#loads of smut

[jokeringcutio]

Snippet 18+ content underneath the cut. You've been warned:

“Excuse me, but what is going on?” you asked, eyes wide in disbelief. What did they want from you?

But then Arthur flipped the covers open, the blanket aside, to reveal that he was wearing a shirt with nothing underneath. Naked flesh, bare thighs. A proud and leaking shaft protruded out of a bush of greying dark hair. His cock, you thought alarmed.

“Will you help me willingly?” he then asked, voice smooth and gentle, his eyes finally upon you.

~ I have yet to find the plot / and a title. It'll come. Like the reader and Arthur come in nearly all four chapters now. It is insane. Like:

[gutsby]

Ruined!

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel is an old man who struggles to cum sometimes. You’ve got time to kill and a tight hole to fill.

Warnings: 18+. Peepaw brainrot + a dash of anorgasmia. Unprotected p-in-v, cockwarming, age gap, daddy kink.

Note: Finals are whooping my ass left & right. This is a quickie.

Word count: 1.2k | Part of the Waiting Game ‘verse

Surely he was hurting you now.

Joel Miller had a kink for many, many fun activities, but splitting a sweet young thing like you over his cock to the point you were almost in tears was just not one of them.

At the same time your poor, surely-bruised walls pulsed around his hardened length, he felt a pang of guilt. His balls were pressed against your ass like two lead weights, soaked with the remains of your third release, and his mind was at war with itself—keep fucking you like this? Pull out and offer his sincerest apologies for not being able to cum? A boy your age would’ve never had you waiting around like that, aching around his cock, much less begging for something as simple as a cumshot.

He decided to go straight to the source. Leaning over your prone body on the bed before him, he was careful not to rut his hips or jostle his dick around too much.

Joel pressed a hot, stubbled kiss to your cheek, then:

“‘S’it too much, baby? She need a break, maybe?”

Joel thumbed at that space where your body ended and his began and nearly lost his mind to the pearly-white slick that had accumulated with time. Two hours time, he had to remind himself while you moaned and writhed and bucked your ass back. Your cunt was choking him.

Crying, too.

Your eyes flew open the moment his words reached you.

“You kiddin’ me, Miller?! I could do this shit all day.”

Sometimes Joel forgot you were only in your twenties. Really, the thought only occasionally crossed his mind in moments like these—or when your father, his best friend, happened to bring you up—but when it did, it hit him hard. You were young. Lively. Surely far too spry and full of life to be messing around with a man as old as him.

Joel’s guilt ran almost commensurate with his pleasure when he felt you anchor your feet on the bed and start to fuck yourself back and forth over his still-throbbing dick.

Almost.

He planted a hand beside your head and grinned. He let you fuck him. Felt you pull off, crawl up the bed a little, then beckon him back to your body, where your ass was now pointing up and your back was arched in invitation.

Almost.

“You know I can’t sleep without your cum inside me.”

And you made a point to spread your knees and look behind you with a smile as sweet as Milo’s tea, fingers drumming a beat against the bedspread in anticipation.

“You do wanna fill me up, don’t you, daddy?” you teased.

Yeah, no. The guilt was gone. Joel could worry about being a depraved old man when he was done cumming.

Then he was back inside you, driving his hips until every last inch of him was wrapped snug within your wet and velvety embrace, and he sighed. A real protracted one, like the kind he was liable to exhale after climbing two flights of stairs, or else just hoisting himself off the sofa. Or lifting you in his arms and fucking you hard against the hood of his Bronco. Any time. Any place. You were kind enough to oblige him with the best cardio of his life, so the least Joel could do now was make you cum again.

He snatched your hands up in one of his own and placed your wrists at the base of your spine. With his other, free set of fingers he took to rubbing your clit gently.

“SON OF A—”

“—good girl.”

You let out a bloodcurdling scream into your pillow and secretly hoped this man’s dick would never deflate again. Not with the way he was sawing his thing back and forth and dragging you to the edge, circling your clit like you were the single most precious thing in the world to him.

“Oh, sweet pea, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Like he could feel the tears staining the cushion himself.

“Mmrooonme,” you cried into it, voice garbled by cotton.

“What’s’at, honey? Can’t hear ya.”

Joel then bent at the waist, pretending to be leaning in to hear you better, when really he knew he’d be digging in your guts with that big, bulbous head of his and making you squeal again. Hands still held captive behind you, you inched your chin back on the pillow so your moans could be heard even louder while Joel sped up.

“You— ruined me,” you repeated. Now clear as ever.

Joel tried to hide his smile and glanced down between your body and his. Then, while his ring finger joined the other two to make their tight, light circles, he returned,

“Ruined? Pussy feels just fine t’me.”

You’d kill him if he wasn’t so good at this. You turned your head more to meet his eyes from the corner of yours.

“No. Ruined me. For anyone else.”

Probably forever.

“Good.”

You knew he liked it that way.

You saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his touch. The hefty, broad, and greying Joel Miller had been loafing around on this earth long enough to know how to claim what was his. When his hips knocked yours to lay you flat on the bed, you already knew what was coming next.

First, his arms came to rest on either side of your body.

“Shit,” you whimpered.

Next, his lips went trailing down to your ear.

“Just a little more, sugar—that’s it,” he murmured while his hips sank in, and you felt that big, delicious stretch.

Then he released your hands so they were free to squeeze the sheets, and when they did, his moved over them—lacing his fingers through your own—and his lips pressed a kiss to your jaw. He held you in a tender grasp. His breath was hot on your neck, and the whole of his body was blanketing yours. Joel knew you liked it like that, which is why he made sure not to leave an inch of space in between. He was grunting, rutting, holding you close while his cock drilled a maddening pace inside you.

“You ruined me too, y’know,” he mumbled into your skin.

His nose was flush with the side of your cheek, nudging inward. Begging you to turn your head just a little more so he could kiss you. Weak as you were, you obliged.

And you moaned against that grey, stubbled chin of his when the thrusts above you had your cunt grinding the bed, rubbing that soft and helpless nub on the sheets.

“C’mon— let daddy have it,” he growled, “Let daddy have it and make it his, huh? That okay by you, baby?”

It was.

More than okay, as confirmed by the orgasm that tore through your body moments later while your teeth sank into the flesh of Joel’s lower lip and your cunt clenched and soaked over him whole. Joel wedged his tongue in your mouth and fucked you through it. His broad and callused hands were like iron around your own, holding you tight and keeping you still amidst a maelstrom of pleasure that combed over your every last nerve.

He licked into your mouth. Licked over it. Took the sick and distinct pleasure of knowing no one but him got to see you like this, with your jaw hanging slack and your eyes rolling back and your whines repeating quietly, ‘Daddydaddypleasedaddyfuckohfuckdontstop.’

Maybe ruined wasn’t such a bad thing to be at all.

[hungharrington]

what about jealous steve…

ok it’s not quite jealous steve, more like possessive steve but that’s cos i half wrote it and then came back and i’m not wasting precious writing <3 ok mwah as always, MDNI THIS ENTIRE BLOG IS 18+

You and Steve split up for all of 10 minutes before he’s back at your side, one hand sliding into your back pocket, kissing the side of your head in hello.

The kiss burns lightly where it's pressed into your hair. The usual party music dwindles in the background, playing from the other room.

“Hey sweetheart,” He murmurs, voice all low.

He ducks his head low to press another kiss to your skin, this time against the heat of your neck. You squirm at the sudden attention and smile apologetically at your friend, almost flustered, and turn to him.

