⋆.˚ VENUS!! ⚡︎

Reminders

Only one vote may be cast per person per category. We will be using a third-party voting system to ensure fairness and transparency.

No hate will be tolerated. Blogs that harass, spread hate, or create drama surrounding the awards and/or winners will be blocked. If you have questions or feedback, please message @eringobragh420 or @spiicii directy.

Winners will be announced after all categories have been posted and voted for, so please be patient.

Links to each story have been included (when available), though please let @eringobragh420 or @spiicii know if you have any issues finding a fic.

"After Hours" by @femdisa

"Bite Your Tongue" by @wallofchynax

"Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be" by @punkssavior

"Cult Of Personality" by @onlyangel4

"Harder To Breathe" by @onlyangel4

"I Get Off" by @eringobragh420

"I Got It" by @eringobragh420

"Tired Of You" by @punkssavior

"Baby Blue" by @fistsandfangs

"Clash of Royalty" by @there-goes-thefighter

"One PM Meeting" by @harmshake (unable to include link)

"Personal Best" by @femdisa

"Red, White, and Ruin" by @onlyangel4

"Suit and Tie" by @mytribalnightmare

"The Perfect Pair" by @eringobragh420

"Dirty Chai" by @fistsandfangs

"Good Boy" @acknowledge-reigns (unable to include link)

"I'm Only Sleeping" by @eringobragh420

"Mash" by @teamchasezwrites

"Off Script" by @onlyangel4

"Reasons" by @harmshake (unable to include link)

"Reina de mi Corazon" by @bijouxcarys

"I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by @onlyangel4

"Of The Night" by @fistsandfangs

"Save The Date" by @shes2real

Some say the night that slips into the day after Halloween is when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.

I’ve never been one for superstitions, but it was almost 3 AM in San Francisco—six hours past my bedtime, two drinks past my limit—and I was staring at what I believed was a ghost.

His hair was the color of honey burning in the sun, his broad shoulders draped in all black, his face carved forever into my memory.

Underneath the strobe lights, he was a ghastly sight.

It appeared time had only treated him kindly. Features that may have once been unrefined and boyish were now polished and divinely crafted.

He shouldn’t have been there, not in this city, not in this life.

I whipped my head around, desperate for an anchor—maybe the beer girl poster behind the bar, perhaps a friend I’d lost somewhere between the espresso martinis—or hell, maybe divine intervention in the form of an axe swinging from the ceiling to end the whole nightmare.

But when I turned back, he was still there.

My glass suddenly felt slick in my hand, the condensation sticking against my palm. I could feel the bass underneath my feet, gin on my tongue. I tried to swallow, but the saliva in my mouth had gone to sand.

For a terrifying second, I thought he was looking right at me. His eyes, dark as spilled ink in this light, cut through the crowd. I watched him weave through the crowd, a black ship through a sea of glitter, leather, and sweat. His eyes swept the room—then, to my horror, locked on mine.

Every step he took towards the bar was a step closer to my grave.

I slammed the rest of my drink down.

"Are you here to kill me?"

My voice was just above the bassline as he came into earshot. He furrowed his brows, confused, before a moment of connection flashed before his eyes.

“Johnny Cash,” he replied, gesturing to his suit.

“You’re from Long Island,” I snorted.

“We’re from Long Island,” he corrected, raising a finger. His tone was almost indignant, though his eyes gave him away—bright, teasing, alive. He smirked, took a sip of his drink, and leaned in. “And Johnny’s for everybody.”

“You were invited to a party last minute,” I said. “Had the suit in your closet, googled for five minutes, and landed on this.”

He laughed, the sound familiar enough to make my heart hurt. “You know me too well.”

I laughed along, the strobe lights dancing blue, yellow, and pink across his face.

"I can't tell if that is a good or bad thing."

"You tell me."

I wanted to say something clever, something that would remind him of how he made me feel without reeking desperation.

He took another sip of his drink, the ice rattling against the glass like dice.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” I said, the words tangled in my throat like old cords, knotted from years of neglect.

He smiled. “Well, that’s a start.”

"Max, what are you doing here?"

Max shrugged his shoulders and looked around the crowd. People shuffled behind him, pushing his body closer to mine. There was a brief moment where all I could see was leather and smell cognac mixed with his cologne.

"Just like you," he started, "I'm out celebrating Halloween with some friends."

"Hardy har har," I deadpanned. "Don't be coy with me, Maxwell Jacob Friedman."

He leaned in, so close that I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my jacket, and his smirk widened. “Coy? Me? I would never."

My eyes went to his hands. I looked at his knuckles, the skin smooth over the bones. I thought of all the times they were wrapped around my throat, pulling my hair, or wiping away my tears.

I took a step back.

"You know what I mean. Why are you in California? Here. In my bar. In my neighborhood."

Max’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Didn’t realize it was your neighborhood. Didn’t see your name on the welcome sign.”

“Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t make this a bit.”

His smirk dropped. “I'm not. I'm not doing a bit.” His gaze was steady now, and the playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something I couldn’t quite read. “I'm filming a movie. I'm renting a spot out in the suburbs until the new year.”

