#joannasteez

normal was blood and dust and bone. war pitching a tent in the heart. the ground undone from a shift and a boom. explosions and popping recoil. soldiers, and their skin coming apart like paper. his hands covered with so much blood his nail beds tinged pink for weeks at a time. the grain and grime of the earth, caked in his hair and smeared at the face. 

normal is the calm amidst the storm. a brush stroke of red painting over the whole of the emergency room, but the stillness takes him all the same. one normal traded in for another, not so dissimilar. that fast moving horror, like sisters, or mirrors. war and death and life leaving, some with kicks and screams and others too quiet to be recognized. him, wired, so tight to save, drudging through hell with two hands, but still with the unfortunate knowing, that he'll have to fall back when his all just isn't enough to do the impossible. 

normal is the pressure and pain after too much standing. beer on his tongue and his palm soothing over where the prosthetic fits at his leg. 

normal is a touch of some of everything, like being what he wants it to be, what he makes it, and what it makes him. 

and there ain't much wrong with this type of normal is there? key in the door and a singular sweetness greeting him. lavender and smooth jazz and creaky hardwood as he moves to sit on the living room couch. normal now, is waiting for you to appear, sure footed and a thumb lifting to skim his cheek. kneeling into the cushion beside him, your eyes like his own hands, ready to examine with the urge to save. and normal is letting you close enough to look so deeply, him sitting in all this ache and exhaustion, a silent presentation, growing weary some even, at the idea that someone else has a gaze that holds as strongly as his does. 

from his cheek to combing a hand through his hair, a smile pulling soft. "how you feelin' old man?"

his fingers motion, a weak come hither that gets you slipping into his lap easy. a deep sigh and a firm dig to settle his touch into your thighs. a type of grounding he supposes. another new normal. warmth and a different type of fluttering in the chest that leaves him speechless sometimes. "pretty fuckin' terrible". 

and there you go still, nailing and tugging dull at his short grays. a dizzying effect that lulls him in, your tenderness of voice doing the rest. "i don't think they have a cure for that just yet, not the good kind anyway". 

"why do you think i'm here? m'not showin' my mug for shits and giggles". 

your arms gather about his neck, and his about your waist. nudging your nose to his own and teasing the delicate play of a kiss at his lips. the faintness of it so true he's chasing it quick just the keep the possibility of the feeling. a wordless confession, or rather, maybe, an incontrollable reveal of all the stuff he's yet to say. 

"s'alright to say the quiet part out loud sometimes jack".

"meaning?" 

a kiss at the corner of his mouth and he's a small ways away from mush. one of your hands coming in to press at his chest, rubbing nicely, as if to coax out the things you'd like to hear. his hands growing tired, palms flattening to sit at your waist, eyes dimmed and an itch at the lips to kiss you still. 

"a woman knows when she's needed". 

"wanted". he corrects. raspy and frail. either from exhaustion or from the anxieties of such a grand feeling admission, he isn't sure. 

you only hum, short and acknowledging. not wanting to linger too much in the wake of that vulnerability for fear that he might shrink. might withdraw his short words of passion in the future. licking into his mouth for a kiss. your lips pulling soft and your fingers even more so in his hair. a short, tight moan singing, before another one, longer, drawling and not so graceful, but you don't seem to care. smiling small. pecking sweetly, once, and then twice, before breaking for breath. 

"you knew i was coming". 

"i saw the news. figured you wouldn't wanna go home". 

jack's eyes roll, a smile to follow. "because you know me so well huh?" 

"you're here aren't you?" 

He thought he was so cute. And so smart. And when you had stumbled over your explanation of isolation and ambition in “Frankenstein,” Ezekiel “The Golden Boy” Reyes had only been too quick to swoop in and snake your point from your very mouth-- correcting your point about feminist writing in the Romantic era, receiving all the credit from the professor while you sat, mouth agape, at the loss of your answer. 

If that boy thought he could slide into your idea the way he slid into home plate, securing another win for himself (both on the field and off, it seemed), he had another thing coming. (You weren’t being a dick -- not that you had endeavoured to keep tabs on him or anything, it was just common knowledge that he was here on a baseball scholarship. Taking the whole student-athlete thing a little too seriously, if anyone had asked you.)

“Ambition, coupled with a false sense of pride -- of being a godlike creator -- though of course, not actually being a god-- not unlike the prevalent concept of toxic masculinity in the 21st century, is Victor’s downfall. It feels only right that Mary Shelley -- a woman -- would be the one to shine the light on this flaw and how men fail as nurturers,” EZ had shrugged, as though the point was so simple. 

You whipped your head around after the professor had smiled at him and moved on, only to find Ezekiel already staring at you from behind his (infuriatingly hot) reading specs. Were they designer frames? You furrowed your brows in what you hoped was an intimidating glare. 

EZ just smiled his annoyingly bright “el nino de oro” smile at you, and winked. Winked. It might have been hot. Might have made you melt in your seat just a bit, if he wasn’t such an asshole. 

Oh, it was on, motherfucker. 

--

Ezekiel often saw you in the library, head bent down, poring over your worn copy of whatever novel you were reading in class that week. Worn like you had brought it from home -- not purchased it from the student store for class. 

So you were a reader, then. He’d thought it was cute. 