“Hi,” You smile up at him through your lashes. “What’s that special greeting for?”

“Nothin’,” Steve hums, smiling back, even as his hand in your pocket gives a little squeeze. He’s got that flush he always gets after one or two beers, colouring his face.

He gives you a little tug sideways, towards him. “C'mon, I wanna talk to you.”

You huff a laugh but follow him all the same, leaving with a quick wave to your friend over your shoulder. Steve’s hand slips from your back pocket to tangle with your hand and he leads you through the living room and out to the hallway. Doors line it and Steve seems to know exactly where he’s heading.

“Sure,” You laugh a bit, on the adoring side. “We totally came to this party so we talk to each other—“ Steve pushes through one of the doors, revealing an empty bedroom. “— in an empty bedroom.”

Behind you, the door snips shut. Steve turns and steals a glance at the drink in your hand, plucking it from you without any warning.

“Hey!” You say, as he puts it down on a surface behind him. “I was drin—oh,”

In one fluid motion, Steve steps in and backs you up against the door, one hand settling on your waist. The other curls beneath your chin, cradling your jaw and you barely get a moment to gasp before his lips are on yours.

Hot and desperate, Steve kisses you like you’re a feast for him to devour— fierce kisses, little nips, adoring little noises as he finally gets his lips on you like he’s been dreaming of all night.

You make a soft noise in your throat, a sound of appreciation. Your hands travel up to rest on his chest, fingers twining around the collar of his polo.

Pulling back, Steve’s delighted to see you already look a little messy — your lips pinker than normal, your eyes wider, darker.

“Really?” He asks, his voice low and teasing. Steve leans in and kisses your neck again, in the same place he did put in the living room. His breath is hot against your skin when he murmurs against your skin? “You didn’t think we’d end up here?”

Something in the gravel of his tone makes your back arch, something warm thrumming within you as Steve begins to suckle the skin of your neck. Fuck, you think, beginning to pant, Of course he’s going for a hickey.

“I- uh,” Your voice is already soaked in a sigh, your fingers clenching over his shoulders tightly as pleasure begins to drool through your core.

Steve continues before you can even answer his first question. His hand on your waist moves, shifting down til he’s grabbing at the apex of your thigh. His fingers dig into the swell of your ass, cupping it so he can pull you forward — right as his thigh slots between yours easily.

“You think i could come to these parties,” He breathes, moving your hips for you. “with you, looking this fucking hot,” You pant beneath him. “and not need to leave a mark?”

Following his word true, his hot mouth reattaches to your neck, sucking with fervor this time. His hand on your ass moves and finds its place in your back pocket again, squeezing and dragging your hips forward once more.

The other shifts down squeeze at your chest, his deft fingers rubbing over your nipple with eased practice. You moan prettily, rutting down against the denim, the friction downright sinful.

Your hands have a mind of their own, still moving up, and now they twist into the hair at the nape of his neck. Steve’s moves on to a new spot on your neck now, further down, and you’re helpless to do anything but let him.

Something in your cunts throbs at the possessiveness. You could very happily do this all night. The ambience of the party just behind the door slips away almost completely.

Steve pulls back after a couple of minutes, lips sheened with spit, his hair a mess from how you’ve been dragging your hands through it. His heavy eyes drag slowly from your marked up neck down to where you’re still grinding onto his thigh. His cock thickens in his jeans.

“Fuck,” He sighs, the sound rough in his throat. He moves his other hand down so he’s holding your hips, dragging your hips forward at his own, controlled pace. You nudge against his hard on with every motion.

“You don’t do this for anyone else, do you?” He asks, a dash of a smirk on his face. Smug. Possessive. Adored with you. You shake your head, each of your breaths lilted with a moan.

“Just you,” You say, knowing what he wants to hear. You know your boyfriend, so you know exactly why he’s pulled you in here and marked up your neck— and it only fuels your lust. “Only you, Steve,”

Steve’s cock twitches in his pants, his breath catching in his throat.

“God, fuck this party,” He mutters, diving in to capture your lips with his. You’re both so riled up, the kiss strong and hungry from both sides.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull back, forehead pressed against yours. “Let’s ditch this place. I can’t let you go out there looking like this.”

You huff a laugh but are inclined to agree. “You’re the one who made me like this.”

“I know,” Steve says. “But now I might be giving people ideas.”

That makes you laugh— the perplexity of his reasoning. Boy logic, you suppose. Your arms around his neck tug him closer, stealing a kiss.

“Better get me home then, huh?”

Steve grins, knowing exactly what’s waiting at home—and kisses you with the promise of what’s to come.

[zorrasucia]

❛ i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know. ❜ carmy berzatto pls

Hi Anon! ✨

Of course! This is some established relationship naughtiness at The Bear. I hope you enjoy it! 💜

It was one of the first days of fall, and probably one of the last warm days of the year. And so, you were enjoying the weather: wearing your favorite dress and cleaning your apartment with the window open to let the soft breeze in. Your phone rang, the name on the screen read Sydney 🐻.

"Hi, Syd," you greeted her with a smile.

"Hey, uh," she hesitated, the sound of a hectic kitchen in the background. "Remember you told me I could call you when Carmy was being a pain in the ass? I know it was a joke and, you know, I'm not his babysitter and you're not either. Like, I know that. But, uh-" she had a nervous tone in her voice.

"Syd, it's okay," you reassured her. "It's Saturday, I bet things are insane in the kitchen."

"You have no idea," she let out a nervous chuckle. "I seriously wouldn't even be calling if I-"

Syd was right, that you weren't Carmy's babysitter but you could probably talk some sense into him. Besides, you didn't have work today - and they'd probably give you leftovers for your troubles.

"Hey. I'm on my way," you said. "Don't worry."

"Okay, okay," Syd sighed. "I'll, uh, I'll try to chill in the meantime."

You grabbed your keys and bag... You suddenly had a sinful idea and grinned.

~

You walked through the back door, avoiding servers and chefs, mumbling 'behind' every so often like you'd seen the rest of them do. You could make out Carmy's hoarse voice between all the noise.

"This steak is fucking dead! Refire. Chefs, wake the fuck up!"

"Hey, Carm," you called him.

He turned to look at you, eyes wide and fiery. "What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Do you have a sec?" you said with a polite smile.

"Not really. I-" he looked disoriented and frantic.

Syd stepped in, looking determined. "I'll handle it. Go."

Carmy led you inside his office, exasperation radiating from him.

"Why are you-?" he started.

"Uh, Syd called," you replied, giving him a knowing look as he closed the door behind you.

"Fuck."

"Yeah. She said you were being a pain in the ass," you leaned on his desk.

"I- uh-" he hesitated, then covered his face, red from the heat of the kitchen but also from anger and shame. "She- she was being nice. I'm being an asshole."

You sat on his desk and sighed. "Thought so."

"Huh?" he tilted his head. You had caught him by surprise.

You gestured for him to come closer, so you could talk softer and look him in the eye.

"Listen, I know it gets super loud in your head, and you get overwhelmed and you lash out," you had seen it happen once or twice. "You need to step down when that happens."

"Syd-" he avoided your gaze. "Yeah, Syd has suggested it."

"So?" you cupped his face and tilted it towards you. "Can you do that? Can you let go for ten minutes and calm the fuck down?"

He blinked hard, stressed.

"I don't know," he confessed after a moment of consideration.

