#ropunk

     Punk couldn't even walk by the end of the match. 

     Roman knew he was finished; knew from the moment he collapsed under the Tribal Chief's weight whilst attempting a second GTS that would have likely put his opponent away had he been able to execute it. Shortly after, Punk made that pathetic swipe that wildly missed its target before collapsing in a heap across the blood-soaked canvas. Done. Spent. 

     Reigns could have tried for the pin then and there but he was wary. Even beaten down as he was, Punk always had a little fight left in him and so the OTC ran to the ropes, built up some speed then smashed into the older man with a devastating spear that shattered any final shards of resistance in him. 

     One. Two. Three. And new-!

     Yet, even so, Roman was still fascinated when he spotted Punk out the corner of his eye, unable to walk or even stand. Reduced to crawling over the tattered remains of the announce desk, he heaved his broken carcass through splintered wood and tangled wires to reach the far barricade. A woman met him there, tiny with silver hair. She wore his WWE official licensed T-shirt. Beside her was another man that he recognised as Ace Steel, Punk's trainer and mentor.

      Punk hauled himself up until he was dangling over the padded edge of the barrier and the woman embraced him warmly, holding his bloody cheeks in her hands. Roman watched as she spoke to him, words he couldn't hear but he could decipher their sentiment clearly judging from her proud, beaming face. She was lavishing praise on him, the old man who had lost the match and his title. Reigns scoffed inwardly when he noticed her hand smoothing back Punk's sweaty hair and planting a kiss on his crown.

     And something stung bitterly inside of him.

     Roman turned and took in the sight of his own family smiling up at him, and finally it all made horrible sense. Why Punk had said the other night on Raw that he was jealous of him. Roman came from a long distinguished line of wrestling royalty, the latest heir to the throne. From a young age, he had been taught the importance of family and he had borne the burden of being the chosen one to carry their legacy forward. He was already installing that same mindset in his own kids, simply by having them here witnessing his triumph that night and perhaps one day they too would bear that burden if they chose to follow in their father's footsteps.

     But Punk... he had no family. The woman there had taken him in at fifteen when life at home became too hard to bear and he had nowhere else to go while Ace Steel had been something of a surrogate father or big brother to him, a guy who had stood by him through thick or thin over the years. 

     Nobody had been there to guide Punk through the intricacies of this business or fight his corner or smooth things over when things got difficult and tempers flared. He'd had to fend for himself, figure out this cut-throat industry on his own. 

     He hadn't been born into this world like Roman; he'd chosen it. The same way he'd chosen his family.

     And he had no children, which meant that Punk's 'dynasty' began with him and would die with him. His legacy would live on instead with the next generation of talent he'd influenced and nurtured.

     Roman felt something inside him squeeze like a clenched fist. Did he... actually feel sorry for CM Punk?

     No. Impossible.

     Which was why the moment they both made their way backstage, he approached the veteran. Punk took one look at Roman's grim, solemn face and knew instantly what he wanted. Without saying a word, he followed the newly crowned World Heavyweight Champion, stumbling on creaking knees that these days were mainly fragments of bone and muscle held together with wads of duct tape. His breathing was laboured, his battered face wincing at every step until they arrived at Roman's private locker room and locked themselves inside.

     Despite those ruined wrecks of knees, Punk sank down onto them, head bowed, awaiting his orders. Roman pulled a chair across and slumped onto it, spreading his brand new shiny belt across his waist in full view of its former owner, whose side plates were still screwed on tight. Punk didn't steal so much as a single glance at it, his glazed olive eyes instead fixed onto the floor just below Roman's boot.

     The Tribal Chief got comfortable then paused. The entire room filled with the silence until they both felt like they were drowning. 

     Finally, the OTC broke it by clearing his throat. 'Take off that stupid shirt.'

     Punk grasped the bottom of the black shirt he'd received from a fan on the ramp. It had a picture of his own face on it sporting cute dog ears and a snout along with bright pink letters stating 'CM Punk is babygirl.' Carefully, he tugged it up and off before tossing it aside.

     Once again, things came to a momentary standstill.

     'I haven't done this in a while,' Roman admitted, drumming his large fingers against the arms of the chair.

     Punk's eyes drifted up briefly. 'Me neither,' he replied. 'Been having some respite since Seth got injured.'

     Even during his time off, Roman had heard rumours about Seth and his so-called Vision running rampage backstage, weaponising the Winner's Room to impose their dominance over all the other talent. Punk, from what he'd heard, had been a constant target. That fist clenched inside him again and Roman pushed back against it. 'I don't wanna fuck you, Phil,' he snapped.