You would highlight and tab pages before switching gears to make notes, both in the margins of the text, and in your tabbed notebook you always lugged with you to class. 

EZ had to respect the hustle -- not many people still took handwritten notes for class. Come to think of it, the only time he had ever seen you behind a computer screen was when you brought your laptop to group for the short-story portion of the class, scrolling through the running word doc that was your obnoxiously-detailed outline. Nah. He totally wasn’t looking over your shoulder. Not in seminar, and not in group. 

You were just a lit-snob who wasn’t going to make it any other major. He needn’t concern himself with you. 

Right? 

So how exactly was it that he found himself sliding into the empty seat across from you at your table in the corner of the library? 

He liked studying on the second floor -- not as busy and chatty (people shouldn’t come to the library to socialize under the guise of studying) as the first floor; not as intensely quiet as the third floor, where people would glare at you for turning your page too loudly. 

No, the second floor was a good mix of hushed chatter and respectable pockets of studious quiet. 

You hadn’t looked up from your copy of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” as he’d approached (he had heard you’d intended to write a similarly-postmodern short story in the flowery vein of Oscar Wilde and Bronte. Not that you’d shared that with him -- he was just … observant, that’s all). You hadn’t even flinched when he slumped down his bag onto the empty chair next to the seat he was now pulling out. 

“I told you, Anna,” you had breathed, voice in a pleasant register just above a whisper, “I don’t care if the barista is cute, I’m not going with you for more coffee. I need to focus, and I can only have so many Red-Eyes in one week…” your voice trailed as you looked up to meet the glinting, mossy-amber eyes of none other than Ezekiel-motherfucking-Reyes.

He was most decidedly not Anna. And he was also regarding you with an infuriatingly easy (hah) stare, smiling in a facile way, right into your quickly-souring face. 

“Just how many Red-Eyes do you drink in one week?” Ezekiel responded in a low, velvety rumble, brow quirked and arms flexing beneath his practice jersey as he made himself comfortable in the seat across from yours, already unpacking his bag, though his eyes never left yours. 

“Enough to keep me awake during your self-important soliloquies during class,” you snipped, primly. “And who told you you could sit here?” You nodded toward the previously-empty seat he was now all-too-keenly making himself comfortable in. “My friend is sitting here.” 

There. If you kept your tone unfriendly, just to the right of a little bitchy, he’d know he was unwelcome. 

EZ chuckled at that, seemingly unfazed by your little dig at his class participation. 

“An empty seat and your ‘friend’ is sitting here? Yeah, that tracks,” he chuckled at his clever little barb that you didn’t actually have any friends, before taking in the downright murderous glare you were leveling him with and continuing, “Nah, I’ve seen Anna chatting up Marco every time I go to get coffee. The two of them aren’t going anywhere,” he shrugged, now unpacking his extra pens, highlighters and little moleskine notebook. A writer’s notebook. Pretentious. 

Strike one, you thought. Terminology Ezekiel would be all-too familiar with. You’d tried to annoy him into leaving, and that was a big swing-and-miss. If at first you don’t succeed? Try, try again. 

You sniffed lightly, steely eyes never leaving Ezekiel’s stupidly-muscular form. How did he always look so warm? The second floor of the library really was the prime study spot on campus, but friendly to the perpetually-cold it was not. 

“Did you just come from practice, or something?” You lilted, innocuous. 

EZ looked at you, eyes lightened with a note of surprise. A sincere question about his day? Was hell freezing over? 

He chuffed a little chuckle, scrubbing his hand along the back of his neck as he responded, “Uh, yeah, actually…” 

“Ah,” you’d nodded and cut in before he could finish. “So that’s what that smell is.” 

It would have been comical how quickly Ezekiel’s face had dropped into a frown, if it didn’t make your gut drop just the slightest bit. Too mean? 

To his credit, Ezekiel seemed to recover like your barb was nothing. 

“Not surprised you can’t differentiate,” he shrugged, now starting to thumb through his own copy of Oscar Wilde. “Your head being as far up your own ass as it is.”

Strike two. 

Was Ezekiel really so unbothered by your shitty little barbs? Did it really just roll off of his back like it was nothing? 

He glanced up from beneath his lashes (annoyingly long, of course -- was anything about this boy not annoying?) at you. He smirked at your scrunched brows and the firm set of your jaw. 

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad. 

To add insult to injury, he kept talking. No use in hiding the ball, right?

“You know,” he breezed, as though he hadn’t just insulted you, “You’re pretty cute when you’re pissed at me.” He winked. 

The audacity of this boy. 

You sat, mouth agape, as Ezekiel carried on like he hadn’t just said that to you, highlighting a line in the book and making a little note in his moleskine. You tugged the sleeves of your cropped hoodie down over your fingers, twisting the cuffs between your fingertips in your anxious anger at the stupidly hot boy in front of you.

Before you realized what you were doing, you capped your little blue pen and flung it straight into his perfectly-perfect face. The pen gently plinked off of Ezekiel’s curved nose and his designer frames before landing with a gentle thunk onto the paper of his notebook. 

Had you really just -- ??

To your credit, even you looked surprised at the little childish move your frustrations had wrought. 

