for the first time in a long while; cmjf hanahaki syndrome (variant: refusal to admit feelings)
around 400 words, sfw, cut for length
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At first, it's all a bit of fun. Get under Maxwell’s skin, shut him up, expose what a cheap imitation he is when measured up against the real deal. And deeper, prove to himself that he's still the best in the world; that straight edge still means “better than you”.
He expects the barbed words, the insults, the needling. He expects Max to take the bait when it's dangled so tantalisingly before him.
He doesn't expect New York.
He doesn't expect the effect that the smile on the hometown hero's face will have on him, solely because it's the only real expression Max has offered up in the entire time that Punk has been here.
It's something so small, so insignificant and fleeting, and yet it makes some unspeakable emotion unfurl in Punk's chest. Makes it feel like something precious.
This is not when the flowers begin to bloom, of course. But when Punk sees that smile and thinks, “I want to rip it off his face and keep it for myself” and immediately shoves it down, well, that's certainly when they begin to take root.
---
“Max, you can't keep doing this,” Dax says, trying to hide his exasperation. Max glares up at him, eyes watering as he hacks up a large, ruby-red petal. Spears rubs his back soothingly.
“I’m fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong—”
He’s interrupted by another coughing fit, doubling over. A second petal falls to the floor, followed by a third smaller, paler one, then a drop of red that Dax can't in good conscience ignore any more.
“Max, this is gonna kill you if you don't just—”
“—If I don't just what,” he spits out, forcing himself upright. Dax's eyes fall to the spot of blood staining the corner of his mouth, threatening to run down his chin. “There is nothing—nothing—wrong with me.”
There’s a defensive, desperate kind of defiance in his expression, and his tone brokers no argument. Dax throws his hands up as if to say, “I tried”, and Spears flashes him a sympathetic look unseen by Max, still rubbing the space between Max's shoulder blades.
Dax knows from experience that it won't help. He knows intimately that there's only one thing that will, and apparently Max is too fucking stubborn to do it. To just... admit to himself what he's feeling. Not even anyone else; just himself.
But, sure. If Max wants to pretend, wants them all to pretend that this isn't a problem, that this hasn't been a problem since the moment Punk stepped out in front of the cameras in Chicago four months ago? Fine. Fine.
cannibalism, communion, canonical character death, masturbation
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By taking Orochimaru’s body inside of him, Orochimaru’s purpose will fill him. Orochimaru’s will shall become his own will. Orochimaru will live on inside of him, eternal—
He bites down.
-
A slightly different take on how Kabuto took Orochimaru's DNA inside himself.
tagged by @grand-magnificent , thank you <3 and tagging @theghostoftherealworldchamp @sequentialprophet @joestrummen and anyone else who wants to share!
cmjf, fight club snippet, under a cut for violence, darby is here but this ain't about him
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Darby’s cheek splits open under his fist like a ripe peach.
The cries and hollers of the crowd fade in the face of his anger as he seats himself on Darby’s thin, bird-like torso and rains down blows until that cheek better resembles a pomegranate. Broken teeth seeds, juices running down his throat like some broken Persephone, stuck in hell for six more months.
Max punches him until his fists are numb, until there’s blood spattered up his torso, until Darby chokes and whimpers under him, until hands slide under his arms, dragging him off.
He lets himself be pulled away, content in the knowledge that he’s achieved exactly what he set out to do.
The next time Punk pats Darby on the back so nonchalantly, Max hopes he remembers this; Darby on his back, prone and crying, covering his face. If Punk ever fights Darby again, Max hopes his eyes are drawn to the scar that's sure to be left on his cheek. To the broken nose and jaw and crooked teeth spoiling his sweet little angelic face. He hopes Punk remembers this moment with every other casual little touch he gives so easily, when Max, who should be the centre of his fucking universe, had to earn one paltry, brief little hug with his tears–
He looks at the ruined mess of Darby’s face a moment longer, chest heaving with exertion. It’s a stark contrast to the near-stillness of Darby’s trembling body, wracked with shudders as he’s lifted to his feet by the nameless, faceless others here.
Then his eyes drift to Punk, wholly involuntarily, and the ambient noise of the crowd, the underground parking lot, rushes back in. Sensation chases the numbness away, and suddenly he tastes iron around his swiftly swelling lip.
His tongue flits out to soothe the sting, and Punk’s eyes follow it with intent.