     The sudden vitriol in the younger man's tone stunned the veteran. 'Good,' he gave a bone-dry laugh, 'I don't want you to fuck me either.'

     'I just want you to acknowledge me!'

     Punk lifted his head up this time, his hazel eyes narrowing at Reigns. He still had splatters of dried blood in the crevices around his nose and eye-bags, his forehead was badly bruised. The two of them had gone to war out there, Punk had probably given Reigns one of the all-time matches of his career, an instant classic. 'You want me to acknowledge you?' Punk asked, the many lines on his crimson brow furrowing. 

     Roman was about to bite back with some retort when the older man beat him to it.

     'Didn't I do that already?'

     The Tribal Chief's mouth went dry. He snapped his lips shut and sniffed loudly with irritation.

     'Look, I'll admit that I hate you,' Punk went on, taking advantage of his Winner's stunned silence. 'I hate you and everything you'd had handed to you in this business. But I can't deny what you've accomplished. You held the WWE Championship for over one thousand, three hundred days, you've main-evented Wrestlemania eleven times now.'

     Roman grunted and turned his face away. He couldn't stand to look at the sordid little man.

     'You beat me out there,' Punk went on and pointed at the belt around the Champion's waist. 'You won that from me, fair and square, and what's more? You did it all on your own! No cousins, no Bloodline. Just you. And that's all I wanted from you.' The veteran straightened out his rusty back with a grimace, pulling his chin up proudly. 'So it wasn't my night tonight, big deal. I gave everything I had until there was nothing left in the tank. But you did, and that's why you beat me. You were the better man tonight... and with that said, Roman Reigns...'

     At the sound of his name, Roman looked back, finding Punk slowly lifting his finger high up into the air above his head, his face set and serious. 

     '...I acknowledge you.'

     The OTC pursed his lips, furious at whatever mind-games were at play here. Nothing was ever what it seemed, especially not between him and CM Punk of all people. 

     'Good,' he said around the heaves of a long, ragged sigh. His hands went to the belt of his wrestling pants and unbuckled it, before yanking open his zipper. 'Now acknowledge your Winner.'

     Punk's shoulders slumped. He look tired but even so, he shuffled over on those ragged knees and settled himself between Roman's large thighs. Reigns leaned back, resting his hands on either arm of his chair and in doing so, forced Punk to dip his own hand into the folds of his Winner's pants and entice his cock out. It wasn't hard, so Punk had to rouse it with a few firm strokes until it showed some signs of life, then wasted little time in slipping it between his open lips.

     The moment he felt the damp warmth of Punk's mouth around his cock, Roman let out an involuntary hiss. He tensed up, fists clenched, ready for any trickery from his notoriously rebellious trophy but Punk was as much a veteran of Winner's Rooms as he was at being in that ring and he knew what was expected of him. The moment his masterful tongue massaged the sensitive skin of Reigns dick, Roman sank back into his chair with an obscene groan, a rumbling through his entire exhausted, aching body.

     'You like that?' Punk asked. Teasing the Tribal Chief. He could tell by the tone of the veteran's voice alone. That, and the fact he'd had the audacity to interrupt his Winner's pleasure to do so riled Roman up again, but not enough to fully stir him from his stupor.

     'You shouldn't be able to talk,' he snapped.

     'I'm a great multi-tasker.'

     'Don't talk!'

     Another wry chuckle sounded from below and Punk lunged in once more, sucking Reigns' cock back into his mouth. The younger man hissed again, his eyes fluttering shut and his head lolling back on his rubbery neck as Punk bobbed his head back and forth, driving the OTC dick in deeper and deeper until it was practically lodged down the back of his throat.

     Roman never liked tossing a compliment the older man's way, but he begrudgingly had to admit that Punk was very good at this. Incredible, even! The way his tongue seemed to cradle his cock, masterfully sliding up and down its underbelly, pinging off every receptor along the way or how he controlled the muscles in his throat to open up and swallow him down without setting off his gag reflex was very impressive. It was a stark reminder to the younger man that Punk had done this countless times before, enough to hone his skill to the highest level.

     As Reigns sank into his chair and allowed his pleasure to take over, lightly pumping his hips into the older man's mouth, his mind wandered, remembering some of the high-profile losses that Punk had had over the years. Randy Orton. Undertaker. Brock Lesnar. The Rock. Triple H. Drew McIntyre. All men with notorious reputations, all men known to viciously impose their Winner's Rights. 