I blinked. “A movie?” My voice sounded smaller than I meant. “Since when do you—?”

“Since now,” he said, shrugging like it was the most mundane thing in the world. "You would know that if you didn't have me blocked everywhere."

I scoffed, "Like I don't have a good reason!"

He gestured at me, a lazy, encompassing wave. “So, it seems fate has a sense of humor.”

I scoffed. “A sick and twisted one. And it's not fate, it's just a coincidence."

The DJ shifted to a slow jam—a signal that it was last call. The beat pulsed through the floorboards as pairs coupled up to sway, a heartbeat pulsed through the floor we were both forced to share.

“Call it what you want,” he said, finishing the last of his drink and setting the glass down on the bar with a decisive click. "It's good to see you."

"Wanna get out of here?" The words were out before I could stop them.

He blinked. For a split second, I thought he was going to laugh, turn on his heel, and disappear back into the crowd of people he belonged with now.

But then he nodded.

The crisp autumn night air was a welcome reprieve, a jolt of cold that sobered me up enough to feel the full weight of what I’d just done. The bar had been a liminal space, a bubble of loud music and cheap lights where the past couldn't really touch me. But out here, on the uneven pavement, the city's quiet hum seemed to press in on us, expectant.

“Two questions,” he started, shoving his hands in his pockets. The wind ruffled the ends of his dark hair, and for a terrifying second, he looked like the Maxwell I fell in love with, standing outside my dorm in the snow, waiting for a fight that would end with us tangled in my sheets.

"What is your costume?"

The feeling of polyester and satin suddenly felt noticeable against my skin, mostly in the places it lacked. My shoulders, arms, and legs. The veil behind my head whipped in the wind, brushing my cheek and tugging at the fold of my costume.

I looked down at my feet, then at him. “Isn't it obvious? I'm the Bride of Frankenstein.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The bride?"

"Mmhmmph," I answered, popping the 'p'. "I lost my bouquet to a pirate trying to stop him from proposing. I told him I already have a husband."

Max didn't say anything, but I could feel him looking at me. I could see the effort he was trying to make on his face not to laugh. Naturally, I lifted my left hand and motioned the 'put a ring on it' dance. His lips twitched, betraying the slightest grin. He looked me over like I was some exasperatingly ridiculous puzzle.

Exactly the woman he fell in love with.

I couldn't help the smirk on my face as I turned on my heel and walked down the hill, maybe leading Max back to my apartment. Maybe leading Max back to my bed. Maybe leading Max back to an early death.

I wasn't sure yet.

The bar faded into the background, heels clicked against the cracked pavement, and behind me, his footsteps followed. The wind swept down from the bay, salty air entrancing my veil, whipping against my cheek. I reached up to pull it off, but he beat me to it—fingers brushing the back of my neck as he untangled it gently.

"Thank you," I mumbled, slowing my pace so he could finally walk beside me.

"Are you cold?"

I shook my head, but he already shrugged his blazer off, placing it over my shoulders. I mumbled another thank-you before leading the way through the park. The streetlights flickered as we cut over the pickleball field, the moon trailing behind.

My apartment was just over the hump when he asked:

"How long has it been?”

“Don’t start,” I bemoaned.

“I’m just asking.”

"You're just asking a question you already know the answer to."

A car passed, giving him just enough time to catch my gaze. Warm. Intense. All-consuming. I loved and hated the way he could look at me like that, and I would forget all the pain, all the fights, all the nights spent screaming, all the mornings spent crying. I’d forget everything but him.

"What? No, I’m not. When you travel and take as many bumps as I do, toots, time—”

"Almost seven years," I answered. "Can you believe that?"

"I do," he said so seriously.

I laughed. "Of course you do."

We walked in silence for a block; the only sound was the distant wail of a siren and the click of my boots. The city was putting itself to bed, but I couldn't feel more awake.

The building was a classic Victorian, painted a soft, fading yellow. I stood there, my veil in my hand, the night air cold against my exposed skin, fumbling for my keys. All the niceties of the evening had worn off, leaving me with just the cold, hard facts of the situation.

Max was here. With me. In front of my building. I took a deep breath and put the key in the lock. The door swung open, revealing a narrow, steep staircase. He followed me up, each step creaking under our combined weight. The hallway was dimly lit, a single bare bulb casting long, distorted shadows that danced like ghosts on the faded wallpaper. I stopped at the second door on the right, feeling his anticipation as I slid the key into the lock again.

The apartment was cozy, but it was mine—a collection of thrifted art, mismatched mugs, and furniture from family and yard sales past. The city’s lights streamed through the bay window, painting the room in silver and blue. That view was worth more than the discounted rent.

I turned to face him, my back against the door. He was standing close, too close, the scent of him filling the small space. For a long moment, neither of us said a word. The city lights spilled in behind him, outlining his frame in a faint halo—my salvation and my ending.

"Do you want anything? Water? Beer? An edible?"

Max snorted, "I'll have one if you do."

"Of?"

"Whatever you're offering."

I swayed into the kitchen, grabbed two glasses of water, and returned to the living room. I set them on the coffee table and sank onto the couch, patting the cushion beside me. Max didn’t hesitate; he eased in next to me, close enough that our shoulders and thighs brushed.