"I think you can, Carm," you encouraged him. Then, you put the second, more inappropriate part of your plan in motion. You grabbed his chef whites, and brought him closer, opening your legs to accommodate him. Then you whispered: "I'm not wearing any underwear. Thought you'd like to know."

Carmy stared at you, mouth agape.

"We're in the middle of service-"

"Listen," you gestured at the door. There were no loud bangs or screams, just the normal bustle of a kitchen; if anything it was quieter than when you first entered. "Syd is handling it. The rest of the kitchen is functioning. The sky isn't falling," you grabbed his face with both hands. "Now, will you just fuck me?"

"Shit."

He leaned down to kiss you hard, all tongue and teeth, biting a little. You ran your fingers through his hair, bringing him closer, crossing your ankles behind his waist.

"I need this to be fucking fast," he rasped against your lips.

"I know," you smiled while untying his apron and unbuckling his belt.

The mere indecency of showing up to Carmy's place of work planning to fuck him had made you wet enough to take him that very moment.

"Condoms?" he asked.

You took one out of your bag and handed it to him, palming his cock impatiently through his trousers.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He lowered his trousers and boxers just enough to pull out his cock. He grabbed the back of your knees to pull you closer to the edge of his desk, something feral about him. You bunched up your dress all the way up to your hips, confirming that you were indeed bare under it. Carmy's eyes widened.

"Shit..." his fingers touched your drenched pussy. "You planned this, the whole thing."

You nodded proudly, biting on your lip when he entered you.

"Can't believe you showed up, in the middle of service-" he murmured. "Jesus... To fuck me."

"Desperate times," you touched your forehead to his, his gaze intense. He bottomed out and you covered his mouth to muffle a whine. "See? I think you need it."

That was the tiny push he craved.

He fucked you mercilessly, forceful thrusts while he grabbed your thighs hard, keeping you on the edge of the desk, right where he wanted you. His rhythm was frantic, half out of urgency and half out of anger. You kept your hand on his mouth, silencing the tirade of curses and primal groans he was blurting. Your eyes were on him, breathy pleas leaving your lips.

"Give it to me. It's okay. Please. I need you. Please," you weren't sure if he could actually hear it all but you couldn't stop, not when you were so close to your release. Your pussy tightened around his cock, pulsing.

His grip on you faltered, eyebrows raising as he looked at you for confirmation.

You nodded, eyes half lidded in ecstasy. "Let go, baby. Let go."

He gave you a few desperate thrusts, your palm vibrating with the sound of his moans as he came.

Suddenly, the room felt eerily quiet, the only sounds that mattered were Carmy's panting and your heart's beating. You lowered your hand from his mouth to his chest.

"Shit," he closed his eyes, collecting himself.

"Mhmm," you swayed in your seat, moving his softening cock as you did so. "Better?"

He nodded, a little sheepish. "Thank you."

"Hey. Can't do this every time," you said honestly. The likelihood of you coming to fuck some sense into him on weekdays was low to none. "But why don't you think about this next time you're about to lose it?" you suggested.

"You want me to get hard while running the expo?" he chuckled. His heartbeat was slowing down.

"I mean, if that's what it takes to get you to step down and chill, sure," you teased.

While the idea of Carmy fucking his hand while thinking of you was appealing, it seemed a little impractical to do at the restaurant.

"Might just take a smoke break," he offered. "Save the fucking for when I get home."

"Deal," you kissed him and tapped his cheek gently. "Now, come on, get out there."

He got dressed and ready at a dizzying speed, taking time to rearrange your dress and kiss you one last time before returning to the kitchen. He left the door ajar, and you peeked just in time to see him give an apologetic nod to Syd and ask her to continue running the expo. It was a start. You were satisfied.

[hyuckdolle]

𝓡.OUGHER ! ᥫ᭡ kim. dy x fem!reader

your edges slicked and fluffy on your forehead as a curly ponytail sat on top, with a pink knitted headband to top it off. you looked at doyoung with cute glossy eyes as he pulled your pink lacy panties to the side and thrusted gently.

“feels so good doie,” you whimpered and let out tiny hiccups and gasps.

he held your legs up, the heels of your feet covered by white leg warmers, and your toes clenching subconsciously as you felt him drag against your walls.

“my pretty girl feels good hm?” you nodded with a cute pout on your lips and a furrow on your brows. he pulled out before thrusting up and down your slit, his tip catching onto your clit with each thrust of his hips making you squirm.

“yeah? made all the tingles go away?” he cocked his head before slamming back in.

“shit-” you squealed out before backing away from him on your pillow-filled bed. making him grab your pillowy thighs and drag you back towards him.

“we’re not done,” he whispered against your ear as he eased back in. “you wanted this right? wanted me to be ‘rougher’ with you?”

“but-”

“so take it,” he clasped his hand over your mouth before continuing. the claps of your skin filling the room as you screamed out moans behind his hand. your pink french tips clawed at his arm as the other one went to his abdomen, making him grab it and put it over your head.

“just like that,” he whispered. watching as your sweet, white tinted cream coated his pink and lengthy cock, “cream on daddy.”

© hyuckdolle 2023. all rights reserved !

[joannasteez]

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity 

size 

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?... 

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"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. 

"time and place sweetheart". 

[tired-biscuit]

BUSCUIT!! the way you write yuuji…i’m gonna implode. if you have any more thoughts i am literally all ears 🧏🏽‍♀️

i sure do!

i think that if you fuck and he cums and you don’t, he doesn’t act insecure about it and leaves you hanging, but rather moves between your legs to finger you until you reach climax like the good boyfriend he is.

so it’s just him hovering over you, still sweaty and flushed in the face from your previous endeavors, intently studying your features for every reaction and looking at you with pure, endless love as he moves his fingers in and out of you at the pace that suits you most.

the cum that he’s spilled inside you earlier dribbles down his fingers and makes you glisten between your legs; it lets the circles that he gently rubs into your clit — after getting some help of finding it from you — run easier and stimulates you even further.

you’re both panting even if only you are on the receiving end this time. to be completely honest, you’re not even all that surprised by it, and that’s because you’re aware that pleasuring you pleasures him just the same. after all, he’s just so giving by nature. he’ll always try his best to make you feel good and to match the level of satisfaction that you bring him with your own actions in bed.

and it’s not like the entire thing doesn’t make him feel good as well. you reach out and wrap your arms around his neck and dig your fingers into his hair so that you can pull him close enough to kiss him, and he feels like he’s on cloud nine. the way your nails drag across his scalp and down the nape of his neck makes him want to shiver, it feels so fucking good.

he picks up his pace as your tongue glides over his front teeth, watches you arch your back when he pulls away slightly and a thin string of saliva breaks the contact between your mouths. his girl is so pretty, he thinks. full of his cum, fucking herself on his fingers, clinging onto him like your life depends on it because maybe it does — you love him that much, that’s for sure.

heat rises inside your tummy, it spills throughout your body and makes you close your eyes from how overwhelming it all is; all that love and stimulation he’s giving you. he’s there, talking you through it with a gentle, “there we go” and “you’re so pretty, you know that?” until your heart feels like it’ll burst from the genuine affection. christ, your pussy is so sticky; how on earth does he turn you on so much?

you eventually moan his name out when you finally break down, this content sigh of bliss accompanied with amazing, warm pleasure that sucks the air right out of your lungs, and he feels blood rushing south again at the sound, feels a new wave of arousal hazing his already fickle mind as you tug on his hair, grabbing firm fistfuls. it all brings his blood to a simmer once more.

so here he is, ready to go again, and here you are; mere putty in his hands because he’s so goddamn generous.

will either of you ever catch a break?