Punk isn’t looking at Darby, he realises with an unsettling jolt to his stomach. Isn’t concerned, isn’t patting him on the back, offering to take him to a hospital.
No, Punk’s eyes are completely focused on Max. On his fists. On every drop of blood staining his skin, and in the intensity of his gaze is contained all the hunger of a man starved when confronted with a feast.
Gale/Dark Urge snippet you say? *begging politely with open hands*
ask and you shall receive!
set during act 2, after the dark urge resists killing isobel, and sceleritas tells our beloved durge that, whoops! his love interest is next!
---
No sooner have the ropes been tied around him, Tav falls limp.
Gale leans in close, hope fluttering in his chest. The hope that maybe Tav had been wrong, that he would sleep soundly through the night. A futile hope, he knows; the mess that had been made of that poor bard…
But hope is all he’s had since Tav pulled him from that waypoint. The only thing driving him forward. He has to hope, because without it...
Hope. His eyes fall to Tav's prone form. He looks… peaceful, in a way that he rarely does awake. The worried furrow of his brow has smoothed out, and even the ever-present bags under his eyes don’t look quite so bruised.
Still just as handsome, Gale thinks, reaching out without thinking. His fingertips brush against his cheek.
No sooner have his fingers touched the soft skin do Tav’s eyes fly open, bloodshot and crazed and barely recognisable.
His head twists, teeth snapping upon the air where Gale’s hand had been not a moment before, and that fledgling hope plummets to its death. He sits back on his haunches, close enough to bind him further if necessary, but out of reach of his mouth.
“So soft,” Tav croons, his voice at once achingly familiar and sickeningly not. “How soft your belly will be when I rip it open.”
“How many spells do you have, wizard? Enough to hold me tonight? Tomorrow? How soon until fondness stays your hand? When love—” he hisses the word through gritted teeth like a curse, “—leaves you weak and defenceless in my grasp?”
His shoulders strain as he writhes on the ground, growling and cursing, and Gale’s hands are already making the motions to Hold him in place.
“Aren't you glad I'm here to help you,” Punk murmurs, tracing the veritable constellation glittering between Max's shoulder blades. He shivers under Punk's fingertips, but doesn't say a word. In fact, he barely makes a sound at all as Punk begins to carefully work the tacks free of his skin, one after the other. Only the hitching of his breath giving him away, and if the room weren't so quiet, maybe Punk wouldn't have caught it.
He's glad he did, though. The next tack comes out of Max's left shoulder, and once he's dropped it into the steel tray with the others, he presses a kiss to the gap it leaves in Pisces.
It's nothing but a quick, chaste press of his lips to skin, but it still pushes a strangled, cut-off sound out of Max.
He pauses, waiting to see if Max is going to throw himself out of the chair, or throw Punk out of the room, but he stays put, albeit a little tenser than he was before. His shoulders are up by his ears.
He doesn't tell Max to relax, but when he pulls the next tack free, he kisses the bared patch of skin once more, lingering a moment longer before pulling away, and this time he gets something more of a gasp of shock, bitten back behind teeth. And then the next, and the next, until Punk can taste the iron tang when he runs his tongue across his suddenly-dry lips, along with the sweat-salt of post-match, and Max is almost squirming in his seat, his hands gripping the underside of the chair with white knuckles.
Max lets out a whimper, the chair rocking slightly as he tries to force his hips to still, instead of bucking up into empty air.
“Hurry it up, I want to go to bed some time this century,” Max demands, a touch more breathlessly than Punk had expected. It solidifies his next step, which is to take the next tack between his teeth. He tugs it free as gently as he can, rolling it in his mouth so he can run his tongue against the small pinprick point.
tagging YOU, the person reading this message! mainly because i don't wanna free tag anyone in piss kink but if you see this, please tag me in your own wips, i'm so very curious
anyway. alex shelley/kevin nash, set during the 2007 paparazzi championship series, piss kink + medical play, under a cut for those reasons, enjoy!
---
Deep down, he knows that Kevin isn't a real doctor, that these piss samples aren't going anywhere near any kind of lab to test for any kind of steroids, but thinking about that too much means thinking about why, then, Kevin is having them all piss in cups for him in the first place.
“Did you not drink plenty of water like I told you to?” Doctor Nash asks, sounding a little disappointed. He looks at Alex searchingly, and Alex has to look away, down at his shoes, catching a glimpse of his own thighs, pressed together because of the pressure beginning to build inside of him, and his bladder twinges in discomfort a little more intensely.