The strangest, and somehow most familiar, thing about Max was the way he made me feel. He didn’t make my stomach flutter or my pulse race, but he didn’t bore me or leave me cold either. He was steady and wild at the same time, a friend, a lover, a home I never knew I’d missed.

"So…" Max started, his voice low, teasing. He let his hand rest lightly against my thigh.

“You're married.”

I looked at my bare finger where my cheap plastic ring should be. “In the spiritual sense.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And to whom might I owe this pleasure?”

“A monster.”

His thumb began to draw slow circles on my leg, the friction a delicious distraction. "A monster," he repeated, his voice a low hum. "And where is he tonight? Out terrorizing villagers?”

I leaned into him, my head on his shoulder. "I don't know. I was hoping to find him tonight, but the night turned out to be more... nostalgic."

His other hand came up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The simple touch sent a shiver down my spine. "Am I the monster or the nostalgia?"

"Both," I breathed. "You're both."

He closed the remaining distance between us, his lips finding mine in a kiss that was both a question and an answer. It was filled with desire but inquisitive, a rediscovery. He tasted like cognac, orange juice, and a past I’d tried to forget. My hands came up to cup his face, feeling his beard against my palms.

I missed the softness of his lips, the way he could wrap his arms behind my back to pull me closer, and the way he knew how to make me weak without even trying.

My mind went blank. My body took over, pulling him closer, fingers twirling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands slid down my back, pressing me flush against him.

Heat seeped through my clothes, making me arch into him. A soft moan escaped my lips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing in that familiar, knowing way only he could.

We broke apart, our foreheads resting together. Max kissed my nose, and all the feelings I've been trying to hide for nearly a decade came up again. The anger, the resentment, the heartbreak—it was all still there as if it never left. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes wanting and searching.

"I've missed you," he whispered. "I've missed us."

The words hung in the air between us. I wanted to believe him, to let myself fall back into the easy rhythm of us, but the past was a tangled mess of love and pain.

"Don't say that," I whispered back, my voice small.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair."

He didn't argue. He just kissed me again as an apology. And I let him because I'd missed it, too. I'd missed him more than I'd ever admit.

Maxwell’s hands lifted the hem of my dress to my hips. One hand slid over my thigh, the other following, drawing me closer into his lap. I caught his bottom lip, my hips rolling against the fabric of his pants.

I loved and hated how easy he could have me.

"I think you missed me, too, starlight," he breathed, pulling away for a moment.

I felt a jolt of electricity rush through me at the name, my cheeks feeling warm.

"Maybe I did."

It was my turn to be coy. Underneath my thighs, I could feel Maxwell's ever-growing desire. His hands caressed my legs, traveling down to my feet. He kissed my forehead and squeezed my feet, kneading them. "We could have done this a lot earlier if you didn’t shut me out, starlight," he murmured. His voice was half-teasing, half-aching. “I was even desperate enough to send you money through Venmo just to get you to talk to me.”

I laughed softly, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and vindication. “You’re unbelievable."

"I would have sent a million dollars if it just meant five minutes of your time."

"You know..it's never too la—"

"Alright," Max dragged the word through his teeth.

"Alright?"

"What do you want me to say, star? Sorry for being an emotionally unavailable little shit with an undeveloped frontal lobe?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he sighed. "I'm sorry for being an emotionally unavailable little shit with an undeveloped frontal lobe." He lifted my hand to his lips and gave it a soft kiss. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

He laughed, the warmth of it vibrating through my very bones. The sound washed away the years of silence and replaced the aching void with something akin to relief. He pushed a stray hair away from my face, his touch gentle.

"I’m sorry I left the way I did," he said softly. “I was a kid. I thought I was making the right choice for my future, and I didn't know how to take you with me."

"You didn't even ask!"

"What was there to ask!? You think your dad would have been okay with you dropping out of Cornell to follow her good-for-nothing boyfriend down to Florida on a wrestling dream?"

“I don’t care what he would’ve thought!” I snapped, heat rising in my chest. “I cared about us, Max. About you!”

Max ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering over his face. “I know, star. I know. I just—I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t know any better, but I wasn't the one who iced me out of their life."

I blinked, batting my eyelashes until the tears that threatened to stream down my face disappeared. His hands hovered over mine, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a river too wild to cross.

"I hated not knowing," he muttered, voice tight with something I couldn’t name. “I hated being out there, thinking about you… not knowing how to find my way back.”

I had spent so long building walls, convincing myself that shutting him out was my armor. But here he was, with a key I didn't even know he still possessed.

"I wanted to hate you," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I tried so hard to."

He leaned in close, his hands finding the sides of my thighs again.

"I know."

The apology was in his eyes, and I could see the regret for every fight, every silent car ride, every slammed door. He was so close to me, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. My chest ached with a phantom pain, the ghost of a thousand unspoken words. And as he kissed me again, I tasted the bitterness of our past and the sweetness of this unexpected reunion.

His hands went back to my hips, sliding my dress up further. His thumbs brushed against the back of my corset. I gasped into his mouth as he lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Lips warm, erection hard, and cologne intoxicating. I guided his hands to untie the costume, pulling at the cheap ribbon until it gave way.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” I breathed against his lips.