[ncsdlr]

Sharing is Not Caring - N.R.

Word Count: 3145

Warnings: being tied up to a chair, degradation, aftercare, spanking, paddle use, restraints, sub!nat, dom!reader

Pairings: Natsha Romanoff x Reader

A/N: This has been rotting in my wattpad drafts fr. It's been I think a year since I wrote this, and I have posted it. I'm trying to clear our my drafts, so you should be expecting a lot of activity from me. Also this is pure smut so....

-------------------

A loud slap echoed in the spacious room where Natasha sat tied to a chair in nothing but her undergarments. The woman standing in front of Natasha at the moment is you.

Y/N Y/L/N. Her beloved.

"Y/N, don't you think you're overreacting a little here?"

"Oh, I'm not overreacting." You grinned at her, looking her right in the eye. "You see, this is what happens when you go around town with another woman and act like a fucking prostitute."

You gently reached forward and grabbed a tight hold of Natasha's hair in the back of her head. "You have anything to say for yourself, honey?"

"Y/N, please. This is all just a misunderstanding. Besides, I'm allowed to have fun with my friends and you doing all this stuff just because of it is making you look selfish."

Within the snap of a finger, you smacked Natasha across the face repeatedly, the force of it all strong enough to make you almost lose the grip you had on her hair. Her cheek was heating up rather quickly with the blood rushing to the spot you would repeatedly hit her which, in this case, was on both sides of her beautiful face. Natasha was panting when you stopped hitting her, so she rushed to speak before you got the chance to continue, but you just had to be a quick little shit and beat her to it.

"Don't call me selfish. I hate sharing, and you know that yet you proceeded to whore yourself out to Maria Hill in front of the world. So now, what we're going to do here is punish you. For all the horrible things you've done to my tattered heart."

You walked away from Natasha, moving to a drawer at the far end of the room. You reached inside the drawer and plucked out a variety of instruments you planned to use on your girlfriend. You could have sworn you heard Natasha whimper. You turned back to Natasha, a faint evil grin present on your face. Natasha was squirming in her seat at the vibrator in your hands.

You were now standing in front of her, a wide smirk settled on your face, thus scaring the shit out of Natasha a hell lot more, which caused her to begin her pleading. "Maria's just a friend, please, you don't have to do this."

"You're pathetic." You pulled her hips towards you and placed the vibrator on her wet core, moving up and down her cunt, the woman panting out heavily in surprise.

"Are you sorry, Natasha?" You turned the vibrator up a higher to a higher setting and stopped moving it, now keeping it still on her clit. Natasha could not speak, then you heard the loudest moan slip past her lips when you pressed the vibrator harder on her clit just right. It was always like this when the two of you had sex. Whatever kind of sex you were having, the infamous Black Widow would be dumbed down into nothing all because of you. Natasha can and would swear that you had godly powers with the way you always fucked her dumb.

"You realize this is all your fault, don't you? You could have avoided all of this if you had just acted normally and not the slut you're only allowed to be when you're with me."

When you harshly pulled her hair back to husk in her ear, Natasha's eyes were mid-rolling to the back of her head, thus making the woman gasp aloud. "You're such a stupid whore, Natasha." You knew your words were falling on deaf ears, but you still proceeded to talk just to be able to reprimand the redhead later. "This feels so good for you, doesn't it? Or are you just not as bright as you were earlier, and that's why you're not talking back now?"

All Natasha could do was breathily moan in your face, too high on pleasure to respond to you with even a single nod. Natasha could barely even catch her breath, so the fact that you were expecting so much of her right now was so unfair to her. I mean, how do you even expect her to respond when you know how your words alone affect her?

"You're being very disrespectful, Natasha. I've asked you three questions, yet you haven't answered at least one of them. You don't want me to prolong your punishment, do you?" That caused the woman you loved's eyes to widen, the fear of you going through with your threats shining through her blown-out green eyes.

"No, please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" Natasha rushed to speak, albiet sounding drunk, finally getting the least bit of control over her muddled mind.

You grinned, "That's what I thought, little girl, but if you really are sorry, you would answer all my questions." As you spoke, you were very rudely interrupted by the woman of your dreams warning you of the coil in her stomach nearly snapping.

"I'm so close."

"No." You pulled the vibrator away from Natasha's core and listened to her loudly whimper out a 'No'  at the loss of pleasure. "If I were to let you cum, who would you be cumming for? Are you cumming for Maria Hill," You pressed the vibrator back onto Natasha's cunt only to pull it away again upon continuing, "Or me?"

Natasha was whining, panting, and moaning like a bitch in her seat whilst you repeated the action of putting the vibrator directly on her clit and then taking it all away. Your eyes focused on her face, watching as it went through shock, pleasure, then frustration. In your focus and intense eye contact with Natasha, the woman was not able to form a single thought in her head, her mind being clouded by all three of the results your actions gave her.

You would watch her face contort for the 10 seconds where you held the vibrator against her, then listen to her huff angrily at you and your ministrations - but mostly you. You were mesmerized by the beauty of your lover, so much so that you rewarded her beauty by pressing the vibrator on her clit once more, this time not intending to take it all away at the last second. You watched as she gasped, her eyes fluttering close but fighting herself to keep them open, although somewhat futile. "God, you're so pretty, Natty."

Your soft gaze made her melt, and your faint smirk at it told her you were enjoying her little reactions. "Answer my last question, baby. Would you be cumming for me or your beloved Maria Hill?"

"Only you, Y/N. Only you- Oh, please let me cum, Daddy!" Natasha continued to babble out her pleas, not noticing how you had let go of her hair and was now kneeling in between her smooth thighs. Natasha jerked back and moaned, throwing her head back in the process when you started licking at her tasty cunt all whilst still holding the vibrator against her. 

Natasha stuttered in her moans, her fists bleeding white from being clenched so hard behind her back. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her teeth were firmly pressed together, trying her hardest to spit out a warning before she exploded on your face. But through all her hard work, she still could not get a single word out of her mouth, only breathy stuttered moans, gasps, and pathetic whimpered pleas. 

Natasha could hardly breathe, and when your tongue wiggled around that rough spot within her, her tether broke, her juices spilling all over your mouth and your nose, and even the vibrator that was still firmly pressed against her sensitive core. Natasha was breathing heavily, trying to regain control of her senses, only for you to take her breath away again with a bruising kiss. 

Everything was going well during the kiss, excluding the burning feeling Natasha felt in her chest at the lack of much-needed oxygen. It was only when the redhead felt a harsh slap come in contact with her face, thus breaking the kiss, did she suddenly yelped out. "I haven't allowed you to cum yet, have I?"

Natasha was near sobbing when you started undoing her restraints, already preparing to lose her dignity just to beg for your forgiveness, but then you pulled her up suddenly, carrying her nearly limp form over your shoulder, and guided her to lay down on the perfectly made bed you shared with her. Again, Natasha was going to speak up, but just like the last time, you'd interrupted her again with a ball gag in her mouth, and that was the moment she deemed you to be her worst enemy.

"Oh, Natasha. You really should know better." You walked around the bed just for dramatic purposes and collected a few more items to use on your gorgeous lover. "I thought you would be brighter than this, being a trained super spy and all." You were fastening the harness of your large strap around your hips, keeping your eyes locked onto Natasha, watching as she whimpered around her ball gag with tears cascading down her pretty face. 