“I did,” is his sullen response. “I just…”
Can't get my dick out and pee when you're looking at me like that, he thinks.
Doctor Nash looks at him for a moment longer, and Alex's heart pounds sickeningly behind his ribs with nerves. Fuck, what if he gets kicked out of the PCS for this? Booted out of Paparazzi Productions completely, which is his thing–
“Pee shy?” Doctor Nash asks knowingly, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. Alex’s cheeks flush red despite his best efforts and he nods shortly, still staring a hole into the floor. “That's okay, you're not the first. I have a… special technique that'll help with that.”
He laughs, not at all like the good doctor persona he's affected in here. No, that's all Kevin.
And then he grabs a box of latex gloves off the table next to him, and Alex's heart drops to somewhere in the region of his feet as Doctor Nash pulls one over his hand.
thank you for tagging me @tache-noire! tagging @realworldchamp @mimzywhimsy @sequentialprophet @joestrummen and anyone else who wants in!
not quite a WIP, but snippet from an au where mjf spends That summer hiatus doing amateur gay porn incognito under the alias ScratchTheItch. punk finds his videos. punk spends his own summer getting off to them, not knowing it's mjf but he's sure as hell picturing him
cut for nsfw
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The man with the tattoos fucks him deeper, harder still, faltering just a little as he finishes inside him, collapses on top of him. His reddened mouth hangs open as he pants, catching his breath, before pressing a kiss to a broad shoulder, and Punk's thrown suddenly, violently, back to Chicago, to February 2nd.
To Max pinning him twice, pressing his mouth to Punk's chest before rolling off him.
He's distracted enough that he doesn't close out the window, which means he gets to see Tattoos rubbing Scratch's side reassuringly, before reaching for something that’s off screen, and—
Punk's heart lurches nauseatingly in his chest.
It feels like he's just had a bucket of ice upended over his head as the video cuts off, as he drops his phone. It falls to the floor with a clatter. He scrabbles to pick it back up, to rewatch the last few seconds of it, the point where Tattoo's hand rubs against Scratch's pale skin as he slumps forward on top of his back, rubbing away the foundation, or cover-up, revealing ink underneath—
It's not much, but he knows that ink. Even through the blurry quality of the paused capture, he knows it
It's too distinct to be anyone else, surely.
The lettering, the sizing, the placement... he can't imagine any of those are all that common, and in conjunction with all the other evidence... his body, his ass... the Hebrew lettering on his side saying unconditional love, and he knows that because he'd had to look it up, so fucking obsessed with trying to remember what Max’s tattoos were, where they were.
The worst part is, it barely even makes a difference, because he's been picturing Max the entire time, but—actually having that confirmed, after watching him get himself off over and over, watching him take it so easily...
He feels like he could be sick. All thoughts of getting off have been wiped from his mind entirely.
For the tropes mash-up prompts: Prison AU and Flowers of Romance for MJoeF
this one had a slow burn of making me feel insane, so you have my greatest thanks <3 punk is here too but it's not (entirely) about him
under a cut for length, blink and you'll miss it mention of prison sex used for protection but nothing explicit!
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Roses.
His cell is filled with roses.
Punk whistles from his right, sounding impressed. “He really went all out this time, huh?”
Joe shoves him. Punk laughs in response, like this is in any way laughable, so Joe shoves him again, harder, before finally entering his cell.
Punk follows him in, plucking a rose from the bouquet on the bottom bunk and snapping the head off. “You know, he never sent me flowers,” Punk says, tearing the petals off and scattering them along the floor.
“Clearly he likes me better than you,” Joe says distantly, breathing in deep and slow.
They're incredibly, beautifully fragrant.
It makes him wonder just how he managed to get them all in here, how much it must have cost. No small amount of money spent to try to cultivate an alliance with the top dog of the penitentiary.
It sure makes a pleasant change to somebody bending over and asking him to be gentle.
There's a single bouquet on his bunk, and it's the only one with a card nestled between the blooms. He swipes it out, shoving Punk a third time as he tries to read its contents from over his shoulder.
Dear Joe, it begins. Dear. Overly, cloyingly familiar, which is entirely the point.
Please enjoy these roses, my gift to you. Thought I'd help freshen your cell up, because I'm sure it smells as awful as the rest of this place.