He didn't need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting me with him. I clung to his arm, the sudden rush earned a squeal out of me, much to his pleasure. I buried my face in the crook of his neck as he carried me through the small apartment, navigating the familiar path through blue hues of night.

I kicked the ajar door to my bedroom open, revealing the prints on the walls, a stack of books teetering on my nightstand, and the unmade bed, a tangled mess of my own making.

My feet touched the soft rug, and I stood before him, helping me out of the corset and skirt. I helped him out of the remainder of his suit, the man in black no more.

I reached for him, my hands tracing the lines of his chest, my fingers brushing against the bluff of hair in the middle of his chest. This Maxwell was as strange as he was familiar. Same eyes, same soul, but refined. The boyish pudge I once knew was now hard muscle.

My eyes roamed over him, taking in every new detail, every scar that told a story I wasn't a part of. Possessiveness shot through me.

I wanted to know every story. I wanted to be the one he came home to. I wanted to be the one he cried to. I wanted to be a part of them all.

"I adore you, starlight." He kissed me, pulling me closer until we were flush against each other.

I responded with a sigh, his hands tangling into my hair. Skin to skin, I was lost to him.

"I wanna feel you, baby," I breathed. "I need to."

I turned onto the bed, my head hitting the pillows, my stomach against the mattress. Like a good boy, he hovered over me, his arms caging me in. I felt his lips on the back of my head, trailing down to my neck, kissing my ear.

Warm breath, sure hands as he palmed the cup of my ass. His kisses on my ears turned into nibbles, then one bite to awaken the senses. He spanked as I squeaked into the pillow, my back arching into an invitation for more.

He let out a low laugh. I could feel the rumble more than hear it. His hands kneaded my flesh, pulling a moan out of me as he pinched my nipple. I pushed back again, practically begging for us to become one. He obliged, one of his hands moving from my ass to between my legs. His fingers found my heat, the sound of me only a confirmation.

He started to rub my clit in slow, fast, tight circles that increased their pace each turn until my hips jerked, a moan escaping me. Stretching his hand, he slid a finger in, then another.

"You're so wet, starlight," he whispered against my ear. "So much more than I remember."

He pressed some of his weight on me, intoxicating my senses. His other hand came around to cup my breast, thumb flickering my nipple. His tongue was wet and hot against my ear, licking down to my shoulder.

His legs made an authoritative stamp over mine to stop my squirming. My breath came out as a huff as he put his full weight on me. He knew I loved it when I gasped for breath, every sensation in my body only able to feel his pleasure. Max curled his fingers as he continued to finger me, the other hand now in my hair.

"I never stopped loving you," he said into my ear. "I adore you, Star."

My hips moved of their own accord, meeting each of his thrusts. He added a third finger, stretching me to my limit. I was close, so close. I could feel the pressure building, the tension coiling in my stomach. His thumb returned to my clit, rubbing in hard, fast circles.

I came with a cry, my body shuddering beneath him.

He let me ride it out, his fingers slowing their pace before withdrawing completely. He flipped me over, my body pliant, my mind hazy. He was on top of me again, his legs between mine, his elbows on either side of my head.

I reached for his cock, wrapping my fingers around him. He embraced my touch as I stroked him, my thumb spreading the bead of precum over the tip. He groaned, his hips bucking into my hand.

I licked underneath his chin, tasting the salt of his skin. I pulled him down for a kiss, wrapping my hips around his waist and my tongue around him. He let me take the lead for a little bit, my hips grinding against his. It was a slow, gentle motion to get him inside.

He pushed into me, and a second of pain turned into pure delight. It didn't take long for him to find his rhythm. To hitch my breath, tear me apart, all to hold me back together again.

Nails against skin. Cotton absorbs sweat. His pleasure was in tandem with mine. Each thrust harder, deeper. His hair tickles my cheek. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. His pace quickened. His breath came out in ragged gasps.

It felt so good, I could see heaven.

Max was everywhere. His whole focus was on me, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to be the only person he ever saw.

"I love you," he whispered. "I've always loved you."

A flood of emotion washed over me, my orgasm ripping through me with a force that left me breathless. He followed me over the edge, his body tensing, filling me, a cry of my name on his lips.

We stayed tangled for a long time, breath cooling on each other’s skin, his leg still hooked over mine like he was afraid I’d slip away again. He pulled me into his arms, my head on his chest, hips, lips at my temple, as I listened to the steady beat of his heart.

"You're staying until the New Year?"

Max slowly nodded.

"Then what?"

He shrugged.

"Ever thought about moving to California?"

"Hold it, toots."

He broke away just enough to look at me, the lightness of his eyes caught in the moonlight. "How about I take you back home for Christmas first, huh?"

I laughed. "Your mom would love that. She still calls me on my birthday."

"She does?" he asked, a little too surprised.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and pulled up my text messages. I scrolled through them until I found the most recent one—a photo of her garden with a 'Happy Birthday, sweetie!' text.

Max's face softened, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. "I guess some things don't change."

"No," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I guess they don't."