     Roman, himself, had been on the wrong side of a match decision with many of those same men and experienced those very Winner's Rooms but looking back, he couldn't help feeling that most of them had gone easy on him. Knowing and respecting his familial connections, they had treated him more sweetly than others for fear of incurring the Anoa'i Dynasty's wrath. 

     Once again, Roman was cruelly reminded that Punk had not been offered the same luxury. At best, he may have had Paul Heyman negotiating the treaties of his assaults for a while, but Heyman was a double edged sword. Roman knew that first hand too. The one he'd once called his Wise Man had sat in the corner of many a Roman Reigns Winner's Room and watched with sadistic glee as the Head of the Table tortured and ravaged his trophies. He would have probably been there in Punk's Winners Room too, giggling in the corner and badgering for the poor loser's wrestling boots to be removed.

     Heyman had turned on Punk, just like he always does when he tires of his latest project, and most likely sat pride of place in the Beast's private locker room after Summerslam '13, grinning from cheek to cheek as he watched his 'best friend in the world' being ripped in half by his brutal attack dog.

     Roman frantically shook the thought from his head. What was wrong with him tonight? What was with all this guilt, all this... pity? For CM Punk? A man who had caused him nothing but grief for the past twelve years. Whose taunts and jibes from the sidelines, from podcasts and interviews and backstage shows on Fox, had relentlessly followed Reigns until the very sound of a 'CM Punk' chant made him sick to his stomach?

     He awoke slightly from his trance and looked down, finding Punk hard at work between his legs. He was doing a good job, too good a job, making the OTC's brain all fuzzy. In an attempt to rip back some control, Roman reached down with one large hand and caressed it through the wet, sweaty strands of Punk's salt and pepper hair then twisted it hard. The veteran flinched, his hazel eyes shooting up to meet his Winner's. They were larger than normal from this angle, more green and they sparkled when the light hit them. Perfected blowjob eyes, complete with the hollow cheeks and the stretched lips. However, there was a slight squint to them, a corner of those lips curling that somehow revealed that Punk was smiling back at him. 

     Roman yanked on his hair again, eliciting a moan that vibrated through his dick. He liked that. Jerking Punk's head closer, he gave a nasty thrust with his hips, pushing himself further than the veteran had taken him yet. The muffled yelp thrummed though him again, the sweetest ecstasy. Keeping his grip taut, he cranked Punk's head up and to the side, exposing the older man's throat, just so he could see the bloated lump of his own cockhead bullying its way down the older man's gullet. 

     Enjoying the view, he held Punk in place, taking over as he worked his hips back and forth, fucking his trophy's mouth and throat with deeper, firmer drives. Punk took it all, let Roman use him however his Winner pleased. His mouth open and gaping and hollow. Warm drool escaped the bottom corner of his lips, pooling into the black fabric of Roman's wrestling pants. All while still smiling. Like he was laughing at the Tribal Chief, mocking the new Champion.

     The OTC gritted his teeth and glared at the impudent Loser. He'd warned him back in the ring - mock me again, bitch - and as a result Punk now donned the multitude of cuts and bruises and bloodstains that came with not doing as he was told. Yet, it seemed, even now, the veteran had not learned his lesson. 

     Roman brushed his thumb across Punk's furrowed brow, tracing the mountain range of swelling caused by steel steps and Roman's closed fist. Locating a decent nick in the injured skin, about half the width of his small finger, he lined his thumbnail with the opening and pressed it in.

     Punk's whole body jolted from the sudden sting, his hands grasping onto Roman's thighs to keep himself balanced as his Winner attacked him on two fronts. Roman admired the way all the muscles in his trophy's shoulders tensed up, every trap and tendon perfectly defined. Punk in general was more cut these days, a typical sign of the ageing man. Now that he was losing the battle against gravity, he could no longer rely on the natural softness of youth to compensate for doing the bare minimum in the gym - these days he had to work to make his body firm and subtle. It showed most in the areas he never used to work before, his traps in particular and Reigns, enjoying the spectacle of them contracting under Punk's pink, lightly freckled skin, dug his thumbnail in even harder to make his pretty puppet dance again.

     Punk let out a desperate gasp around Roman's cock as his Winner scratched the tender skin, making it burst with a fresh stream of blood that trickled down the older man's brow. Like tapping into a maple tree for syrup. Equally as satisfying and just as sweet.