Back-handed compliment. He huffs out a short laugh. Pedestrian, but strangely endearing.
I hope you consider my previous offer. With your strength and my connections, we could really shake things up around here. I'm eagerly awaiting your response.
The sign-off is three simple initials, written in a different hand to the rest of the card.
MJF.
He's aware of Punk breathing down his ear. He ignores it, at least until Punk speaks, the amusement gone from his voice.
“Don't let your guard down around him,” he warns, as though he already knows Joe is going to entertain this idea of an alliance. Punk always did know him too well.
Still...
“Don't concern yourself with me,” he says, sliding the card into his pocket. Then he turns and slaps Punk on the back, a friendly enough gesture, save for the fact that it's directly where he knows the ragged scar, the entry point of the shiv lies. Punk wheezes and doubles over in agony, looking ashen. “I won't make your mistakes.”
trapped in a room + unexpected virgin for Max Squared? 👀
max² please i owe you my life
to summarise: caster provokes the house of black and julia locks him in a room with a very specific curse placed upon him. mjf, unluckily, is also there
under a cut for length
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“A curse,” Max says. “That just so happens to have you trapped in my locker room.”
“Look, to be fair, I didn't know whose locker room they were shoving me into!” Caster says, sounding more than a little frantic. Which he should be, Max thinks. Pissing off the House of Black yet again, he should really know better. “Next thing I know, Julia put some curse on me, and now I can't leave until I... well, you know–”
“Until you fuck somebody,” Max finishes, rolling his eyes. Fucking universe conspiring to get him to stick his dick in Caster. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought this was planned, but Caster isn't a good enough actor to feign being this agitated. And agitated he is, not even able to look Max in the eyes for once.
Max sighs heavily, dragging his palm across his face and looking to the ceiling like it might provide an escape. No such luck. “Fuck, let's get this over with, then. Take your pants off and bend over,” Max says, wiggling his finger. Better get through it quickly, and Caster can owe him a fucking huge one.
Only, Caster isn't budging. Isn't standing up and bending over, isn't taking his pants off, isn't doing anything other than looking tense and closed off and... embarrassed? Nervous?
“I can't,” Caster says, pulling his knees up to his chest and fiddling with his chain.
“You can't?” Max echoes, raising an eyebrow. “What, is Julia watching somehow, you don't want to perform for an audience? I find that hard to believe–”
“–because I'm a virgin,” Caster hisses, finally meeting Max's eyes, face flushed and angry, and Max feels like the floor's dropped out from under his feet, both because of how impossible it sounds, Caster's a fucking virgin, and because...
Because his cock is twitching, somehow. Because his cock is suddenly incredibly, intensely interested in the knowledge that Caster's never fucked anyone before.
i was reminded of some cmjf post-mjf/danielson iron man match filth, it was hard to pick a single section but you've given me the inspiration to work on it some more so thank you!!!
under a cut for entirely nsfw <3
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“I seem to remember it was me beating your ass last time,” Punk says, rubbing the head of his cock against Max’s entrance, making his dick jump up against his belly, making his chest slump against the mattress, getting ring-dirt and dried blood and sweat on the pristine white sheets. He’s young, sure, but he’s also just had an hour-long dance with Danielson to exhaust him, and now Punk wants his own pound of flesh.
“That was before your body broke down on you,” Max says sweetly before Punk pushes in, making him groan and choke on his own spit. His skin feels suddenly fever-hot again, sweat beading up in the small of his back, trickling down his spine to his neck, his hairline. Hot and cold, layering on top of the thin, sticky film of sweat and blood covering his skin, because Punk had insisted he not shower for this.
Had wanted Max exactly as he was. Filthy, dirty, right down to the bloody towel wrapped around his neck, now tossed to the floor, because he’s a fucking narcissist who gets hard whenever Max does anything that Punk could tie back to himself.
The sheets are cool against his forehead, almost enough to distract him from his shallow, high breathing as Punk pushes in further, deeper, the thick head of his cock working him open, pushing inside until his hole clenches around it. Held open as Punk spits again, and Max feels the wet swipe of a fingertip against his rim as Punk strokes his shaft, slicking himself up.
There’s a moment where he thinks Punk’s going to push that finger inside him too, alongside his cock, like he wants to see how much of himself he can fit in him. Find out how much space Max has carved out inside himself just for Punk.