Max exhaled, staring at the photo on my phone like it was some kind of omen.

“We’re really doing this,” he said.

“Don’t say it like we’re exchanging vows,” I shot back.

“And you’re going to unblock me now?"

I scoffed. “Relax. You’re still on probation.”

He nudged my thigh with his. “Probation? Star, I think I just earned early release.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile breaking through my lips betrayed me. "I think your hearing is still pending."

He leaned down to kiss me again, slowly, deeply.

Caramel and vanilla punched Punk's nose every time he ran the ropes closest to the concession stand. It was bad enough that he could barely focus with the incessant sound of muffled pop bullshit coming through the back. Who was it? Britney? Mariah? Fuck if he knew.

"Can you turn that shit off?" Punk yelled after his fifth lap across the ring. His voice cracked with sweat and irritation.

From the corner, Colt shrugged, a towel draped over his shoulder. "Pretty sure the guy running concessions likes it. Says it keeps him moving."

Punk rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah, nothing says ‘future of professional wrestling’ like trying to run a headlock with fucking Butterfly on repeat."

He leaned against the ropes, chest heaving, and shot a glare toward the back of the gymnasium that led to the food counter. Sweet syrupy air poured in, clashing hard with the stale sweat and mildew of the training hall. It was like somebody was trying to drown him in Vanilla Lace.

"Swear to God, I’m gonna go back there and—" Punk started, but cut himself off when a girl’s laugh rang through from the concession side.

"What? Do you need water or something?"

Curls and cherry lip gloss came into view. A snug, matching red baby tee followed, and Punk hated himself for noticing the V-cut dip, the flash of lace, and the rhinestoned Baby Phat logo that glittered under the fluorescent lights. Another girl came up behind her.

“Can you save the concert for later, ladies?” Punk called, waving a hand toward the back.

They groaned and rolled their eyes.

“It’s the new Ashanti!” the girl in red shot back.

"I don't care who it is! Turn. It. Down."

Red shirt sucked her teeth, nodding her head to the girl behind her to turn the radio off. Her brown eyes were miffed, taking him in.

It was early enough in the practice where Punk wasn't a pig, sweat just beginning to cling to his skin despite the air conditioning. Strands of bleached blonde hair were slicked back, not yet sticky.

The music went from distractingly overbearing to barely above a hum from his distance. If Colt ran his mouth like he always did, Punk wouldn’t hear a thing.

"Is that good enough for you, your highness?"

"Yeah. Thanks, princess," Punk replied, in a tone more indignant than it deserved.

She smirked, giving a curtsy before turning on her heels.

"Sorry about him," he heard Colt say from behind.

But it was too late, little Miss Red Shirt was already walking away. Each swish of her hips in low-rise jeans carved itself into his memory.

"Good going, idiot," Colt said just loud enough for Punk to hear.

Punk didn't bother responding. He was already on the mat, stretching his legs and arms.

There were bigger fish to fry.

Weeks went by. Seasons changed. Punk kept training. The concession stand girl continued to sell pop and chips as they listened to music that made his ears bleed.

Sometimes, during a show, when he was waiting for his match, he could see her, Walkman strapped to the back of her jeans, headphones firmly placed over her ears. The overhead lights caught her big, brown doe eyes, and those stupidly full lips she twisted to the side.

Girls were an elusive thing at this time in Punk's life. Beautiful distractions. Desirable sidelines. He didn’t have the time and certainly didn’t have the money to do anything but focus on the ring. Colt and he were getting a real pop from the crowd. The hatred and disgust in their eyes as he scanned the bleachers lit something deep in his chest. That was the drug. Not liquor. Not lust. Not some girl selling Snickers and Pepsi.

Still, when he’d climb the turnbuckle and throw his arms wide, he sometimes caught her out of the corner of his eye. “Funny thing—she only ever ditched the headphones when his music hit. Never bothered to be part of the crowd booing for trying to aim their popcorn at his head. She just…watched.

And that burned Punk more than anything.

He cut his promo, Raven cut his, then Raven made him eat shit on the mat harder than necessary. But when Punk dragged himself up, breath ragged, there she was. Dark amber eyes were still locked on him.

Back in the locker room, Colt went on and on—heat, angles, the next booking two towns over. Punk nodded along, half-listening, wringing sweat out of his wrist tape. But all he could think about was the faint flicker of brown eyes. Big curly hair, cherry-coated lips in the distance—and the gnawing, stupid need to make her look again.

It was months before he actually spoke to her.

By then, the routine was muscle memory—run, drill, wrestle, collapse, repeat. Same peeling walls, same sticky floors, same stale stench of sweat and mildew mixed with the faint, cloying sweetness drifting in from the concessions. He told himself he didn’t notice anymore. That he didn’t hear the tinny hum of her headphones or feel her gaze sticking to him from afar. But he did. Every time.

That night, his legs were shaking from the strain of exercises and the adrenaline that never quite left after a match. He sat on the edge of the ring, wrist tape hanging loose, head bowed, trying to let the sweat drip into the mat rather than his thoughts. Colt was somewhere in the back, probably scavenging free food, as usual.

“Your blond is too brassy for your skintone,” a voice said.