Oh shit. You stared into EZ’s golden eyes for any hint of anger, retaliation, or just what he’d do next, surprised when ...

EZ’s momentary expression of shock quickly melted into a warm little quirk of his lips, not even flinching as he reached into his bag. He never broke eye contact with you as he pulled out a spare pen, clapping it down onto the table and sliding it over to your side, like it was a surreptitiously good card that would guarantee you the winning hand in a high-stakes poker game. 

He smirked at you again before going back to his notes.

You broke eye contact to look down at the pen he had offered, a warm, tingling sense of welcome surprise at the realization that the pens he carried were in the same blue ink you favored,

Well, fuck. That had no business being as hot as it was. 

You opened your mouth, a squeaking little gasp escaping your lips as you took in Ezekiel’s fastidiously moving hand, long fingers gripped around his own pen as he made neat little notes in the margin of his book, not unlike the way you did. 

“Ezekiel,” you breathed, the thoaty register of your voice enough to break Ezekiel’s concentration. He glanced at you from beneath his lashes once more. 

“I -- I’m sorry,” you began… but Ezekiel held up a large hand, waving away your apology. 

“If this is the part where you give some kind of Elizabeth Bennett-esque speech about how our respective pride makes us similar, it’s really not necessary. I know what kind of girl you are,” Ezekiel murmured, sliding his hand across the table to grip your fingers now, his long legs beneath the table had somehow come to rest on either side of where yours were in your seat. 

“Oh?” You queried gently, brow now raised at Ezekiel’s rejoinder, “And what kind of girl am I?” 

“The kind who makes fiction her identity. You bring your own books to class. You’re protective over words that aren’t even yours. You’re smart, sure, if not a little defensive,” EZ was smirking again, as though his read of you wasn’t mildly insulting. “Other people can like books, too, you know?” The smirk softened into a warm little smolder. 

The apples of your cheeks felt tingly and warm -- whether it was from embarrassment over EZ’s facile read of your character and your minor flaws or heat from just how turned on this boy was incomprehensibly making you feel, you didn’t know. What you did know was that the warmth was spreading down the column of your throat and settled into a rushing bloom across your collarbones and chest. 

“As opposed to you?” You could feel Ezekiel’s legs caging your own from the boundaries of your chair, and had decided in a split second of devilish determination to have a little fun. If he could make fun of you, you could return the favor, right? You left your lips parted as you trailed the toe of your sneaker from Ezekiel’s ankle, slowly dragging it up his calf as you continued. “A self-important, proud little boy only so eager to show he’s more than a pretty face? Trying to be Heathcliff doesn’t make you swoon-worthy. But it does make you a bit of a dick.” 

With that, you pushed back from your table, tossing your pens (and the one Ezekiel had given you) into your back, tabbing the page of “Dorian Grey” you’d just highlighted before snapping it shut. You smugly noted the look of surprise-turned-rage that crossed Ezekiel’s godlike features, his full lips twisting into something dour. 

You leaned over the table once more, invading Ezekiel’s space as you let your lips linger closely to his… 

“Ya know? You’re pretty hot when you’re mad.” 

You turned on your heel, content to sway your way out of the library in smug little victory, when Ezekiel called softly behind you,

“You’ll always be fond of me, babe,” he paraphrased, making your steps falter as he finished, “I represent to you all of the sins you’ve never had the courage to commit.” 

The line of “Dorian Grey” you’d just finished highlighting for your paper, right before he showed up. 

This boy was impossible. Strike three? You weren’t sure anymore who won. 

-- 

It was Oscar Wilde seminar day, and Ezekiel was floundering in his explanation of art imitating life, and the surface of something versus its true nature. He was mostly there, you’d give him credit. But he was missing something important -- 

“I think what Ezekiel is trying to say,” you piped up from the seat in front of him, “is that the postmodern lens Oscar Wilde writes in distinguishes it from other Romantic-era literature in that it relies less on the influence of nature and naturalism, and focuses more on industrial society and its inherent flaws.” You paused before continuing, “It’s like that one quote from the book, ‘Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.’ The other Romantics never would have put it like that.” 

At your professor’s smiling nod, you turned back in your seat to regard Ezekiel. Only to find, once more, that he was already staring at you, a grey and thunderous storm brewing behind his usually-kind coffee eyes. 

You shrug, awarding him a little smirk of your own, a flutter of your lashes, before turning around in your seat and resuming your handwritten note-taking, feeling more than a little “Elizabeth Bennett” proud. 

--

It wasn’t until later, when you were in the library, that you saw Ezekiel again. You could feel him as he stalked over to you, standing over where you sat, all broad, heaving shoulders.

“Yes?” You placed your pen down in your notebook and sat back in your seat, giving Ezekiel your full attention.

Wordlessly, Ezekiel struck, leaning forward with a swiftness that defied his size and seizing your wrist, yanking you from your seat before you knew what was happening. 

You made to gasp, to protest, but Ezekiel turned on you, your arm still locked in his grip, as he brought his other hand up, pressing a finger first to his full lips, shushing you harshly.

“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to fuckin’ talk in the library?” -- 

Before taking said finger and trailing it over your mouth, catching it on your fuller lower lip and dragging it downward, dropping his hand by his side once more. With that, Ezekiel turned on his heel, tugging you behind him as he made his way to the far recesses of the library. 