There’s a moment where he even wants it. The dizzying need to know for himself what it would feel like, the desire for Punk to make him feel every inch of it. The stretch. The pain. For Punk to crawl inside his body, where he belongs. Max’s, and nobody else’s.
this was surprisingly challenging, thank you! under a cut for nsfw <3
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It's a view he's used to. Punk on his back, sprawled out beneath him. The tattoo on his stomach within touching distance.
The context is different, this time, though.
He runs lube-slicked fingers across the ink, leaving wet, shiny smears.
“Is this what you imagined?” he asks, pitching his voice low.
Punk laughs, stretching his arms out, resting his hands behind his head. “Honestly? I thought you'd make me do all the work,” he says. “Good to know you can still surprise me, Maxwell.”
Not Max. It's a taunt, a demand. The thought of Punk atop him, thighs spread wide open around Max's hips, riding him like his life depended on it, face slackened and devastated, drifts up from the depths of his mind, and he takes a moment to appreciate it.
He'd considered it, if he's being honest. But then, Punk already thinks him lazy. Selfish. Prone to taking the easy route, and as much as Max wants Punk to do all the work, fuck himself to completion on Max's cock, to know just where his place is...
No. Better to fuck him like this. On his back, looking up at Max as Max slides into him, slow and gradual. The briefest wince as his hole is stretched around the head, then the shaft, tiny little thrusts that open him up a little bit more each time.
for the trope mash-up: "awful first meeting" and "bathtub fic" + cmjf
OUGH :))) this ended up becoming a little bit fantasy au too, hope that's alright! under a cut because this got surprisingly long!
punk's a warlord king, and max is the spy sent to infiltrate his palace, find his secrets, and help overthrow him. it does not go as planned.
---
He's thrown to his knees on the marble tiling, and his heart thuds a frantic drumbeat behind his ribs as one of the guards forces his head down.
“We found him in your quarters on the upper floors, Sir. We've searched his pockets, but it doesn't seem like he managed to steal anything before he captured him.”
That's what you think, Max thinks to himself, but keeps his mouth shut. Best they think him just a common thief, and don't look too deeply into where he was searching–
There's a soft splash of water, and the scent of jasmine fills his nose. “In my upper quarters? Not the library, not the Eastern Wing?”
Max tenses on his knees. Difficult to fight years of ingrained habit. Bow before the King. Don't look upon his face. Obey his word as though it was the word of God.
And the word of God seems to be questioning his skills at thievery.
The man whose hands are pressed firmly on Max's shoulders confirms, and there's another splash of water.
“Leave us,” he says, with that same commanding tone that Max has heard at every public address since he came to power.
The hands holding his head down vanish. Their armoured footsteps fade away until the door clicks behind them. Leaving them alone. Max tilts his head up, schooling his face into something akin to fear. It's not difficult.
His first thought is that the King looks older than he'd imagined. There's grey at his temples, threaded through his closely cropped beard.
Powerful, too; Max glances at the heavily scarred arms bracing against the bathtub His Highness is reclining in, pushing himself up with bulging biceps, and Max realises with a start that the markings up his arms, across his chest and shoulders aren't scars, they're...
They're ink. Tattoos. Like those of a prisoner, or a...
Warlord.
Max's eyes trail down his stomach as the King lifts himself higher, until he catches the thatch of hair between his legs and forces his eyes back up. A mistake, because it means meeting the King's eyes instead.
He takes a step towards Max. Then another, water running in rivulets down his body, the scent of jasmine filling his nose more and more as he comes closer and closer and Max's heart pounds harder and harder in his chest until he thinks he might pass out.
There are fingers cupping his jaw. Tilting his head up. Slightly oily from the bath, and still hot.
“A thief that avoids all of my treasures, all of my arms, only to find himself within arms' reach of my rooms? My secrets?”
There's no question in his voice. His eyes are knowing, piercing, intense and amused.
“Not a thief, then,” he continues, and Max's heart almost stops entirely. He's been found. “So what were you looking for, my little spy?”
summer camp au + text/letter fic ??? any pairing that strikes your fancy!! <3
oooh, the pairing that immediately jumped out to me was hangswerve camp counselors, hope that's okay! <3 under a cut for length
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Adam squints at the letter in his hand. His name and address are neatly hand-written, but he can't immediately tell whose writing it is.
The Hangman salutation, at least, tells him it's someone from camp. The nickname one of the kids had given him on day one after taking one look at his boots, that had stuck with him for the whole summer.
