everywhere, your thighs, your stomach, your breasts. his mouth followed, worshipping, claiming.

"still think about you holding her" he groaned into your skin. "still see it when i close my eyes."

you gasped as he spread your legs and pressed against you. "punk—"

"you want this?" he asked, voice strained. "you want to carry me? let me fuck a baby into you?"

your breath caught, body arching up into him. "yes."

that was all he needed.

he didn’t tease this time. he pushed in slow but deep, possessive, like his body had the right to be inside yours this way. like your walls knew his shape.

he was rougher this time. not violent, but urgent. one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other on your stomach like he could already feel what might grow there.

"i’m gonna fill you up" he growled in your ear, fucking you harder now. "gonna keep you like this. swollen and sore and mine."

you couldn’t form words. just held onto his shoulders and let him use your body the way he needed.

and he needed.

every thrust was a promise. every moan a vow.

he kissed you like you were air. bit your neck. marked your chest. murmured filth between worship.

and when he felt you start to come undone, legs shaking, back arching, he lost it.

"let go, baby. come for me. let me feel it."

you shattered around him, body trembling under the force of it.

and he followed.

with a broken groan, he came deep inside you, hips pressed hard to yours, arms locked around your back.

even after, he didn’t pull out. he just stayed there. breathing heavily against your chest, fingers tangled with yours.

"you’re mine now" he whispered.

"as if i wasn’t already" you whispered back.

he smiled.

and that was when he knew.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the private car had been quiet for most of the drive. your head leaned against his shoulder, legs pulled up in the backseat, fingers tangled with his. neither of you said much, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been said without words.

you still felt his touch everywhere. his breath. the ache. the way he’d looked at you when he finished inside you, like he’d given you a piece of his soul and expected you to guard it with your life.

the airport was quiet. you boarded early, a rare break in your schedule had allowed punk to arrange a private charter back to tv tapings.

you were curled up in the leather seat, sipping a water bottle when you realized he was watching you.

hard.

not in a possessive way, not this time.

in a final way.

"what's wrong?" you asked gently.

he didn’t answer right away. Just reached into his carry-on.

you thought maybe he was pulling out headphones or snacks, until he turned back to you with something small in his palm.

a ring.

not flashy. not traditional. a band of black metal with your initials and his engraved inside.

your heart stopped.

"phil"

"i don’t need a priest. or an audience. or a fucking cake" he said, quiet and direct. "i just need you."

you stared at the ring.

"you don’t have to think about it" he added. "you already said yes the moment you let me have you."

you blinked hard.

he was serious. dead serious.

"i want to marry you. i want you in my house. in my bed. carrying my name. my kid. my life."

he paused, eyes burning.

"and if you say no, i’ll wait. i'll ask again. every fucking day if i have to. until you can’t imagine waking up without me."

you looked at the ring.

then at him.

he was tense. not afraid. just coiled. like your answer was going to either complete him or break something he’d never get back.

you smiled.

"put it on me."

he let out a slow breath, almost a growl of relief, and slid the ring onto your finger with hands that shook just a little.

"i love you" you said, voice soft.

his hand cradled your jaw. "then you’ll never have to be alone again. i swear it."

you didn’t even make it back to the hotel that night.

he took you in the car.

hard. desperate.

like your yes had made him feral.

like he was already claiming you all over again.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

2 YEARS LATER

your daughter was up before the sun.

you felt the shift in the bed before the sound, your husband moving, the faint creak of the old hardwood floor as he padded out of the bedroom in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants and a worn band tee. the monitor didn’t even have time to crackle. he was faster than technology when it came to her.

you rolled over into the warm spot he left behind and smiled to yourself.

a few minutes later, you heard the soft lilt of his voice through the baby monitor.

"shh, i’ve got you. what’s wrong, huh? did you miss me? couldn’t wait until morning?"

he never sounded like that with anyone else. just her. and you.

you padded into the hallway ten minutes later, sleepy eyed and barefoot, dressed in your usual uniform of his shirt and found them both on the living room couch. your daughter was curled up against punk’s chest, tiny fingers tangled in the chain he still wore around his neck, the one with your initials.

she was babbling. he was answering her like every noise was a real question.

"tell mama what you said" he murmured, turning when he saw you in the doorway. "tell her how you’re already smarter than half the locker room i used to work with."

you laughed, moving to sit beside them. punk kept one arm wrapped around your daughter and the other reached for you instantly, fingers hooking into the hem of your shirt to pull you close.

you nestled against him, tucking your head under his chin.

"this is your fault" he said after a minute, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you made me soft."

you snorted. "you threaten to kill the UPS driver every time he knocks too loud."

"that’s because he makes her cry" he muttered, eyes flicking protectively to your daughter.

you looked down at the two of them, matching dark eyes, matching stubborn expressions.

your little girl, amelie, reached for you, so you lifted her and settled her between your bodies. punk didn’t stop touching you, thumb running slow circles along your thigh as you both watched her examine her toy like it was a treasure map.

she had his focus. your smile. his moods. your patience.

she was your entire world. and somehow, his world had become both of you.

"do you miss it?" you asked softly, glancing at him. "the road? work?"

he shook his head immediately. "i had nothing out there worth keeping."

then, quieter: "everything i want is in this room."

your chest swelled.

"i still remember the first time i saw you" he said suddenly, almost like he couldn’t help it. "backstage. nervous. smiling. like you had no idea someone like me could fall so hard, so fast."

you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. "i think part of me did know."

"yeah" he whispered. "that part of you’s mine now."

the baby yawned, her head drooping onto your chest.

punk adjusted you both gently, then pressed his lips to the crown of her head. then yours.