He ushered you into a row in the far stacks, wordlessly beckoning you down an aisle you had never even seen before. 

“Ezekiel, wha --?”

You couldn’t even finish your question before he pounced, dropping your wrist from his grip in favor of cupping your jaw in both hands, pressing his warm lips harshly to yours, breaking the sudden kiss to hiss between his teeth, 

“Shut,” he kissed you again, “the fuck up.” 

Using his height and the two guiding hands on you to press you into the shelf behind you, he pressed his weight insistently into you, bending his knees and lowering himself slightly from his towering height to place himself at the right spot to knock your knees apart with his own and roll his hips into yours ever-so-slightly. 

Ezekiel tore his lips from yours, where his tongue had been exploring the inside of your mouth, content to trail his lips along your jaw and down your neck, allowing his hand to trail down your side and hook beneath your thigh, hoisting it around his tapered waist. 

He breathed hotly into your ear, ragged and panting as he rolled his hips into yours again. Your brain was too sluggish, too lust-drunk to comprehend the noises he was making until well after he’d already made them. You could only imagine what you sounded like, trying to muffle your little gasping moans as Ezekiel marked your neck. 

“You were so fucking hot today,” EZ moaned in your ear, all red-clay heat, fizzing champagne gone warm in the moment. “How you fuckin’ talk like that.”

He trailed the hand not already gripping your thigh across your breast and over the soft cotton of your shirt, making his way down to where the hem of it was tucked into your flouncy, springtime skirt. He tugged until the hem came free, dragging the hot pads of his fingertips up, under your shirt and over the soft lace of your bralette, feeling the hardness of your nipple beneath, cupping your breast and rolling a finger over your sensitive bud as he simultaneously rolled his jean-clad hips into your core, grinding between your legs.

“You had your moment,” EZ pulled back from his neck in time to fix his melted-chocolate gaze onto your wanton one. “Now are you gonna be good for me, baby?” 

If your bones could melt, you figured they’d long be a puddle where you once stood, EZ’s hands had abandoned the space beneath your shirt in favor of trailing their way up your skirt, brushing your underwear to the side in a moment way-too-smooth to be unpracticed (you wouldn’t think about that now) and swiping through the warm, honey slickness of your core.

You gasped, open-mouthed and in awe of just how starry-eyed Ezekiel was making you feel, like a balmy tropical night spent lounging on white-sand beaches. In between the plucking of his fingers, and just how tingly that was rendering you, you wondered if EZ was one for cliched summer romance. 

As quickly as it had started, Ezekiel stopped. 

You had half a mind to protest, but not before EZ could shush you with the domineering press of his incendiary lips to yours. 

“I asked you a question,” he rasped, the hand on your throat firming ever-so-slightly. “You gonna quit with that smart fuckin’ mouth and be good for me?” His warm grip around your neck shook slightly, gently knocking your head into the shelf behind you, a gentle whumph as it met the books that took up permanent, long-abandoned residence there. 

You sighed, pleased as Ezekiel’s featherlight touch resumed at your core, a thick finger teasing your entrance, waiting for your response before giving you what you so desperately wanted. 

“Y-yes, Ezekiel,” you breathed into his mouth, “Of course. Y-you’re being so good to me.” Ezekiel’s smirk was back, full-lipped and mildly sinister. He let out a little snarl as he slid his thick fingers into you. 

EZ could have been a music major, you’d thought vaguely, with how well he was playing your body. The borderline rough treatment his fingers were rendering inside you was enough to make you see stars, but you wanted more. 

You were reticent to say it, but you loved seeing this side of EZ. You had seen him soft, eyes glittering wanly in a quiet moment surrounded by a bustling party. You had seen him arrogant, a confident smirk pillowing his lips as he swaggered across campus. Of course, you had seen him smug, chuckling in self-amusement at a particularly clever turn of phrase. How Stanford of him. 

And not that you'd indulge particularly nosy ears, especially Ezekiel’s own-- but this was your favorite Ezekiel -- the heady, solid man towering over you with a firm, commanding presence. His large, warm palm curved around your thigh, thick fingers beckoning you closer to just where he wants you. To just where you want you

You could endeavor to tease him a little, tug your leg out of his grip, giggling and twisting and begging for the chase. But you wouldn't dare defy him; not when he is leaning over you with dangerous eyes like melting pools of mossy hazel, just daring you to try something, to give him an excuse to grip and tug with his fingers that had been carding through your hair. Not when he bares his teeth at you in a predator's grin.

His full lips then teasingly brush over yours, just a dusting of powdered sugar, a slip of sweetness you craved to swallow whole. You could feel your skin sweltering beneath EZ's imposing form. Yes, this is your favorite Ezekiel. Something you'd never thought you'd have.

Damn him. 

You had a feeling he knew it, too. What with the self-assured way he had about himself.

Ezekiel’s fingers were quickly working you toward your peak, summoning you to an edge you’d never in a million years thought you’d experience with him. You pressed your fingers to his firm chest, pressing him away from you just firmly enough for him to get the message. 

He ripped his lips from you, his fingers ceased, and he looked at you questioningly. 

“I - I want you, EZ,” you murmured, fluttering your lashes at him, chest heaving. 