     Gagged as he was, Punk pleaded with his hands, squeezing fists of Roman's tights for what the Tribal Chief initially thought was mercy, but when he saw the blown look in his trophy's eyes and the way his hips moved to create some friction in his trunks, he realised Punk was delirious with rapture. He always was a bit of a freak that way. Loved pain. Loved the agony. 

     Typical child of neglect. So starved of love that they accepted even hurt as a form of affection.

     Roman found his gaze locked onto the older man. Watching the fluttering of his eyelashes as he tortured him, the stretched fullness of his grey-bristled cheeks around his thrusting cock, the ragged, filthy fingers fisting the OTC's pants. Rarely had he seen such a more pathetic, beautiful sight, and he began to wonder.

     Maybe he did want to fuck CM Punk!

     He gave a savage yank on Punk's hair. 'Off!' he ordered the older man. 

     Punk let his lower lip droop, allowing Roman's cock to slide out of him again. The dark red skin of his rock hard appendage glistened in the light, lovely and wet and ready. Slivers of saliva bowed between its tip and Punk's swollen, abused lips where the tiniest hint of a pink tongue emerged from the corner and ran the entire length, back and forth, tasting the remnants of the Tribal Chief left behind.

     'On the ground, Phil.'

     It showed that Punk wasn't the least bit shocked by his Winner's U-turn. Those defined shoulders shook as he laughed dryly, his dirty, tattooed hand wrapped in the remnants of grubby tape wiping the mess from his lips as he turned and took up position. Palms and forehead to the ground, ass up. Not moving from his chair, Roman kicked the older man's legs further apart, eyeing up the entire length of Punk's paper white gusset from ass down to his semi-swollen bulge jutting out below like a pitiful excuse for a stalactite. The once pristine fabric of Punk's trunks were as soiled as the canvas of the mat, splattered with browning stains of its wearer's blood. The seams were decked in purple and gold, colours of a king to match the crown on the back of Punk's jacket he'd worn to the ring.

     But that was back when he'd been the man on top. Now, it just seemed tacky.

     Without any pomp or ceremony, Roman pulled Punk's trunks and white speedos down, exposing the older man's backside. The OTC scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a moment to study the dark red, almost maroon circle of muscle dead centre between Punk's stretched cheeks, ringed by a dense halo of shaggy, sweat-soaked hair. It winked open and closed, like a starving little mouth, hungry for Roman's cock. 

     Roman would feed it soon enough.

     Placing two of his large fingers into his mouth, Reigns sucked them generously, taking his sweet time. Keeping his prize waiting all while Punk quivered from anticipation, his old, tired body fighting to keep its awkward position. Roman thought once again of his beaten-up knees, straining and struggling under his own weight.

     'Not like that, Phil. On your back.'

     Punk laughed even harder and drier than before as he heaved himself over with great effort. Reigns was growing tired of the charade.

     'Why do you keep laughing at your Winner?'

     This only amused the errant trophy even more. 'Why do you keep calling me by my legal name like it's an insult?' he shot back through another wheezy chuckle. 

     Roman snapped his mouth shut, crinkling his nose. In reply, he grabbed Punk's trunks and yanked on them hard. He struggled to thread them over the older man's kick pads and boots but with enough tearing and tugging, he succeeded in removing them from one leg and left them hanging limply around Punk's left ankle. With the last shred of resistance gone, he pushed Punk's rusty knees as far apart as they would go then shoved his slicked fingers directly into his prize's hole. 

     The older man bucked like a kicking mule, a strangled whine poorly contained between his pursed lips as Roman pushed his two fingers in all the way down to the knuckle. Reigns was expecting Punk to be loose but even he was pleasantly surprised at how was easy it was to drive his large digits right in. Nice and slack but with enough crunch squeezing back against the intrusion; a perfect fit! 

     Roman's fingers circled around, expertly locating the hot, pulsing bulge of Punk's prostrate and honed in on it. The veteran let out a long, stuttering moan, his semi-hard dick between his legs springing up. 'You like that, huh bitch?' Roman sneered down at his messy prize, enjoying the view of his abused mouth falling wide open. He didn't want an answer. He just upped the assault on Punk's G-spot, torturing the older man and wringing as much noise as he could from him as possible. 'That's it,' he grinned, 'come for your Winner. Come for your Tribal Chief.'

