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Heat And Lavender

Pairing: 2025 CM Punk x Reader (F)

Warnings: NSFW, Oral Sex, Unprotected

Word Count: 7,178

Summary: After your boyfriend, CM Punk, wins the WWE Heavyweight Championship at SummerSlam, the victory is snatched away by Seth Rollins. Back at the hotel, you help Punk recover, taking care of him and sharing an intimate, tender night together.

The monitor in Gorilla feels too small for what’s happening. Your fingers curl over the edge of the folding table as you lean forward, eyes locked on the screen. Phil is in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples, but still standing. Still fighting.

Gunther goes down, hard, after a desperate counter, and the crowd’s roar on the broadcast swells so loud it rattles through the headset on your desk. Your heart is in your throat. You’ve seen him in plenty of matches before, but tonight… tonight there’s more at stake than gold.

Phil staggers into position, delivers the final blow, and the referee’s hand hits the mat.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings.

The building erupts.

You can’t help it, you grin so hard your cheeks ache. The graphic flashes across the screen: NEW World Heavyweight Champion – CM Punk.

He’s on his knees in the ring now, clutching the title against his chest, eyes glassy, mouth pressed into something between a smile and disbelief. And you know, without a doubt, he’s thinking about what he told you earlier: If I win, I’m looking for you first.

But before the moment can breathe, the crowd shifts.

The music hits, sharp, electric, unmistakable.

Seth Rollins.

Your stomach drops.

He’s limping down the ramp on crutches, Paul Heyman trailing behind with the Money in the Bank briefcase clutched tight. The crowd is buzzing in confusion, some cheering, others booing, and your mind goes completely blank.

He can’t cash in… he’s injured, you think, clinging to that logic like a lifeline.

But before you can process it, Seth suddenly stops halfway down the ramp. He smirks. Then, in one swift motion, he drops the crutches to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Your breath catches.

He peels off his shirt, tossing it aside, and strides over to Paul to snatch the briefcase from his hands. The realization hits you like ice in your veins, he faked the injury all along.

“No!” you scream at the monitor, your voice swallowed by the chaos in Gorilla. You know Punk can’t hear you. Neither can Seth.

Rollins bolts the rest of the way to the ring, slides under the bottom rope, and thrusts the briefcase into the referee’s hands. The bell sounds.

Before Phil can even stand, Seth is on him, vicious, relentless, beating him down until the ref has no choice but to count.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings again.

Seth Rollins is the new World Heavyweight Champion.

Your stomach twists as you watch Phil lying on the mat, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his fingers still brushing the canvas where the belt used to be.

You’re moving before the celebration in the ring even starts. Gorilla is a mess, producers barking into headsets, stagehands scrambling to reset for the next segment, the faint rumble of the crowd bleeding in from the arena, but all you can see is that screen.

Phil rolls to his side, pushing himself up with a grimace. Seth is parading around the ring with the title, soaking in the boos, but you barely register him anymore. You’re already slipping past the curtain, the noise of the crowd slamming into you like a wall.

He stumbles through the ropes and drops to the floor, every step heavy. By the time he makes it up the ramp, his hair is plastered to his forehead, his jaw set tight. His eyes sweep the crowd, but not in victory this time.

When he finally steps through the curtain, the energy changes. The roar of the arena is replaced with the low hum of backstage noise, and the moment he sees you, something in his expression falters.

You’re already there, closing the distance.

“Phil—” you start, but the word dies in your throat when you get close enough to see the way he’s breathing, the way his hands are shaking despite the tight fists they’re curled into.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he can’t quite swallow. Then, finally, a quiet, rough, “He played me.”

You want to tell him it’s not his fault, that it was a setup from the start, but the words feel small against the weight of what just happened.

Instead, you reach for him. He doesn’t hesitate, his hand finds yours instantly, gripping like it’s the only solid thing left.

A voice cuts in from your left. “Phil, everything okay? Do you feel any pain?”

You glance over to see one of the ringside doctors moving toward him, medical bag slung over his shoulder, brows furrowed in concern.

Phil shakes his head almost immediately, still holding on to your hand. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though the slight hitch in his voice says otherwise.

The doctor doesn’t look convinced. “That was a rough finish. Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

Phil exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “No. Just… pissed off.”