Punk’s head snapped up, and there she was. Dark curls were highlighted in chocolate brown. A deep cut baby shirt was now a hoodie zipped up.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, sharper than he meant to. "You go to hair school?"

"Communications," she corrected. "But even the blind can tell you're an Autumn."

"How can a person be an autumn?"

She laughed, and her eyes lit up. It was a pretty sight. "Oh, my God. Are you serious?"

"I guess?"

"You have warm undertones." She took a step forward.

Punk raised a brow. He didn’t get the term, but he definitely got the implication. He flinched for a second as her hands raised towards his hair. Her fingertips grazed his roots.

"Is this your natural color?" She asked, leaning forward.

He swallowed, eyes set on the way her cherry lips pursed. "Uh, yeah."

"The blonde isn't bad, but your natural color is better. I can fix this. Do you wanna come by my apartment after the show next week?"

Punk couldn't help but grin. "Oh, yeah, princess? You'll fix me?"

Her brows furrowed for a moment before they shot up, and her eyes widened.

"Not like that," she blurted. Her cheeks went red, punching his chest with her arm. "Just—you know, the color's a little off. That's all. And I'll cut the layers. You'll stop looking like a fucking bum."

"Oh, thanks," Punk snorted, standing up. She didn't even reach his shoulders.

"It's true," she huffed. "What are you gonna do? Like, I'm sure you can go to the salon down the block."

He thought for a moment. Things were certainly on the upswing, and Rob was loving what he and Colt had going on. Talks about belts were becoming more casual, and eyes from other promotions were starting to notice. Maybe a haircut wouldn't kill him.

"Sure," he shrugged, taking a step forward. "Should I just meet you outside after the show?"

"How about in the cafeteria? There's a door that leads right to the train line to my apartment. Plus, well," she bit her lip, looking past him to the back of the gym.

He raised a brow.

"Your friend might not appreciate not being invited."

"Who, Colt?" Punk laughed. "I'll leave some water out for him; he'll be fine."

She laughed. It sounded so sweet and light, but her eyes were sharp and playful. "See you next Friday."

She grabbed a pen and a napkin to write her number. When the napkin tore through, Punk offered his arm. She didn't seem to mind, her pen pressing lightly around the tattoos of his forearm, cursing letters and numbers into his skin.

Joni. Short for Joanna.

"This'll stay," he teased, rubbing the ink into his arm.

She shrugged, a smile playing on her lips as she tucked the pen back in her purse. "Guess we'll see."

Punk spent almost every night that week on the phone. He and Joni talked for hours, getting to know each other and figuring out how the other's mind worked. She was so different from him. Grew up in New York City in one of those neighborhoods that only have brownstones. She was the youngest of three sisters, Madison and Sabrina. Her parents never fought or divorced. She got a new charm for her tennis bracelet every Christmas.

"You sound so spoiled," Punk laughed, lying flat on his bed, the phone cord stretched between the receiver and his ear.

"And you sound like gutter trash," she shot back.

"Yeah? What else can you tell about me?"

"You're obsessed with the idea of next."

He paused.

"I mean, not like, the future. More like...you're constantly working on being something, and when you achieve that goal, it's not good enough. You don't seem like the kind of guy that settles."

"Wow, so not only are you spoiled, but you're also a fucking psychologist."

"Hey, it's just a thought," Joni laughed. "And besides, the idea of being better is pretty inspiring. You have a lot going for you. Everyone sees that."

"Thanks, princess," Punk chuckled, though her words warmed his chest.

"So, hey, my roommate just told me she's going away for the weekend. Something about her parents got tickets for her and her best friend since kindergarten to go to this thing in New York for the weekend."

Punk felt his heart hammer. "Okay, cool. That's good, I guess. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Joni drawled. "I don't want you to think I'm just trying to ploy you to sleep over."

"Ploy?"

"Yeah. You know, to—"

"I know what the word means," Punk snorted. "I just don't know anyone who actually uses it."

"I'm a Communications major," she huffed.

"I know."

"Anyway, I just don't want you thinking—"

"Hey, Joni?" Punk interrupted.

"What?"

"Are you going to fix my hair tomorrow or not?"

She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I will. I'll buy us some Chinese, and we can hang out."

"I'll buy the food. You work your magic and we'll be fine."

Joni could hear Punk's shit eating grin through the phone.

"Whatever," she mumbled, the smile on her face betraying her. "Just don't lollygag with your friend, okay? We gotta get on that train the second you're done. I wanna wash your hair and still be able to watch That '70s Show."

"Whatever you say, princess."

"Shut up."

Punk laughed, and they chatted for a while longer before saying their goodbyes. It was weird. He felt like a kid again, the fluttering of a crush. It was nice to feel safe, though, instead of the perpetual rush he'd been living on called the indies.

You could see the season turning outside Joni’s window, the first glimpse of winter coming in. Punk watched through the arch of her kitchen, sitting in a chair placed in front of her kitchen sink. Joni didn't pay him any attention. Her head was bowed, the comb in her hand scraping down his scalp, combing out knots.

"What the fuck do you use to wash your hair?"

"Head and Shoulders. V05."