     Punk retorted with a strained growl between his gritted teeth. Fighting back, like he always did, but just like out in the ring, he was losing against a bigger, stronger and younger opponent. Roman, much like his move set, didn't waste his time and energy on doing anything flash, he focused on targeting his opponent's weak spots again and again until they submitted. His fingers circled and massaged Punk's prostrate, pushing down and around and over and back until the veteran practically melted beneath him, trembling from heat to foot and covered in fresh beads of sweat.

     'Come on now, stop fighting it,' Roman rumbled in his throat. 'You know you can't do it forever, old man.'

     The hazel eyes sprung open, that old fury in them that Roman had seen up close and personal only a few weeks ago when he'd thrown a similar insult. He observed Punk's battered lips snarling, saw his fist clench but before he could unleash the blow, Roman busted out one of his own. Pushing both fingers as hard as he could into Punk's prostrate, the older man let out a great howl and both his chin and his cock raised to the sky in unison, the latter spewing out strings of cum like an erupting volcano. 

     'There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?' Roman chuckled, slowly removing his fingers from Punk's quivering hole. His prize had softened again, in the throes of exhaustion caused by his after-glow. Globs of milky cum covered his heaving stomach, oozing down his flanks. Reigns reached across for the veteran's discarded shirt and used it to wipe the mess away. Punk didn't even notice; his body, his fist, his head all lolled back against the floor as if Reigns had drugged him with chloroform. 

     'Don't go to sleep just yet 'Babygirl',' Reigns cooed. 'We're just getting started.'

     Throwing the cum-soaked rag away again, Reigns grabbed both of Punk's hips and heaved them up. The older man's legs flopped like heavy sacks on either side as the OTC wrapped a hand around his own rock-hard dick and lined it up with his prize's abused hole. 

     He rammed himself in, right to the hilt, in one unchallenged thrust. Punk mewled beneath him, unable to move, unable to reply, just like he had been in the ring after suffering the final catastrophic spear of the match. Out-done, out-classed and out-fought by his younger, fitter nemesis. Reigns buried himself in deep, groaning at the foamy warmth cushioning his large cock. Through his glazed vision, he scanned the limp carcass beneath him, spying the familiar tattoos across his chest softly rising and falling, the crusty tape encompassing one hand that lay splayed above his head with a circle of faux stigmata drawn in red sharpie on his palm. Roman's eyes flew to the other hand, lying by Punk's side, noting the iconic X on it in black sharpie. And in that moment, it all struck him.

     He was fucking CM Punk!

     'You feel that?' Roman laughed with a bark, suddenly light-headed and weightless. Feeling like he was losing his mind. 'Can't believe this is happening. You feel me all the way inside of you, Phi-?'

     He caught himself but not quick enough. What was that? Why did he keep referring to this guy by his legal name?

     Delirium gave way to frustration. Roman braced himself on one hand and coiled the other around Punk's waist. With his prize secured, he began to move his hips, brutal and vicious from the offset, punching up into the older man's nearly lifeless body without mercy. Punk panted feebly beneath him, completely helpless against the onslaught. Each savage drive a incensed curse of 'fuck you, fuck you, fuck you'.

     Fuck what you said about me.

     Fuck what you did to me.

     Fuck all the times you've disrespected me.

     Fuck all the shit I've gone through because of you.

     Fuck you!

     Fuck you!

     Fuck you, Phil!

     With a fiery roar, Roman dropped Punk's dead weight. He clattered against the ground but the OTC did not let up. Snaring both wrists, he pinned the older man down and bucked into him so hard that he lifted the other man's hips right off the ground, ramming in and in and in. 

     'Look at me,' he commanded his prize. When Punk did not respond, he released his wrist in order to slap him across the cheek. Dark eyelashes fluttered open revealing a thin line of hazel 'Look at me when I'm fucking you Phil!'

     Punk slowly turned his face, eyes open a fraction, eyebrows steeples and lower lip drooping, his whole body rocking from the torrid pummelling of his hole.

     'You wanna know why I keep calling you by your real name?' Roman snarled in the older man's face, saliva dripping from his bared fangs onto the older man's grey-bristled cheek. 'It's because I hate you, Phil! I hate you!'

     His prize said nothing. Only looked back pleadingly.

     'And I hate... that I hate you.' Roman sucked in a breath feeling tears stinging his eyes. He combatted it by increasing the pace several notches, afflicting his enemy even more. 'You were my hero once. I respected you. I admired you. The day I was called up into the Shield, I was so fucking stoked to be working with you.'

     'Ro, I- hrrggnnfff,' Punk was cut off by an especially brutal thrust.