The doctor’s lips twitch in something halfway between a smile and a sigh. “Alright. If anything changes, you let me know. I’ll be by medical for the rest of the night.”

You nod a quick thanks as the doctor steps away, but Phil’s eyes never leave yours. His grip hasn’t loosened once.

“Come on,” you say softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s get you out of here before someone else tries to stop you.”

You lead Phil toward the locker room, slipping through the corridor with purpose. The door creaks slightly as you push it open, then you quickly shut it behind you. The sudden quiet feels like a sanctuary compared to the buzzing roar of the arena still humming just outside.

Phil collapses onto the bench with a heavy sigh, elbows resting on his knees as his head dips low. The weight of everything, loss, betrayal, exhaustion, settles visibly on his shoulders.

You move over to his bag and kneel down, pulling out a clean hoodie, socks, underwear, sweatpants, and fresh shoes. The soft fabric feels like a small comfort in the aftermath of the chaos.

Phil leans down to start peeling off the wrestling tape wrapped tight around his wrists and hands. With a frustrated grunt, he rips it off and throws the rolls onto the floor.

“I can’t believe he fucked me over again,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue and anger. “And I can’t believe Paul Levesque just… let him do it.”

You sit down beside him on the bench, your hand moving gently over his back in slow, steady circles, an unspoken offer of comfort.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “He played dirty, and you’re the one who stood tall.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, but his body relaxes just a fraction under your touch. You stay there with him, letting the silence fill the room, quiet but full of everything that words can’t fix right now.

“Sometimes I wonder why I decided to come back,” Phil mumbles, pulling the clean hoodie over his tired frame. His voice is low, almost defeated. “It’s all just… bullshit.”

You pause for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you. It’s not just the loss tonight, it’s everything he’s carried, the fight, the setbacks, the constant grind.

“You came back because you still have fire,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “Because even with all the bullshit, you’re not ready to give up. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

He looks away briefly, jaw clenched, then back to you, a flicker of something like hope breaking through the weariness.

“Maybe,” he says quietly.

You reach out, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”

“Yeah,” Phil mumbles quietly, barely above a whisper.

He stands, muscles moving with the weariness of the night, and slides off his wrestling trunks, tossing them into the bag without a second glance.

You watch with practiced ease as he pulls on the fresh sweatpants and hoodie you brought, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the roughness of the ring gear he just shed.

Once dressed, he sits back down on the bench, head lowered as he reaches down to tie his shoes, fingers moving almost automatically.

The quiet between you feels comfortable, a pause where no words are needed. You study the lines of his face, the way his brow furrows just a little, the tension still lurking beneath the surface.

All of a sudden, there’s a sharp knock on the door, making both of you look up.

Phil’s voice is quick, low. “Come in.”

The door swings open, and an assistant steps inside, glancing between the two of you.

“Are you ready?” she asks softly, a hint of urgency in her tone. “The SUV is waiting outside. There are a lot of fans out front, but we’ve got a couple of bodyguards to guide you through.”

Phil nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. You can see the tension flicker in his eyes again.

You stand and straighten your shirt. “Let’s get moving,” you say, offering him a steady smile.

Phil manages a slight smirk, the faintest crack in his exhausted armor. His fingers curl tightly around yours, his other hand gripping the strap of his duffle bag.

You lead him out of the locker room, the hallway alive with activity, crew members hustling by, radios crackling, stagehands balancing equipment. The noise buzzes around you, but your focus stays locked on him.

A bodyguard steps forward and opens the heavy back door with a practiced ease, motioning you both through.

Outside, the night air hits you instantly, the hum of the city mixed with the roar of the crowd pressing against the guardrails. Fans shout and scream, their voices a tangled mess of excitement and anger.

“Fuck Rollins!” someone yells, and the cry ripples through the crowd like wildfire.

You tighten your grip on Phil’s hand and navigate through the swarm, the bodyguards carving a path like moving walls on either side.

Ahead, the black SUV waits, engine humming softly under the bright floodlights. A crew member swings the door open, and you slide in quickly, Phil right behind you.

The door clicks shut, muffling the noise instantly, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of Phil’s breathing next to you.

“Jesus,” Phil mumbles under his breath, sliding the seat belt over his shoulder.

You glance over at him as you click yours into place. “What?”

He sighs, eyes fixed on the window but voice low. “It’s just… the fans… they still root for an old guy like me.”