You trailed your fingers nimbly from his chest to his belt buckle, deftly undoing his jeans, choosing delicately not to comment on the sizeable, hot, hard length you now had cradled in your palm. You gave EZ a few gentle, teasing strokes with the feather touch of your hand, causing him to groan and knock his forehead into yours, eyes shut and lips parted. 

You relished your moment of victory as you guided EZ to your center, allowing him to firmly, fully press-and-thrust inside of you. EZ quickly gained his bearings, gripping your hips and rolling his own, the teasing drag his thrusts were taking on was equal parts infuriating and heavenly. 

You rocked onto your tip-toes as best you could, given EZ’s body pressing yours into the shelf, his pistoning hips knocking you rhythmically back into the shelf. With your newfound tidbit of height, you pressed your face, your lips, into EZ’s clothed shoulder, gently biting to muffle the whining moans you didn’t trust yourself to contain. Not confident every single person in this library didn’t know just what the fuck you and Ezekiel were doing, how fucking good he was making you feel.

EZ grunted in surprise at the contact of your little bite, the action spurring him to thrust into you impossibly harder as the two of you chased your peak.

Was he really this fucking good at everything? You weren’t sure if your eyes were rolling in pleasure or annoyance as you felt yourself tightening around him, the warm, sticky caramel waves of pleasure Ezekiel was ripping from your body now too much for you as you surrendered -- coming with a violent jerk of your hips, tightening around Ezekiel’s length and spurring his own orgasm. 

The two of you blinked at one another as you came down. You tapped Ezekiel’s arm that was holding the high part of your thigh in place. He trailed his fingers reverently down your thigh and to your knee, helping you gently re-place your feet to the floor and stand on shaky legs. You gripped his biceps in firm, pressing hands as you rocked gently onto your toes and trailed your mouth over Ezekiel’s in a gentle slip of a kiss. 

You and EZ helped one another re-orient your clothes, giggling softly to one another as you prepared yourselves to re-emerge into the main part of the library. 

Ezekiel caught your wrist before you exited the aisle, turning you back toward him and pressing a kiss to the wrist he held, regarding you with his glimmering ochre eyes. 

“Oscar Wilde was right,” he breathed through his stupidly beautiful grin. “The only way to get rid of temptation?” 

“To yield to it,” you finished, matching his infuriating grin with one of your own. 

--

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'. 

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree. 

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'". 

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice. 

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction. 

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me". 

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would". 

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you". 

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go". 

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm. 

"did i wake you?", you ask. 

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning". 

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention". 

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips. 

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion. 

"how does it feel?" 

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine. 

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it". 

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare. 

"thank you for being here". 

"of course". 

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other". 

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it. 

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore. 

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin. 

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin. 

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth. 

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires. 

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still. 

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early". 

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business". 

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then". 

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later". 

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order. 

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe". 

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear. 

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could". 

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well". 

"you really did". 

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks. 

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm. 

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless. 

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious". 

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever". 

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way". 

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time. 

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird. 

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden". 

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe. 

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am". 

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug. 

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact. 

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand. 

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same. 

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay. 

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze. 

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again". 

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them". 

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious". 

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me". 

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you". 

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits". 

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs. 

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two". 

"oh fuck you punk". 

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all". 

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think". 

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment. 

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him. 

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision". 

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body. 

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day". 

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea. 

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy. 

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination. 

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire. 

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you. 

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him. 

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory.  his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily. 

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words. 

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star. 

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from. 

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call. 

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare. 

"have breakfast with me", he starts. 

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body. 

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate". 

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?" 

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine". 

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do. 

"can you not?" 

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space. 

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop". 

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right". 

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat". 

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it". 

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about". 

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him. 

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart". 

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment". 

"then give me a time and place". 

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings". 

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin. 

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things. 

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still. 

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd. 

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek. 

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves". 

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back. 

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens. 

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd. 

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze. 

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe. 

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking. 

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone? 

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me. 

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television. 

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you? 

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here. 

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling. 

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection. 

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news. 

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually". 

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough. 

"what'd he say to you?" 

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv". 

"well it feels pretty damn personal". 

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?" 

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so. 

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks. 

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win". 

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own. 

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match. 

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match. 

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too. 

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival. 

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy. 

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego. 

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason. 

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition. 

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel. 

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?" 

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody". 

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning. 

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body. 

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him. 

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me. 

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment. 

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars. 

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory. 

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach. 

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.  

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be". 

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land. 

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all. 

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection. 

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear. 

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get. 

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world. 

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe. 

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself. 

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment. 

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while". 

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it. 

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them. 

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable. 

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes. 

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought. 

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls. 

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance. 

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine. 

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth. 

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half. 

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit". 

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife. 

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days". 

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself. 

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips. 

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it. 

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same. 

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'. 

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth. 

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest. 

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again. 

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over. 

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ". 

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs. 

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again". 

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over. 

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too". 

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you. 

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly. 

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit. 

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering. 

"how do you want me?" 

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress. 

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful. 

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead. 

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips. 

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion. 

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole. 

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly. 

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.  