The screech that came out of Joni's mouth could only be heard by a dog. Punk winced, shooting her a glare over his shoulder.

"You're gonna wake the neighbors."

"They're snowbirds. I'm sure they're in Florida by now."

"I can still hear," Punk groaned.

"Shut up and stop being such a baby." She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a box of bleach and hair dye. Chinese takeout boxes were long abandoned on her coffee table.

"Your hair is like 5 different shades of blonde. This is gonna take all night."

The vent over Joni's oven wasn't enough, so they opened the window above the sink. Cool October air blew in. It smelled like fallen leaves, a faint scent of rain on the horizon.

"Why didn't you sleep with oil in your hair like I asked you to?"

"And be a greaseball for my match? No way, pudding."

Punk took to bleach like a cat to water. They watched most of an episode of Friends that Joni's roommate taped before taking him back for a rinse.

"This is why you need to keep a deep conditioner in your hair."

"What?"

"Nothing. Hold still."

"Hey, Joni," Punk said, after a while.

"Hm?"

"How come you never have a reaction when I'm in the ring?"

Joni stopped rinsing for a second, her hands stopped on the side of his head.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I think I'm just trying to figure you out. What's the real you and what's fake."

The water kept running on Punk's head as Joni's hands passively massaged the strands.

"What did you decide?"

"Still thinking."

The last of the bleach was rinsed from his hair. Joni's towel was warm against his neck, and her hand was gentle as she ran the excess water from his hair. She took the framing strands, clipping them away, before adding black dye to the rest. Silence filled the rest of the time as they finished the episode, letting the static overplay as they went to the sink for the final time.

"What do you think?"

Punk took the handheld mirror out of his hands; the embellished pink looked silly against his black, chipped nails. But the color was perfect. He had never seen himself look like this. His hair was clean, cut, and dyed. He felt like a new man.

"It's good," he managed. "Real good."

"I'm glad you like it."

"I do."

Joni moved him to the kitchen, his overgrown body and limbs only reinforced the feeling Punk was in a Barbie dream house. She made him sit down again, his legs spread wide, grabbing a dryer and taking the space between.

Joni was sweet. From the way she smelled to the way her hands felt in his hair, to the way her breath brushed the tip of his ears, making him shudder.

"If you ever think of changing it again, I wouldn't mind doing it," she said.

"Is this your way of asking for a date?" Punk replied, trying to turn his head, but Joni forced him still.

"Not a date, a haircut," she corrected, but the heat of her cheeks couldn't lie. "Or, we could dye it purple like I insisted at the store."

"Yeah. I bet you would like that, princess."

She clicked the dryer off and ran her hands through his hair. Joni spun around to grab a jar of pomade, but as she spun again, Punk couldn't help but take her waist.

Her eyes went wide.

Punk swallowed hard, and he pulled her onto his lap.

Joni squeaked, but her arms found their way around his neck, her fingers tangling in the fresh strands.

"Hey," he said, voice hoarse.

"Hey," she whispered.

Their noses brushed. Her breath hitched. His hand gripped her waist. The kiss was soft, barely on her lips. Joni's fingers trailed up Punk's neck and into his hair. She pulled, tilting his head back. The second kiss was deeper. He could tell she wanted just as much as he. Maybe even for as long as he. She could feel the groan in his throat, and her tongue brushed his.

Joni pulled away. Her breath was heavy, eyes wide, and cheeks flushed. Punk's hand trailed up, tracing the curve of her jaw.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No," he replied. "Why would I want anyone else when I've got a princess?"

"Stop it," she said, pushing against his chest.

But he pulled her closer, and her legs straddled his waist.

"You're so fucking hot," he breathed.

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up."

"It's true. Tell me you don't know it. Look at you, you're gorgeous."

She laughed and buried her face in his neck.

"Don't hide, princess. Lemme see you."

"Oh, my God."

He tilted her head up and kissed her again. Joni's hands pressed hard against his chest, pushing him back until they were standing. She grabbed his hand and led him down the hall to her room.

Joni's room was exactly what Punk expected. A canopy bed surrounded by a sea of makeup, music, and beauty products, all swaddled in baby pink and white. She sat him down, the mattress dipping beneath them, and the canopy above gave the room a sepia-tone glow.

"Take your shirt off," Joni said, her fingers already slipping under the hem.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she smirked.

His shirt hit the floor, and so did hers. Their lips became intertwined, and the sound of denim unzipping echoed in the room. Punk didn't have a chance to look at her before she pushed him back. He caught her by the wrists, his eyes scanning every inch of her skin, her breasts, her stomach, the soft flesh of her waist, her thighs.

"Holy shit, princess," he groaned, pulling her down and kissing her neck.

She let him, her fingers trailing along his biceps, her hands gripping his shoulders as he kissed down to her chest. His mouth closed around her breast, and her head fell back. She arched into him, moaning softly.

"Punk," she breathed.

"Yeah, princess?"

"Have me."

He pulled back, and his lips found hers, her thighs straddling his waist, his hands gripping her ass. Joni rolled her hips, the cotton of her panties grinding against the bulge in his boxers. She whimpered.

"You wanna take these off?"