There’s a mix of pride and disbelief in his tone, like he’s both surprised and grateful all at once.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “They believe in you. And so do I.”

Phil’s gaze meets yours briefly, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“Of course. Y’know, I was thinking… maybe we could grab some late-night room service when we get back. A hot bath… sound nice?” you ask, a small hopeful smile playing on your lips.

Phil’s tired eyes flicker up to meet yours, a slow smile spreading across his face, a little worn, but genuine.

“That sounds good,” he says quietly. “Hell, it sounds perfect.”

You laugh softly, the sound a warm bubble in the quiet space between you.

The SUV suddenly slows, the city noise shifting into a muffled hum as you pull up to the hotel entrance. The warm glow from the lobby spills out through the glass doors, reflecting off the sleek black hood.

Even at this late hour, a small knot of fans waits outside, clustered behind portable barricades the hotel staff must have set up in a hurry. Phones are already in the air, flashes popping, their voices breaking through the night.

“There he is!” someone shouts. “Punk! We love you!” another calls, while a third, in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, yells, “You got robbed tonight!”

Phil’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Two hotel security guards step forward, dressed in sharp suits with earpieces tucked neatly in their ears. One gives a quick nod to the driver, then opens the SUV door on Phil’s side.

The cold night air rushes in, carrying the mix of car exhaust and the faint scent of someone’s cigarette. Phil slides out first, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, still keeping a grip on your fingers as you follow.

The bodyguard’s close ranks instantly, one at the front clearing a path, the other holding a firm position at the rear. You can hear the fans leaning over the barricades, their excitement almost tangible in the air.

A girl near the front shouts, “Punk, can I get a picture?!” Another calls, “Kick Rollins’ ass next time!”

Phil gives them a small, tired wave, his face softening just enough for them to know he hears them. But he doesn’t stop walking. His pace is steady, his shoulders squared, and your hand remains locked in his like an anchor.

The glass doors slide open, and suddenly you’re inside the lobby, warm air, soft jazz music playing from hidden speakers, and the faint scent of polished wood and hotel linen replacing the chaos outside.

Phil exhales through his nose, a tiny release of tension as the doors close behind you, sealing you in the quiet glow of the lobby.

Phil adjusts the strap of his duffle bag higher on his shoulder as you both head across the marble floor toward the elevators. The muted click of your shoes echoes in the lobby, almost too loud after the roar of the fans outside.

A concierge behind the front desk offers a polite smile, clearly recognizing him but saying nothing, hotel staff discretion at its finest. Phil gives a short nod in return, his hand still warm and steady in yours.

You can feel the faint drag in his steps, the weight of the match and the loss sitting heavy in his body. His hoodie hangs loose, the fabric brushing your arm as you walk side by side.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. You step inside first, Phil right behind you. He leans his back against the mirrored wall, duffle bag resting at his feet, and finally lets go of your hand just long enough to press the button for your floor.

As the doors close, the outside world disappears completely. No fans, no noise, just the low hum of the elevator as it begins to rise.

Phil tips his head back, eyes closing for a moment. ““Jesus,” he mutters. “Feels like my knees are eighty years old.

“You earned the right to stay in bed all day,” you reply, leaning against the opposite wall. “Room service will just have to deal with us ordering three times.”

That gets the smallest smirk from him, the corner of his mouth curling. His eyes open again, finding yours in the mirrored reflection. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Maybe,” you say with a shrug, but your voice softens. “Or maybe I just think you deserve a night where you don’t have to fight for anything.”

His gaze lingers on you a beat longer, something unspoken in his expression, gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. The elevator hums on, smooth and steady, carrying you both toward that long-awaited quiet.

The elevator doors suddenly slide open, spilling you into a dimly lit hallway that hums quietly with the low drone of the hotel’s air system. You step out first, the plush carpet soft beneath your shoes, and Phil’s hand slips naturally into yours as he falls into step beside you. His grip is warm, steady, even after the chaos of the night.

When you reach your door, you pause, digging into your purse. Phil leans back slightly, watching you with that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A low chuckle escapes him, and you glance up, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Don’t laugh,” you say, giggling despite yourself as you shuffle past the gum wrappers and loose change. Finally, you pull out the key card with a little triumphant flourish. “I’m usually more organized.”