You truly were in awe of her. The beauty she possessed was, in your opinion, unmatched by every single person you'd ever come across. You collected a variety of restraints and tightly tied her to the bed like the letter 'A'. You secured a lengthy leg spreader around Natasha's ankles and grabbed both of her hands to tie them above her head on the velvety headboard.

Natasha's eyes watched you move around the room, watching on as you thought over what you planned to do to her. The possibilities were endless, and so she feared she would not make it out of this alive. I mean her pussy sure isn't. What Natasha feared the most about you doing to her was edging her. She loved it when you edged her, but only to an extent. The thought of you building her up to where she was about to bust only for you to take it all away terrified her even more than your harsh slaps ever had. 

To say Natasha was shocked at your statement would be a huge understatement. Your soft tone threw her off even more, and when you smiled at her gently, her brows couldn't help but come together and form a crease as they met. "I'm allowing you to cum, Natasha. You can cum whenever you feel like it just remember your safe word."

That couldn't be just it, there had to be a catch, but all her thoughts went back to being mush when you ran the tip of your silicone cock through her slit, collecting the juices that had pooled there. Then when you pushed yourself into her soaking cunt, her mind was further melted into a puddle sloshing around in her skull. Your pace was tough, causing her legs to tighten around you- well, as much as the leg spreader allowed. 

Natasha was moaning wildly beneath you, writhing and nearly trembling at the speed of your hard thrusts. Her hands were sore, but not sore enough for her attention to be on it. Natasha tried speaking, but all that was heard were the jumbled pronunciation of her words

Good thing you were equipped with the skill to translate her muffled words. "You gonna cum, baby? You gonna give me all that this slutty pussy can?"

Natasha nodded furiously, her hips rising from the bed with much restraint. She could barely move, but the high she was chasing was enough of an inspiration for her to try gyrating her hips up to yours.

"Cum whenever you like, my whore. If it gets too much, you can always use your safe words."

If your dirty words were any indication that you were planning something epic, Natasha wouldn't have known thanks to the blinding white light that flooded her field of vision when she came. By god, you could swear that her face when she came was that of goddesses'.

"Oh, my darling, you're so beautiful." Your soft words were very stark contrasts to the continuation of your harsh pounding. Natasha didn't even have a minute to come down from her previous high before you were pushing her over another edge.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck!" You don't understand how that sounded very clear, but you were not complaining whatsoever. You could even say that you were impressed.

You stared into Natasha's shining eyes while you plowed her into the mattress. "You're such a fucking whore, Natasha. No wonder Hill was all over you when you decided to go out with her. You're disgusting. I mean, Look at you, the infamous Black Widow dumbed down to nothing by her meager partner."

Your words were enough to tip her over the edge of sweet release. Her legs shook around you while her moans sounded more stuttered and broken, nearing the kind of moans that sounded like sobbing. You stilled your hips, much to Natasha's relief, and pulled the ball gag out of her mouth.

Natasha gasped and heaved in the air. The woman barely even noticed when you pulled out of her, her brain being a little too fogged up to register anything.

Picking up the discarded vibrator from earlier, you pressed it firmly on Natasha's pussy, sliding it up and down her slit. The sound of her sticky arousal echoed around the room along with the incessant vibrator unleashing hell upon your precious woman's sweet cunt.

"Oh, god, Y/N, that feels so good!" Natasha had her eyes tightly shut with her mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Her next words were whispered pleas before she exploded all over the vibrator you held along with your forearm.

"You're doing so good, my princess." You coo'ed climbing off of Natasha just enough to reach the leg spreader attached to her ankles. You freed her feet, grabbing your woman by the back of her thighs only to flip her over onto her stomach.

"We aren't done yet?" You could've cackled at her question if not for the way her gaping cunt was distracting you. Instead of rudely mocking Natasha, you lightly chuckled through your nose, caressing her plump ass whilst also licking and biting at it.

"No, my darling, I'm not done with you yet." You smirked as you pulled away, moving to grab two paddles of the same size, placing them on top of Natasha's ass, using them to caress her skin. "You ready, baby?"

Natasha was panting into the pillow, writhing against the paddles on her bottom as she furrowed her eyebrows, "For what?"

You lifted one of the paddles and brought it back down harshly, making your lover yelp in surprise, watching how Natasha's ass rippled at the impact. "Oh, Daddy!"

You wanted her to be loud in any way possible. If you weren't known to get everything you wanted before, now you are. You brought the other paddle up and then down again much harder than the last. Then you lifted both paddles, bringing them back down with a force that made Natasha scream louder than she ever had before.

Your onslaught upon Natasha's ass was unrelenting, hitting her ass to sadistically watch her skin ripple at the force you were dealing with. You relished in the screams and moans she released, each one bringing waves of arousal to pool in your underwear.  the woman is now full-on sobbing, the pain and the pleasure blending in with each other deliciously within her. She was enjoying this just as much as you were, if not more. She loved it when you got all sadistic about her. It made her feel like she was living on the edge, and she was enjoying the breeze there. 

At the last strike you gave to Natasha's plump ass, her orgasm embarrassingly tore through her, getting past her holds and slipping through her sex. You could have laughed if you didn't have any self-control, but alas, the goodness in your tattered heart pounded through, causing you to feel the need to protect her. 

Now, with the heat of the moment subsiding, your goal shifted from punishing Natasha by making her feel what you felt when you saw her with Maria to shower her with the softest kisses known to man. You hushed your wailing lover, careful with your hands as you pulled the restraint from her reddened wrists.

"Hush, my darling. It's all over now." You planted a small kiss on the top of her head before moving off of your shared bed. "Let me grab a soothing cream for your butt, baby, don't move."

As you gathered what you needed from the bathroom, Natasha used that small bit of alone time to actually think of what she'd done. She reprimanded herself for completely leaving you alone at the party you came to together and ditching you for some other girl.

Truly, her interaction with Maria was nothing more than friendly. They shared talks of their respective life partners and what they've been up to recently, nothing scandalous at all. But now that she'd been punished, she could see how that may have looked from a non-participant-of-the-conversation's point of view. Now that she'd been punished, she felt bad for what she may have made you feel.

Safe to say, she learned her lesson.

A gasp tore through her throat at the cold sensation that rippled across the bruised skin of her bum. "It's okay, hun, it's just a bit of cream." And as you continued to work on her, wiping her down and all that, you spoke, "You took your punishment so well, baby. Have you learned your lesson? Do you understand why you were punished?"

"Yes, Daddy." Natasha responded.

"Tell me why I punished you." It was a soft command, but natasha shivered at it either way, and she shamed herself for it.

"Because I hurt you at the party. I wasn't paying attention to you." You hummed as she listed what she thought could be part of the reason you punished her, then she followed up with, "I'm sorry."

"Ah, it's okay, honey. It's a lesson learned." With a kiss to her now exposed collarbone, you finished up with cleaning and getting Natasha ready for bed. "You're all done now. Get some rest, Natty, we can talk about this more in the morning over some breakfast."

With a content smile and a warm feeling spreading through her chest, Natasha laid her head on your shoulder right as you settled in next to her. She seemed your warmth just as you did hers, wrapping each other up in comfortable embraces and even stealing a few kisses here and there.

[chosokamosbf]

(N)SFW JASON TODD / RED HOOD HCs.