But everyone he'd wanted to keep in touch with from camp, he'd given his phone number to, so...
His heart begins to race, and the envelope crumples in his grip.
What if it's somebody he doesn't want to keep in touch with?
Someone who might want to prove a point about knowing where he lived?
He slides his finger under the sealed flap, ripping it open, his mouth dry as he tugs the letter out, almost tearing it in his impatience.
He doesn't want it to be him. Doesn't want him to know where he lives. Except for how he hopes it is, so he can continue their barbed interactions, because it's been three weeks since summer camp finished and he can't stop thinking about him.
Can't stop thinking about the way his eyes would narrow when he laughed. His laugh itself, and that strange, intense tone every time he said the word ‘Hangman’.
He unfolds the paper. There's not much written there, but what is is in the same category penned hand as the envelope. A salutation. A question; ‘hope you haven't missed me too much?’ A statement; ‘I've missed our little chats.’
A return address.
Not a postal box. An actual home address.
Adam swallows, and it feels like a brick in his throat.
And a closing, with Strickland's own nickname. ‘Hope to hear from you soon. Yours, Swerve.’
He stares at those two little words for longer than he should.
Yours.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket. He needs to put an order in for some letter writing paper.
first of all my apologies for taking so long to answer this! i went with codymax, slightly spicy, set during their feuding period <3
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He can't touch.
He mustn't touch. Max's words ring loud and clear in his head just like the crack of his own belt against his back, sore where it presses against his shirt, against the steel back of the chair he's seated in.
“No touching,” Max purrs, reinforcing the message as he falls to his knees before him, and Cody’s fingers cramp with how tightly he grips the base of the chair, because muscle memory is telling him to sink them into Max's hair, grip it tight.
“Imagine if you did, though,” Max continues, deftly flicking open the button of Cody's slacks, looking up from under his eyelashes, not fully able to hide his anger. Freeing Cody's cock from the confines of his clothing in one last ditch attempt to force him to give in, break the stipulation. “Imagine if you went through all that, ten lashes, a cage match, only to fail here...”
Cody forces his head back, looking at the ceiling desperately as Max sucks at the crown of his cock, letting out a muffled whimper that's anything but genuine.
tagged by @grand-magnificent , tagging @realworldchamp , @sequentialprophet , @joestrummen , any writer mutuals i've forgotten!
cmjf soulmate au, under a cut for length and angst
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Everything Punk says feels like a special kind of targeted cruelty.
Having a soulmate shouldn't feel like—like this. Painful, agonising, every word out of his mouth forming another fucking wound inside him, and Punk's just holding the scalpel and laughing—
“—the most important day of your life, but to me, it was Friday.”
Oh.
Oh.
Max hasn't felt much in the way of heartbreak before. Been too busy breaking hearts, let's be honest.
If he had to imagine it, though... he thinks it might feel a little bit like this. Like his heart is genuinely being torn in two.
He wonders if it's possible for soulmates to reject the bond; if this is what Punk's trying to do, because the idea of being connected to Max is apparently so fucking disgusting to him, but the worst part is, he's looked. He's looked it up, to see if he can undo it, to see if he can break it, just so he can be done with Punk, but nobody's done it before, nobody even knows if it's possible.
He feels like if anyone could break a soulmate bond, Punk could. Punk could do anything.
There was a time that that thought was a comfort to him.
There's so much he wants to say; so much he could say. He could expose his wrist, show the whole fucking world exactly what Punk means to him, what Punk's words mean to him, make it really fucking public exactly what they are to each other, but—
Who would care?
Max eyes him up as he holds up the collar and chain, talking some kind of shit about wanting to be tethered to someone so bad, and it takes everything Max has not to do something stupid, launch himself into the ring, which is no doubt exactly what Punk wants, for Max to lose his cool, prove himself every bit the petulant child Punk sees him as.
Who would give a shit about him when his own soulmate doesn't? When his own soulmate has spent the last three months coming out and telling him over and over and over exactly how much of a disappointment he is, exactly how little he means to him.
But apparently he also wants to tie them together physically, while he carries on denying the less tangible thing tying them together.
You don't get it both ways, he wants to say. You don't get to keep chasing me, keep demanding a rematch, refusing to let me go until you explain why you called me a disappointment—
But the words don't come. They sit in the back of his throat like a brick, but full of sharp edges.
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
discoholicmusic
tangentwithtanner
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
origamiaround