Phil shakes his head, that crooked smirk still on his face. “Yeah, sure you are,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Bet if I looked in there I’d find a whole CVS receipt, three granola bars, and the Ark of the Covenant.”

You laugh, finally sliding the keycard into the slot. The green light blinks and you push the door open, holding it for him.

He steps past you into the room, immediately tossing his duffle onto the armchair by the window like it’s offended him.

You close the door, the quiet settling around you instantly, no fans, no shouting, no arena noise. Just the hum of the AC and the soft creak of the bed as Phil sits down on the edge, leaning forward to rub his knees.

“Want me to run a bath?” you ask, nodding toward the bathroom door.

Phil gives a slow, tired nod, pushing himself up from the edge of the bed. “Yeah… that sounds good,” he mutters, following you in.

You flick on the light, the warm glow revealing a surprisingly nice setup, a wide jacuzzi tub big enough to stretch out in, sleek his-and-her sinks, and a modern glass shower that practically gleams.

“Damn,” Phil says under his breath, glancing around. “Guess they sprung for the fancy room.”

You smile faintly, moving over to the counter and unzipping your toiletry bag. Your fingers find a small bottle of lavender bubble bath, which you set beside the tub. “I brought some epsom salts too,” you say, holding up the container with a little grin. “Figured those would be nice after tonight.”

Phil leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that faint smirk that always hints he’s about to say something. “Lavender bubble bath, epsom salts… what’s next? You gonna throw on some Enya and light candles?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, amused. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Just didn’t have you pegged for the full spa treatment type.”

You turn the taps, the deep tub starting to fill with steaming water. “Well, after tonight, I think you’ve earned it.”

Phil’s expression shifts, that teasing edge softening as he steps inside, the sound of the water echoing gently in the tiled room. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Couldn’t hurt to let my body believe I’m not forty-six for an hour.”

You step to the tub, twisting the handle until a rush of steaming water fills the room with a soft hiss. Uncapping the lavender bubble bath, you pour a slow stream into the water, the scent unfurling almost instantly, warm, floral, and soothing. A handful of epsom salts follows, scattering into the swirl and vanishing beneath the bubbles.

Behind you, Phil drifts closer. In the mirror, his reflection appears beside yours, shoulders slightly slouched, eyes still rimmed with exhaustion, but softer now, the sharp edge of earlier replaced with something quieter.

He comes to stand beside you, His hand brushes the counter, fingertips drumming once before he leans a hip against it.

“Looks like you’ve got this all figured out,” he says, voice low, carrying that mix of sarcasm and sincerity only he can manage.

You glance at him in the mirror, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t just collapse face-first into the bed and stay there all night.”

Phil snorts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bed’s not a bad option.” He lowers himself onto the edge of the tub, letting his palm skim over the rising bubbles, testing the heat. “Damn… this is perfect.”

You kneel to adjust the tap, letting a bit more hot water pour in. “Told you,” you say softly.

His eyes find yours again, not in the mirror this time, but directly. “Yeah. You’re usually right about this stuff.”

There’s no smirk now, just the kind of quiet honesty that makes your chest ache.

“I’m always right,” you joke, smirking.

Phil chuckles, shaking his head like he’s amused and resigned all at once. He pulls his hoodie over his head in one smooth motion and tosses it onto the floor.

You bite your lip as the bathroom light casts soft shadows across his shoulders and chest, muscles flexing with every movement.

Without hesitation, he slides off his sweatpants and boxers, standing bare in front of you.

Sure, you’ve seen him naked more times than you can count, but somehow, he still makes your cheeks flush.

“Gonna join me?” Phil asks, stepping toward the tub with a raised brow.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual. “I figured you just wanted a bath to yourself.”

He grins, that familiar glint in his eyes. “You sure about that?”

You meet his smirk with a mischievous smile and step forward. Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. One by one, you shed your clothes until you stand bare before him, the warm bathroom light casting a soft glow across your skin.

“Well, maybe I changed my mind,” you say, voice teasing as you slowly lower yourself into the warm, bubbly water beside him.

Phil’s eyes darken with something playful and a little tender. “Good call,” he murmurs, letting out a low chuckle.

By surprise, Phil pulls you close, pressing your back firmly against his chest. The warmth of his body sends a shiver down your spine, and you let out a small, breathy giggle.