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums. 

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal. 

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy. 

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume. 

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar 

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones. 

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process. 

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart. 

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk? 

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy. 

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed". 

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable. 

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing". 

"unfortunately?" 

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence. 

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?" 

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure". 

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it". 

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?" 

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".  

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over". 

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways". 

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are". 

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table. 

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves. 

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere. 

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same. 

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help. 

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in". 

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good". 

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus". 

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing. 

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true. 

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that". 

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it". 

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace. 

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly. 

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..." 

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear. 

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up". 

"will do". 

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time. 

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area. 

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?" 

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling. 

Whatever it was or is—a curse, a spell, perhaps a blessing, or maybe even something where the three meet in a compromise—felt, and still feels right to you.

"Sometimes it's best to think of it all as a gift". 

Thats what he'd said anyways. A forever moment existing apart from the natural. something awe-full. A terrible beauty to never be explained outside of simply living it. 

The fanatics and clergymen called it damnation, but he'd never suffered himself to reach such a lowly state as to receive punishment worthy of excommunication from his creator... so no, "i don't see it that way", he'd told you. "religious men, sometimes need another type of noise to fill a room, to stifle the shit about themselves they don't want other people to hear".

You'd let your pencil etch softly then. Light and shadow, till his likeness: eyes and nose and lips, came through to the paper. That coffee in your mug that'd been sitting there since the morning that day, growing stale, and the earth smell from the passing rainstorm had mixed in terrible with his cologne. Terrible, in the sense that the ease of it wouldn't leave you be long enough for a full concentration. A feeling like some soft lulling, pulling your body forward, into him, closer. The table at the cafe nothing but inconvenience. A wedge between yourself and some better made bliss. 

His top lip curves at the middle, a delicate bend that isn't translating to paper. 

"And what about the fanatics?". You'd erased that little bit of work to try again. 

"What about them?", his eyes rolled. Took up your unoccupied hand to fiddle with. "They're cultish and annoying". 

"You don't like reverence?" 

"You've known me for a while now". Your hand at his cheek. The skin, always cool, had been made cold from the outside rain, but your palm held him sweet anyways. Caresses and such to soften his resolve. "You should know better, should know me better", he'd grumbled. Turned his face in then to breathe at your wrist. A kiss at your pulse. Brows pulling before a frown settled in quick, like maybe he'd let a bit of his irritations in, enough to be mildly disturbed. "Blind devotion is infantile bullshit, I like reci—"

"Reciprocation, I know", chuckling. A tender pat at his cheek to appease him. 

The spring weather eases up the chill in Damian’s skin. Loosens his resolve more than it’d already been undone. He opens his door to you. 

His home, a two-floor penthouse apartment at the heart of the city, is all the delights of the contemporary gothic appeal. Arch windows for shaped rays of lights and smooth black paint finishings. The “portrait room”, where your afternoon cafe sketches live, is a spectacle of a time capsule. The painstaking make of rugs and tapestry’s, some laid out and others rolled to stand. Diligent work by Daria, an old, gray haired, Persian woman he met some decades ago. A small leather bound case holding charcoal drawings of trees, the name Claudio written at the backs of them along with the year 1805. A tiny unlocked chest filled with love letters, written to him from a nobleman in the Swedish region, the details of the tryst he said were “too old to remember". A display case, pushed up along the farthest wall from the door, holds celts and sculptures and three pointer stones from the greater and lesser Antilles.

A box in the corner, buried amidst other cases and such and wayward paper, unceremoniously holds a skull. 

"My maker", he'd given. Kicking the box to another corner, revealing something else instead he said was, "Much more interesting". 

And reciprocation, at one point, was only time. He met you places, or you met him places. The beach, a cafe, the abandoned lot of a worn industrial complex, a museum. Questions and laughing and little lingering looks till the day was done, but then reciprocation became something else. His fingers slipping over the skin to indulge your curiosities and his nose pulling into your neck to tease his own.

One day, some time ago, amidst the heat of the beach, feet in the sand and a mellow breeze, finally, it was his turn to hold your cheeks tenderly. 

The summertime turning him to mush.

"Can I kiss you? Would you like that?"

For a man so powerful, one would think his eyes wouldn't tell on him this well. The lack of surety, a thing so human. 

"I would like it a lot". 

The summer warmth makes him cool to the touch, his nature seemingly less true. Your palm settled over his chest then, those whispered words, the effects of a long growing adoration. 

A faint rhythm had played, beyond muscle and century old tattoos, to dispel the usual stillness.

Your breath hitched quick before a fit of giggles. His speed and strength and affection, taking any brilliance of words and breath alike, till you were swept up in him tight. His lips a little warmer, patient and tender too. 

The city is tireless where Damian lives.. the grit, the pace, the noise and the swaggered beauty. The softness of trees living next to tough metal. Trains and cars and the shuffle of people. An ebb and flow that is eternal. He must like it here for this reason. So that the quiet doesn't consume him too much, doesn't remind him of what he is, and what a feeling that must be, dead and alive. Terrible and graceless and maddening but so glorious too.

Unspoken thoughts racing quick to match the city. 

His presence is ghostly. Still and patient. His reflection, an apparition against the window.