☆ 18+ only/no minors.

WARNINGs: 18+, gn (gender non-implied)! reader, daddy/mommy kink, mentions of abuse (jason nor reader are doing it), minor mention of blood, sub/dom, pain play, fear play, "prey/predator," brat taming, reader is referred to as "prince(ss)" and "sweetheart" once.

WORD COUNT: 900-ish+

Based on canon, I firmly believe he's on the ace spectrum, specifically demisexual. And even then, he rarely experiences sexual attraction at all for his partners. This isn't because he doesn't love them (enough) or any other assumptions similar to that; it just doesn't happen much.

Furthermore, as much as he'll indulge you here and there if you do, (sexual) intimate moments with Jason would be far and few between, making them all the more important to him.

He's a switch, leaning on dom and top. Mostly because he likes the control and is more comfortable that way. Getting him to be submissive instead is a gradual endeavor. He doesn't hate it; it just takes a lot of patience and trust.

First and foremost on actual kinks, I think Jason has a thing for "daddy," both on the receiving and giving ends. He likes the title, and he's definitely the type to whisper something like, "C'mere, sweetheart. Give daddy a kiss." in even private, innocuous moments just to mess with you.

(Note: I don't think he'd have as much of a mommy kink because—y'know.)

Rough sex is a top favorite of his. This goes hand in hand with play wrestling as a form of foreplay, breathing heavily down on his partner just to continue that energy into bed with sweat-slick bodies. It's less about "winning," and more about being allowed to confide in someone in a way and the fun that can come with it. He wouldn't be against being the sub in this situation either, even if his partner is weaker than him, because he knows how important control can be in bed, so he'll let them win. Sometimes. He trusts you, and he wants you both to feel good.

Degradation/praise wise, he'll give either out depending on the moment. He's going to tease and utter dirty shit like, "C'mooon, prince(ss). You're sounding like a real whore for someone who didn't want it a couple minutes ago—" if you tried to struggle against. It depends more on the moment than position because he could be pounding into you and huffing out praise right next to your ear with what little air he's catching, to riding you, telling you to keep up while his head is already thrown back.

He enjoys pegging a lot, but as always, it's going to take some convincing to get him to comply.

Brat taming is another go-to of his, along with sub/dom. On the other end, it seems to be a near equal opposite—he's not into it, and it can get uncomfortable real fast. There's a few times he'll indulge himself, and they're all after more intense days to sort of solidify the trust he has in you. You're not going to hurt him; he's still in control in a way.

He doesn't seem like he'd like being on the receiving end of any sort of pain play. He already deals with chronic pain on a day-to-day basis. To have it overwhelm one of the few aspects of intimacy that he loves and simultaneously take his head off things for once just doesn't seem like it'd be enjoyable for him. No, on the giving end—

(Note: I'm not into pain play myself, nor do I even know what even makes it enjoyable for people, so I'll be segmenting this with fear play and "prey/predator.")

It wouldn't be something he'd ever bring up, far from it, but if it's what you like, he'll gladly take a knife in a steady hand to softly trace it down from your stomach to your underwear. In a smile almost cruel, he'd drag it across just enough so a few drops could be licked back up if you asked nicely enough again.

Jason knows you're just asking for it if you're weaker than him and bring up the idea of a different kind of foreplay. He'd pick a place, somewhere with a lot of spots you could try to hide away and run to (an abandoned office of sorts is the best go; he's not going to risk infections).  Just for him to stalk, pin you down with ease. If the spot he found his little prey in isn't satisfactory (or clean) enough, he'd have no qualms settling you over his shoulder like a sack and manhandling you where he wants it.

He definitely isn't going to go too far, though. As well-trained as he is, he's going to be especially attentive after any scenes involving that. Sadism isn't a big one for him. He'll enjoy it in the moment but then feel real guilty afterwards, so, just as a reminder, aftercare goes both ways.

I don't know why some people think he's into "dark" (ex. pedo stuff such as ageplay and actual rape.) kinks when he's canonically and literally has hunted down murdered several (sexual) abusers before. If you try to break boundaries, he's going to be reconsidering the relationship, and quite possibly if he even knew you as a person.

On a lighter note, consent is a big thing for him, and he's also big on aftercare. A go-to would be a bath for the both of you (stuffing the sheets in the washer right before and bandaging any "scratches" if need be.), then cuddling. Depending on whether he has the energy, he'll pop something in the microwave real quick. (Takeout is usually a last resort because the last thing he wants while enjoying the afterglow with a partner is social interaction with a stranger.)

If you wear make-up and it gets ruined by the end, like in the latter part of the previous section, if he can, he's going to help you wipe off the mess and maybe help you reapply it as a form of care.

[mustainesgrrl]

best buddies :33 .

[nickybloodhead]

M I N E

All day you had been gone and James missed you, every now and then he would look at the clock, watching the minutes and hours tick by and you still didn't show up. He had no problem with you going out with your friends, but come on, why should it take you so long?

The moment you walked through the door, you saw James walking towards you with a frown on his face.

"Where were you?" There was no warm welcome home, just a complaint, you narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms.

"Hello to you too, and I went out for drinks with my friends" He continued to frown and followed you as you made yourself comfortable, taking off your jacket and boots, it was a little late and you wanted to rest, but he had other plans. He put his arms around your waist and buried his face in your neck.

"I hate it when you go out all day, you're mine and I miss you" he grumbled against your neck, giggled softly. So that's what was keeping him in a bad mood.

"Well, now you have me here and we can do whatever you want" You turned to look him in the eyes and smiled sweetly at him, you expected him to take you to bed to cuddle up and rest all night in each other's arms, however the mischievous smile that grew on his face let you know right away that it wasn't to be.

***

James had you in a mating press, balls deep in you as he moved in and out of your hole, both gasped, your fingernails scratched his back with each rude thrust. The moment you mentioned that he could do whatever he wanted, it didn't take him long to grab you by the waist and push you onto the couch to kiss you, he was really needy, as his hard bulge pressed against your pussy as he devoured your mouth. He had no intention of being tender or making love to you, he ripped off your clothes and spread your legs, ripping open your panties so he could get right into your pussy. He started slow as usual but as soon as he heard your first moan, he gave free rein to his desire, his hands pressed your thighs to your chest to fuck you thoroughly.

"Shit, you take me so good, look how deep I am inside you" His mouth was half open as he buried himself in you, he was completely drunk with desire. His hands holding you to keep you from moving too much, he was using you as his personal plaything and you couldn't be more okay with that.

He leaned in to claim your lips in a sloppy kiss, you bit his lips as he growled, for a moment he pulled away just a few inches and held your chin, then he let a thick trickle of drool slide down to your mouth, he covered your lips with the palm of his hand and smiled arrogantly at you. "Now, be good for me and swallow it."

You opened your eyes surprised and turned on by what he had just done, you tasted his saliva and swallowed it as he commanded, your cheeks were red from the dirty act, but one that had delighted you. James smiled haughtily and thrust his hips harder, drawing a needy moan from you.

"Dirty slut, taking my drool, so thirsty for me" There was a smug laugh that reverberated throughout the living room, as he took your hole and molded it to his whim. James was so far gone into himself, only seeking his pleasure through your body, his girl's body. Your voice had gone hoarse from moaning so much, so only little squeals of pleasure were all that could be heard from you, you couldn't help but be horny, not with the way James was using you.