     'Shut up! I'm talking now! This is my time!' Roman collapsed on top of Punk, suffocating the older man with his full body weight. Keeping his wrists pinned, Roman shoved his head into the sweaty crook of the veteran's neck, his lips finding the soft lobe of Punk's ear. 'But then you went on that stupid podcast. Said all that stupid shit about making me look strong and made my life hell for years. But you know what hurt the most?' 

     Roman thrust in as hard as he could and stopped. Lodging himself as deep into Punk as the older man's tattered passage would allow. Lifting his face up, Roman placed his lips flush against Punk's ear. 

     'You said you chose Ambrose and Rollins. But not me.' The sob escaped him before he could prevent it. 'Why? Why didn't you choose me?'

     He waited, paused in the action, for a reply but none came.

     So he thrust in again. Harder this time. Making the veteran yelp.

     'Tell me!'

     'Because...' Punk's voice was hoarse and gritty. Sounding... old. 'Like I said before. Because you were boring. And safe. And plastic!'

     Roman punched into him again, grinding his hips against his ravaged taint. 'The truth, Phil!'

     'That is the fucking truth!'

     Roman lost it. Lifting himself up onto his hands again, he resumed his violent battering of Punk's body, every one of his mixed feelings on the man tossed aside as he tore and shredded his former hero's to pieces. Punk wasn't smiling anymore, Punk wasn't laughing anymore. Punk was in agony, wishing for respite, wishing for reprieve, wishing for the end.

     And tragically it came all too early.

     Roman felt himself reaching his climax and quickly tore himself free from his prize. Straddled his entire weight across Punk's sweaty chest, he shuffled up to Punk's chin and, with his cock in one hand, finished himself off. The spray landed all across Punk's face, catching on his beard and eyebrow and hair, splattering over his screwed shut eyes and dripping into his open mouth. Mixing in with the sweat and blood and tears he'd already shed that night.

     Roman gave a final shake of his cock and stood up. Grabbing Punk's 'Babygirl' shirt, he wiped himself with it then tossed it to his shattered victim. 'Clean yourself up then leave,' he snapped.

     Turning away, Roman pulled up his wrestling pants and closed his zipper when he heard a soft, craggy voice murmur through the silence.

     'I knew you were coming for my spot.' 

     He paused and turned around. Punk had made it up to one elbow, his back towards him. 

     'And I knew they were gonna just hand it to you. And I'd fought so fucking hard for it.' Another painful heave and he managed to sit. 'It wasn't fucking fair. That's why... that's why I didn't choose you.'

     All of the conflict from earlier, all the pity and sympathy and grief that Roman had felt on Punk's behalf reared its ugly head again and this time he couldn't simply swat it away. 'I'm sorry,' he hushed out, not sure what else to say or do but knowing this was the least he could offer.

     'I'm sorry too,' Punk replied. Shaky fingers reached out for the rag he'd been tossed but sprung away in disgust. 'What the fuck?' 

     For the second time in as many minutes, Roman apologised. 'Sorry, I used it to clean you up earlier. Here.'

     He threw Punk one of his clean towels and the veteran used it to wipe the cum from his cheeks 'You had to do it on my face, huh? You couldn't just come inside me like everybody else?'

     'Couldn't risk getting you pregnant, 'Babygirl',' Roman teased and to his amazement, Punk chuckled. A good natured one.

     'Just imagine if that was possible,' the veteran replied with a whimsical grin. 'Me of all people, carrying on the Bloodline.'

     'I'd rather not,' Roman retorted.

     The mirth died down again. 'So what now?' Punk asked softly. 'Between you and me, I mean.'

     Roman took a moment to consider the question. 'Everything between you and me is settled,' he said. 'We put it to rest and we move on.'

     'Sounds good to me,' Punk agreed, nodding his head.

     'From now on, stay the hell away from me and keep your damn nose out of my business.'

     Despite himself, Roman couldn't help but notice the dismay in the older man's expression and feel a pang of guilt draw back in. 'Sure,' Punk muttered, fumbling with his trunks and speedos and pulling them back up around his waist again. Grabbing his filthy shirt, he struggled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily and having to support himself against the wall. 'Goodbye, then.'

     Roman turned away. Keeping his back to his opponent, he listened to the uneven stumble of Punk's boots as he limped out the door and softly closed it behind him. As soon as he was alone again, he expected the sorrow to hit... but it didn't. Probably because he felt cleansed of a decade's worth of toxicity, or because he finally had some closure on the matter.