He bends, finds his lips at the curve of your neck for a gentle kiss. Holds your shoulders to keep you flush against him and lingers for the rhythm of your pulse, and these silent moments of intimacy have become a constant, a favorite. Wordless bits of time and space, his fingers and his eyes and the press of his lips speaking to a particular desire. The sort that makes his faint heart beat all the more. 

He presses another kiss at the nape of your neck, drawing at your skin with delicate touches. "Your body was made for silk..." A gentle exhalation. "...for fine things". His fingers tugging off the straps of some hand done garment. Lace and silk falling gracefully till it's pooling at your feet. Flecks of gold bright in the brown of his eyes against the reflection of the window. 

"Temptress". A near snarl, like the simple struggle for control of his desire has quickly drawn itself up stronger, posturing as one ready for battle, ringing out now to place blame elsewhere. At your hips and your shoulders and in the sweet smell clinging to your hair and blood. So he pry's your body firm, flushes you whole with an arm about your waist, chest naked and soft against him. "You make the cold so warm". The tenor of his voice thinning vulnerably, a hand in your hair to reel you back enough for exposure, his breath at your pulse before the play of something sharp. His teeth scraping dull to tease his nerve. "Don't you feel my heart beating for you?" The tip of his tongue joining to slip quick at the vein. The semblance of a taste. 

Your knees buckle, holding desperate at his arms for stability. The swim behind your eyes slow but sure, and the heat over flesh so true, it's due to brighten and burn you whole. A rush coming in the veins to make you shiver against him. Whimpers and the pulse of a dangerous lust that leads to curiosities that, perhaps, should not be there, but they persist. Going on with a life of their own. 

"What does it feel like?", you give. Words accented with shivers. An ache forming low in your belly, reaching down to wake and spread between your legs. 

Damian hums, tongue sweeping in through your lips to kiss you. His body strong, shifting forward slowly, and your feet follow so well, so easily, they feel lifted from the plush carpet. The cold glass of the window meeting to shock the body, enough that you curl into him. Like the delicate preening of a morning bird, your sweet skin held up in his arms, arching and aching for his pleasure alone. "Like pain...", mumbling against your lips. His fingers squeezing the skin till you're taken up into his arms, hands clinging to him just for the sake of touching. "...the kind you hate...",  a short kiss that leaves you chasing for more. "...or the kind you hate to love...", his hips rutting sharp to chase the heat teeming between your legs. A tense snag of your bottom lip at his teeth for punctuation, playful in its sharpness, dancing just at the start of a greater pain.  

"...Like bliss..."

"...A thrill..."

His lips skim to your cheek. 

"...Unnatural..."

Your body sings. Existing as a single nerve. That coiling feeling twisting up still in the belly and the ache at your pussy so sharp it grits your teeth. Fingers clutching him at the shoulders harsher and your hips winding up to catch a taste of friction. 

"...it could feel like nothing... a beginning to death..."

His voice drips in the ear, rattles your bones. Adorning the curve of your jaw with kisses to temper the rougher bits of your nerves. 

"...the younger me, he liked the taste pain brings...", his teeth barring quick and harmless to nip near your neck. "...the way it shocks the blood, makes it rich..."

Damian lays a faint kiss to your pulse once more, the latest of many. 

"...But pleasure is a sweetener. I prefer it now...", his nose drawing up to savor those beginning notes to the blood. The palpability aching his teeth. The possibility of something lush on his tongue alone, riveting the deadness in him. "Can I give you that?...Give you what you give me". 

"Please".

And this first break into flesh, a terrible prick into something mortally tender, touching the very beginnings of death, just like he’d said. The unnatural, so complete that it shakes down the skin. “Aah”. A whimper and the fight to hold at him well enough, but limp against the strength of him anyhow. Loose and dizzy and throbbing still, drunk off the power of a pleasure too deep to understand. Wet eyes and the tight coil in your belly coming undone with a great bursting, the friction of him resting hard and rutting sharp between your legs doing you in.

His lips suckle a gentle bit, his own moaning weak with bliss before his tongue laps at the skin to soothe where he’d bitten. That cool touch, sealing up the opened wound. 

The edges of your vision wane, fingers lost in his hair and a delicate song playing up the throat. breathy, pitchy little somethings that speak to a fragility succeeding some ultimate bliss. 

...the taste in high places is no good. politicians and their wives. officers and their sons. taking and keeping. their deceit adds to the blood, making it gritty and adding big bits of sourness to an otherwise good thing. but I rather this than feeding on all the others. its always better...

Flames lick the air, whipping softly to warm the room. The carpet beneath you is old, but kept. Everything of his, old but kept well. A secondary living room on the top floor of the penthouse he calls "The Sun Room". The windows reaching floor to ceiling and when the morning daylight breaks through, rising in the east, it soaks everything in a promising brightness, as the same when it's ready to set. Those last bits of day shining against the tender leather cover of this old, marred up journal. Little scribblings made, from 1706 and 1749 and 1810 and 1834 and again and again, for days and weeks and months, till he couldn't stand the feeling of pens and paper and then he'd come back to it again to write more. Him surviving terrible things and being the terrible things one would hope to survive, but being lovely, and afraid and helpless too. 