But you were especially losing your mind a little over that disgusting act that you wanted again, so silently and waiting for him to get the message, you opened your mouth, begging with your eyes for him to do it again, to spit in your mouth.

James felt his cock twitch at the sight of you so hussy, it seemed you had enjoyed being fed with more than one of his fluids, he smiled at that and stuck his thumb between your lips, pressing your tongue down.

You wanted to taste him again but he just teased you, fucking you harder, his hands squeezing your flesh hard enough to leave bruises, a shudder ran through you at the thought of all the marks that would be on your body, marks that proved who you belonged to.... James Hetfield was a greedy bastard.

Your thoughts were interrupted when a spit filled your mouth cavity, you gasped as you felt the amount of drool dripping down, you must be quite the perverse image of depravity now, however, you took it as you knew James wanted it and smiled at him in such a pure and innocent way that made him lose it.

"Hell, you're as fucked up as me and I love you" He kissed you with abandon as his hips increased the pace, his fingers rubbed your sensitive bud until it was hypersensitive, making you both cum hard; you were sure the whole neighborhood had heard you, but fuck it.

His load kept filling your womb until it overflowed out of you, his hips slowly stopped as you both came down from the top, you yourself were a mess of your wetness, shit, you sure had ruined the couch.

Both of you were barely breathing normally, James pulled out of you and collapsed on the couch as your legs were stretched from the position he had kept you in, you felt a sharp pain in your back and knees, that had certainly been a rough session, you were exhausted and didn't think you would be able to make it to bed on your own.

James noticed your wince so he hurried to massage your limbs, he might be tired, but he never let aftercare go forgotten, especially when he was so hard on you. His hands relaxing your sore spots felt like heaven, you hummed contentedly and with the little strength you had left you cuddled up to him, your face buried in his neck.

"You know... Fucked up or not, I love you too," you murmured against his skin and left a soft kiss before falling unconscious on top of him. James smiled, you were definitely the one, the only one he needed in his life.

Wow, this took a while but it was an anon request, for some reason the request was lost to anchor it with the story but here it is anon, I hope you like it and sincerely... I'd let James spit in my mouth, too

[ashiemochi]

pranked you guys!! he's alive and well!!

[littlelostmabari]

Some Galemancing fluff for @sorceresssundries and @miradelletarot and @gale-force-storm who fill my dash so reliably with the delicious wizard.

Gale x f!Reader, post-epilogue. (Reader unnamed, referred to as she/her/wife) Word Count: 2.2k

Edit: Now on AO3!

The evening sun threatens to kiss the horizon across the bay of Waterdeep as you weave your fingers through the feathery fur of your favorite four-legged companion.

Well, the closest four-legged companion, you laugh to yourself as you hear a familiar roar from a floor above where Karlach and the owlbear were no doubt tussling in the arcane arena your darling wizard had installed in the upper levels of his newly conjured tower. She arrived from Avernus a few hours ago with some rage to burn, and Nugget was always willing to practice new ways to defend his nest. His home.

“Your hand is on the page, pet,” Tara purrs. Your thoughts are quickly brought back to the balcony and the sunset, your hand naturally moving back to the delicate fur on the top of Tara’s head. You run her fingers down the tressym’s neck and back, finally scratching the base of Tara’s tail — just as you know she likes it — before resting back on the bench. You’ve purposefully avoided Tara’s reading material this time. The apprentice Aribella rests on her stomach on the ground nearby, her legs kicking up into the air as she hems and haws over the bud that won’t quite open into bloom from her palm. The violent magic of nature's wrath had been easy for her to draw on after her experience with the druid totem, but under Gale’s tutelage she was slowly learning the calmer patterns of the Weave. She focuses intently on her latest homework to druidcraft a flower crown for her constant canine companion.

Speaking of, Scratch had been noticeably absent from Aribella’s side. You feel a frown cross your face, and find your eyes drawn deeper into the dim light of the tower. The study had slowly gotten messier the longer you had lived there, an awesome wreck after only a few months (although Gale often commented that since there was a wide pathway through the mess, technically it wasn’t hoarding). Aribella devoured books the same way Tav imagined Gale did at her age. There were tomes lying on every surface: open, closed, dog-eared, bookmarked, stacked to the ceiling. No one but Gale and Aribella knew which projects were active and which had been discussed, debated, discarded.

The piano in the corner played a new tune, a soft baudy jingle that you had accidentally brought home from your most recent night out with Alfira and the other tiefling refugees from the Grove. No, not refugees, not anymore. They had found their homes in Baldur’s Gate, and you visited the Elfsong Tavern as often as you could — you knew all Alfira’s songs at this point but loved absorbing the joy from the room as she played... But the piano had a terrible habit of catching any tune hummed in its presence, a constant bittersweet reminder of the distance to your friends.

Not seeing a white furry tail wagging from this distance, you murmur an apology to Tara, who fluffs her feathers indignantly. She digs claws just the other side of painfully into your lap as if to dare you to get up. Knowing she will be just fine without you, you take in one hand your empty wine glass, then close your eyes and gently tug on your connection to the Weave. A misty step cruelly leaves Tara with only a conjured pillow for comfort. Tara would call it cruel, anyway, regardless of Gale’s gentle warming spell that forever permeated the pillow slip. The tressym narrows her eyes without leaving her most recent tome — her only other reaction reaching out with a back leg to scratch a spot behind her ear.

With a chuckle, you absentmindedly bring the glass to your lips, remembering at once that it was empty. To the kitchen then.

The noise is the first thing to reach you. It is uncommonly loud for your little tower (ignoring the more recent arcane stories), even considering its normal inhabitants. You had grown used to raucous laughter from your many adventures, but it had been too long since it echoed within these walls. You pause with one hand just barely touching the door into the parlor, smiling contently as a soft memory of bedrolls and looted wine and butter buns crosses the forefront of your memory.

“And then… and then…” you hear Wyll’s tenor deep into another story, laughing so hard he can’t find the words. “The kid asks me if I’ve ever bested an owlbear!” Another ringing laugh joins in, then, and you find yourself pushing the door open. Your eyes land first on your dearest, closest friend, currently desperately trying to pat down a growing wine spill on the ruffles of her white shirt. Shadowheart brushes hair and tears out of her eyes. “I’m sure you then told the poor lad that you fought back-to-back with an armored Nugget? Just to see the soul leave his eyes?”.

Wyll nods. “I did, I did! And the kid just stood there staring at me… and then he turned on his heel and left the tavern! Fool trying to out-match the Blade of Avernus!” The two dissolve into another fit of giggles, uninterrupted by your entrance into the parlor. The door swings shut behind you with a soft reverberation, and Shadowheart’s eyes brighten to meet yours. She points at her shirt and winks; you gently pluck at the Weave and the wine stain is gone, prestidigitated to wherever those lost memories go. You reach out for Shadowheart… before ducking the hug and stealing her wine glass. A hearty laugh follows you to the other side of the parlor as Shadowheart rises from her stool and chases after you with a sudden hug from behind. You feel the soft echo of magic between the two of you, knowledge of each other harmonizing. Wyll swings around the table to refill both glasses, a lingering kiss on your cheek on the way.

“I’m so glad you both made it,” you smile to two of your dearest friends. “I heard Karlach come in earlier, she’s still upstairs.”

Wyll nods. “We missed Mizora by this much,” he sighs, bringing his pointer finger and thumb to a centimeter apart before looking up and out to the entrance to the upper floors. “She’ll be alright come dinnertime.”