She bit her lip and agreed.

Punk's hands left her skin for a moment, his hands fumbling with the waistband. They slipped past his thighs, and he was hard and ready. His fingers were already slipped under the band of her panties, and they were gone.

God, she was more beautiful than he could have ever dreamed.

"Jesus," Punk groaned.

Joni laughed and leaned forward, kissing him hard. Punk's hand slipped between her thighs, and she was already wet for him. Punk wasn't a fan of the big guy upstairs, but he was sure thanking him right now.

His fingers slipped inside, and Joni moaned, her face pressing into the crook of his neck. Her hips rocked, and her hands were braced against his chest, fingernails biting into his skin. Even when she was in pleasure, she was sweet, her moans so soft, her breath hot and panting against his ear.

"C'mere, baby," he murmured, breaking away.

His lips trailed to her breast, shoulders, waist, and hips as he pushed her flat onto the bed. He settled between her thighs, his tongue tasting the sat of her inner thigh.

"Punk!"

His mouth was already between her thighs, his hands wrapped around her hips. She cried out, her back arching, and her head tilted back, her curls cascading across the pillow. He kept her from squirming away, but Punk kept pulling her back. His tongue was relentless, and the sounds she made only urged him on. Joni could tell he's made many women weak to their knees before.

"You're so good," she moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Punk pulled away, licking his lips, and kissed the softness of her inner thigh.

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes."

"You want me to make you come?"

"Let me—," she breathed. "Lemme do you."

"What?"

"Lemme go down on you. Please, I've wanted—"

"You've thought about it, princess?"

"So many times," she groaned, and Punk couldn't resist the grin that tugged on his lips.

He rolled onto his knees to let her have a taste, and she sat up. Her hand was around his shaft, and she licked her lips.

"Fuck, princess," he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed as her mouth sank onto him.

His hips rocked forward, and she gagged, pulling back.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," she coughed, a smile on her face. "Don't stop."

She took him deeper, and his hands were in her hair. He was gentle, and Joni was grateful for it. Her hand twisted around the base, her tongue circling the head, and she sucked, making his head fall back.

"Oh, God," Punk groaned, his fingers gripping the sheets. "Keep going, just like that."

She didn't need the direction. She was already working, her free hand moving down, and she took his balls. Punk inhaled sharply as Joni looked up at him, eyes big and doe-like, and his dick was halfway down her throat.

"Fuck, you're not so innocent, are you?" he exhaled.

She pulled back, her tongue circling the tip again, and Punk knew he was almost there.

"Joni, wait—"

He tugged her hair lightly, and her mouth slipped away, her tongue still pressed against the underside of his shaft. Punk moaned, shaking his head at her.

"You got condoms?"

She nodded and leaned over the bed, digging into her nightstand. It only took a second for her to find them, rip the wrapper, and slip it on.

" C'mere."

He eased her down onto his lap, his knees pressed to the mattress. Punk guided himself inside, and her legs were wrapped around him. His hand was on her back, and she rocked, her hips rolling with his. Their lips pressed together, her hands on his face, and their tongues tied.

"Punk," she moaned, her hips rocking harder, her walls tightening around him.

"You feel so good, princess," he groaned, his hands moving down, gripping her ass and thrusting up.

Joni cried out, her head falling back. His lips kissed the exposed skin of her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. He was so deep, and she was so tight, it was like he was made for her. Their moans became synced, and honey turned into wine. Pleasure became the only thing on their tongues as desire turned into reality. A fire consumed them. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and their breathing became ragged. Joni could feel her toes curl, his veins pulsing in her grip, her name becoming a prayer on his tongue.

"Princess," Punk huffed, "I don't know how much longer I can last."

"I'm so close, baby."

He pulled her close and pressed their foreheads together, the pace growing harder, deeper. Hands entangled in each other's hair, lips dragged across skin as hands wrapped together, a sea of moans, and the sound of her bed hitting the wall.

"I'm gonna come," she whimpered.

"Me too, me too, just—"

Their lips crashed together, and his fingers were between them, circling her clit. He could feel her need. Her nails dug into his back.

"I know, princess," he said, his voice cracking. "Let go for me."

Joni's cry was muffled as she came, and her grip tightened on him, sending him over the edge. She held onto him, her fingers stroking his scalp, her forehead pressed against his, her clit. He could feel her clench around him, the cry from her mouth, and he let go. Joni was coming apart in his arms, her hips bucking wildly, her walls tightening around him. His body went numb, and the world fell away. Maxing carbs and chasing belts was a blur in the backseat of his mind.

"Fuck, Joni," he hissed, his head falling against her chest.

Panted breath and tangled limbs. The air was sweet with sex. They stayed still for a moment, her head bowed on his chest and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her chest rose and fell against his, and he could feel the pulse in her neck.

"Hey," Punk whispered.

"Hey," Joni replied.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed, a laugh rumbling in her chest. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he chuckled.

Joni checked the clock on the bed stand, 12:45 flashed back at her.

"Well, I guess you have to spend the night."

"Something tells me you didn't plan that."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Let's clean up. I'm taking a shower."

"I can come."

"After you throw away all the dye and bleach."