The corner of your eye catches him, watching him come in till he's filling up your vision. The large fire burning making him glow warm. "Still reading?" Him taking up a small smile. Eyeing the journal as he comes to lay beside you. 

"Mhmm...", soft and accepting from the way he falls into you. Lets his lips find the heat of skin where the neck curves into the shoulder. His body tall, and strong, and the weight of him collapsing some against you, like after a long while, he's found an old reliable comfort. "...Almost done on the first journal". 

"Whatchu think?" 

You let the journal lay at a pillow nearby, to allow a slow, measured arresting underneath him. His lips finding the mark from that faithful night. The tender flesh left with traces of him for your memory and just his breath alone deregulates, a shiver drawing down the spine before its reaching all over, to toes and the tips of fingers caught messing in his hair. 

"You were young and arrogant..", a breathy chuckle coming up. "..and bloodthirsty..and careless. Insatiable too.."

His teeth nip at your jaw, and something like humor takes at his mouth. "And?" 

"..And kind, sometimes. To people who mattered". 

His lets his lips sit at the seam of yours. Lets himself feel there. The goodness that comes with a simple touch. Pulling to kiss faint. A hand pulling too, to bring your leg to curve around his waist. "And now?"

"Insatiable still...and kind". 

"You matter". 

To feign at being unaffected by him is near impossible. The sincerity to him, old and sophisticated, seasoned with many an experience, enough of them to know when he feels something to be true and when he's too tired to fake it anymore. 

Your lips take him whole. Neither sloppily nor careless, but with the full weight of that thing he loves so much. Reciprocation. 

His eyes are gentle here. The most human of all the things about him. His skin covered in ink from all his living. Your palm takes his face, the other slipping along the strength of his arm. "Damian, you're paling". 

"From fasting", he gets out quickly. Turns his mouth in to kiss your palm and then your wrist. 

"Starving, you mean?'

"A lot of things were ruined for me that night", he starts. Trailing from your wrist to your mouth again. A tender kiss and then another. "Getting to have you like I did, it's difficult to want other things".

"Blaming me?"

He smiles. Runs the point of his nose at your cheek. "Only a little". 

That red hot burning from the fireplace does nothing for him, and the desperation in his skin, is just a moment or two from absolute. The slip and drag of his tongue and the pull of his lips, like enough of this will satiate that eternal urge in him more than any drip of blood could. Hunger and a faithful yearning, that turns his skin colder and his touching feverish. Squeezing fingers at the bend of your knee, feeling familiar and yet so new, like the weight and friction of him tucked at you, the cold of his bedroom window but the warmth of your blood trickling from the prick of his fangs. The chill of playing with mortality and the heat of a blooming pleasure in your belly all the same. A thrill unshakeable, asking to be bought on again. 

His fingers sweep at the skin, trailing short chills in their wake. Thumbing to slip past fabric till he's playing through the mess made from kissing affections. A hum from his chest, till it's dragging into a groan. Excitement maybe or satisfaction, surely from your inability to resist him. 

A finger gathers, hooks slight before the addition of another, working shallow but in tandem, to tease that tender beginning. Your pussy tightening to feel, waiting for some soothing touch that'll satiate or perhaps a steadiness that'll make you wish to keep the goodness of that feeling forever. 

"Please". Mumbling broken against his lips. 

Damian appeases, strokes his fingers through till he's seated deep. His tongue lapping till his lips purse to suckle, pulling and parting and his nose nudging your cheeks to the side to run down the curve of your neck. 

"...Damian...", your voice touching the air, thin and shaky. 

His thumb joins in, slots up against your clit firm till it's circling in, pressuring the nerve enough that your hips shift gracelessly. Attempting more to keep that good ache than to preserve any sophistication. 

"...I'll always treat you good hermosa... no pain..."

The dark tenor of his voice drips into memory. 

like bliss... a thrill...unnatural 

Your palm holds at his nape, a silent plead to play with mortality again. 

"No pain". 

Sweat takes your forehead, damp and thin, from the heat still and from anticipation. That faithful churn in the gut, corralling like a storm to eventually break apart with devastation. This sort though, numbing and blissed. Wordless till it's not. The drag of his fingers patient and easy and sweet, working through the cling of your body. 

Your nails indent to claim his shoulders, to brace for that loose dizziness that's bound to come. Dancing at the edges of it before you tighten hard. Hips rutting to chase. To make the feeling last just a little longer. And his tongue gives good pressure. Slips against that raised bit of skin where his mark lives. Breathless beneath him still and fire shut up under the skin. His fingers pulling from you to ease the tension. That tear of flesh, simple and forgetting its lust for pain, doing you in to loosen the strongest parts of human resolve. His lips suckling warm blood and then his strong body succumbs with a shake from the taste. Licking delicate to seal the wound cooly, like he'd done before. 

Blood stains his mouth, sitting in it like honey and he breathes heavy above you. Lets you touch him dearly. Lazy caresses as you both sit in the light of your pleasures. 

He settles his weight at one arm and takes your chin with the hand of the other. "Thank you", against your lips before he's laying blood at your tongue. Sweeping in for a thick kiss. An affection that drags wet and lazily. 

His thumb runs the path of pricked skin. Circling to give your throat a lax grip. 

"Can I have more of you?"  

"Please".