“And who exactly are we having for dinner tonight?” a smirking voice sings from the end of the room as the door to the bustling outside world closes with a sharp click. His arrival had been expected… arrived last night in fact, with business in Waterdeep important enough to go out cloaked rather than waiting for the sun to set.

“Depends, Astarion, would you prefer the red wine or the white? I’m sure Gale could make some recommendations,” Shadowheart snorts. Laughter meets the wrinkle of Astarion’s nose as he removes his deep purple enchanted cloak to hang at the side. There are still too few outer layers missing from the coat closet --- friends yet to arrive for the celebration.

As if summoned by the hungry rumble of your belly — and knowing your husband, it probably was — a platter of cheese, cured meats, and pickled bits and bobs appeared within arms reach. Shadowheart and Wyll lunge in competition for first taste, and you decide you'd prefer your first bite directly from the source. 

The kitchen is only across the hall, a single sip of wine away. Laughter fades gently into the clink of dishware and the soft hum of another song you had brought home from the Gate. This one was a moving tune in three-four time, and the soft pat of house shoes suggested the kitchen's occupant was floating about his dinner prep with perfect rhythm. 

You push the door open gently, mindful of its creak so as to not disrupt one of your favorite sights in this tower. His hands are in his hair, again, pulling another traitorous lock back from where it had escaped from the bun he sports when he is at his most focused. You had left him to his work this afternoon, as he had requested, which meant no one had been around to tell him which spots of gray were his natural coloring and which were simply dashes of flour. The chorus of the waltz rises, his hands back at his hips as he surveys another recipe written carefully by his mother into a book that was so lovingly used you'd insisted on rebinding last year for his nameday. He balances on the balls of his feet, prepared to move the moment he knows what comes next. 

Time slows around you as you watch him slide between dishes, one stirred with mage hand, another whipped by an unseen servant. He tastes each, seasons one, and spins through a crescendo in the source-less music, intent on the oven. It is in this turn that he spies you leaning against the wall with the door closed softly behind you. 

If the kitchen had been completely frozen over, his smile would have melted it all away in an instant. 

“My love!”

You can feel the effort it takes for him to drag his eyes away from you, but a short ring from the oven indicates something desperately needs his attention more than you.

He pulls a kitchen towel from the ether and wrestles the roast from the oven under his own power. His mother insists that this particular recipe out of all of those tucked away in her book must be done with mortal, mundane hands. When it is safely secured on the trivet (quickly set in place by an unseen servant), he brushes the day's mess from his palms and rushes to your side. 

“As always you have the most impeccable timing, my darling.” 

Gale has many different kisses, you have come to learn. Some, like those he left on your forehead and nose and lips this morning as he crawled from bed, ignoring your pleas to sleep in, were soft and kind and loving. Those kisses were reserved for sleepy minds and moments in between moments. Others, like those you anticipated would follow the last of your friends succumbing to slumber this evening, were deep and pressing. Those kisses begged for the barriers between two souls alight with desire to be sundered so that the two could become a single being of light and love. 

And then there were the kisses like the one he pressed into you now. These were promises of tonight and tomorrow and the next day and next year and forever. These were the kisses that made you hope, that drove your soul to the gentle smile of one who loves and is loved in return. It was the kind of kiss that he had pulled you into when Shadowheart had called out to the temple “man and wife”. 

One hand reaches down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into the warmth of his body. The other passes up to your jawline where his fingers press gently into the back of your neck. When he finally relents, a crooked grin alights across his face. He has evidently left something of dinner behind on your jaw, which he wipes away with a quick rub of his thumb, and with a soft breath he brings to your lips. The taste is sour and sweet, the tang of lemon and honey glaze — 

“I believe that particular flavor is meant for the roast, my dear,” you murmur, pressing your tongue against the flat of his thumb.

“Ah, you would be correct. The time is long past that I attempt to improve upon a lover's perfection.” He leans in and presses more than casually into your core, his next murmurs meant for your ears only with how he nibbles gently on your neck. “Besides, I have other flavors in mind when it comes to complementing your particular essence…

“But!” He pushes away suddenly, and you have to catch yourself from falling into the space he leaves. “That discussion must be put on pause for the time that our long-awaited guests have found their lodgings and I am able to devote my full attention away from this feast.” His smile and the crinkles around his eyes betray his teasing — you both know you must leave him to work if your guests are to be fed anywhere near on time. He leans in only once more to press a kiss of the first kind onto the tip of your nose, and then rapidly shoves a basket of garlic and spring onion rolls into your unoccupied hand. “I am certain my beloved has many a song or story that can distract from her husband's deplorable time management.”

A sizzle of an over-boiled pot pulls his attention away. You linger just long enough to see that errant lock fall back into his face once more, before you turn toward the door and hallway that will allow your return to the gentle bubble of companionship. 

You should enjoy the evening with your dearest friends, for Gale will be here tomorrow when they have left — some for Avernus, others for the Gate, and others back to lives hidden and quiet. 

When they are gone, Gale will remain, and perhaps you will learn what his newest kisses taste like. 

[gutterfuuck]

i currently have 5 mark grayson pieces in my drafts… 3 of which are sinister mark, all of which are smut 💀

i’m also taking reqs rn, i’d love to write through the week!

[goldenchunkycat]

Dirty things you do that Neteyam likes (surprisingly)

Cry while you two were fucking. The first time it happened aged-up!Neteyam was confused. Was he hurting you ? Were you not liking what he was dong to you ? But deep down, even before you shyly told him that you were fine and that he was just making you feel good, there was a part of him who already loved seing you cry. You were so pretty and your tears were reflecting the shine from your freckles. What a sight. But what was even better than seeing you cry ? Hearing you cry. He would definitely lose his mind after hearing your sobs and whimpers of his name. Dacryphilia with Neteyam is a must ♡

Ask him to hold hands. I think that Neteyam is the type of guy who circle his arms around your waist when he's fucking you. So when you asked him to hold your hands ? The boy came. Hard. Because you were so pretty and nice to him. You were asking him to hold hands because you felt safe with his fingers wrapped around yours, just like a baby, his baby. He really couldn't keep it longer.

Put his hands on your body. Okay, this is literally Neteyam favorite thing. I just KNOW that Neteyam is a tease. He would make fun of your height, he would tease you if you look at him for more than five seconds. That man knows the power he hold, especially on you. So it is not surprising that whenever you two would have sex he would be the one to initiate it. You would be to shy to ask. But one day, you really wanted to spend some quality time with your mate, but he didn't get the hint. Well, you were just looking at him. So you took his hands and put them on your breast. He got hard in a few seconds. He would love the fact that even if you don't feel comfortable voicing your needs, you actually found a way to express him what you want. You would keep it PG13 if you two are outside -the small of your back , your waist, but in the bedroom it would be different. You want him to finger you ? Just take his hand and put it on the inside of you thighs. You want him to pull your hair ? Place his hands on your head, he would understand.

Okay you actually did a lot of things who surprised him but that he definitely loved. But putting your tail aside when he's bending you over ? Eh. He would come and get hard again. And then he would look at your tail stirring itself to the left and come again, and get hard again. It would be an endless circle because you can't control it and he can't control himself when you do that ♡

[ The other way around —> Dirty things Neteyam does and that you like ]

Masterlist

[hetfields-load]

something about this james is just soooo perf. maybe it’s the hair? the mustache? maybe he’s just perfect.