His lips find the delicate curve of your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart race. His hands rest gently on your waist, steady and sure, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You tilt your head slightly, offering him more space, your breath catching as his lips trail lower, the heat between you growing stronger with every touch.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Phil murmurs against your neck, his voice low and rough with sincerity. His hands glide slowly up and down your arms, tracing warmth along your skin.

You close your eyes, a soft smile spreading across your lips as his words settle deep inside you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, leaning back just a little, wanting to feel him even closer. “But—” you begin, sitting up and turning your head to meet his surprised gaze.

Phil looks up at you, eyebrows raised, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“It’s my turn to take care of you,” you say softly, your voice steady with quiet determination.

Phil blinks, his surprise slowly melting into something softer, more genuine. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, one that’s less about teasing and more about trust.

“Damn,” he says quietly, voice thick with something close to relief. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Guess I’m in good hands, huh?”

His eyes search yours, vulnerability flashing through that usual guarded look. “Alright, then… show me what you got.”

There’s a playful challenge there, but underneath it, an honest invitation, to be cared for, to let his walls down.

You smile softly, shifting gently to turn fully around so you’re facing Phil. You settle into his lap, the warmth of the water and his body grounding you both in the moment.

Your hands reach up to his shoulders, fingers pressing firm and slow into the tight muscles, working out the tension built up from the long night.

Phil lets out a low, satisfied sigh, his eyes closing briefly as he leans back slightly against the tub, trusting you completely.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough but content. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

You lean in a little closer, Your fingers knead into his shoulders, working out the tight knots with just the right pressure.

Phil’s breath deepens, his head tilting slightly as he catches your scent, something faintly familiar, comforting. His eyes flutter open, catching yours with that playful glint only he can manage.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “if you keep this up, I might have to start charging you for a private massage.”

You grin, your hands tracing lazy circles along his traps. “Oh yeah? And what would the going rate be?”

He smirks, one brow arching. “Depends on how many kisses come with it.”

You laugh softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Guess I better step up then.”

Phil leans forward, his lips barely brushing your cheek as he whispers, “You’ve definitely got my attention.”

The space between you feels charged, every touch and glance sparking something electric and warm, the kind of quiet intimacy that speaks louder than words.

Still seated on Phil’s lap, you lean back slightly, your fingers reaching for a soft washcloth resting nearby. You lift it up, squeezing a small amount of the lavender soap onto the fabric, watching as gentle suds begin to form between your palms.

With careful, deliberate movements, you bring the cloth to Phil’s shoulder, pressing lightly as you begin to massage the suds into his skin. Your touch is tender but confident, tracing slow circles over the tense muscles, washing away the weight of the day.

Phil leans back against the tub, eyes closing briefly as a low sigh escapes him, a quiet surrender to the calm you’re creating together. His breath matches the rhythm of your strokes, steady and slow.

The warm scent of lavender mingles with the subtle musk of his skin, filling the space around you both with a comforting intimacy.

“You’re so sexy, you know that?” you murmur, your fingers gently gliding the washcloth along his arms.

Phil’s eyes flicker open, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah? Careful, sweetheart… you keep talking like that and I’m never gonna want to get out of this tub.”

He leans a bit forward, just enough to nudge your shoulder playfully, his voice low and teasing.

You bite back a grin, continuing to drag the washcloth slowly down the length of his forearm, letting your fingers follow right after, tracing the lines of muscle. “Maybe that’s the point,” you reply softly, your eyes locked on his.

Phil’s hands find your hips under the water, his thumbs brushing lazy circles against your skin. “Yeah?” he says, tilting his head slightly, studying your face like he’s committing every detail to memory. “Guess I could get used to you taking care of me like this.”

The scent of lavender lingers between you, steam curling around both of you as the water laps gently against your sides. His gaze dips briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, that slow smirk still there, but softer now, warmer.

You help Phil up slowly, water rippling around you both as he rises. You steady him with both hands, the heat from his skin still radiating through your damp fingers. Droplets slide down the planes of his chest, catching the light before tracing their way over his stomach.

After the two of you finish washing up, you step out first, the cool air brushing over your damp skin. You reach for a thick, plush towel hanging on the nearby hook and spread it open wide. Phil steps forward silently, and you hand it to him, letting him draw it close around his chest before tucking the edges in.

The fabric clings to the heat still radiating from his skin, steam curling lazily in the air around him. He glances at you with that smirk, towel wrapped securely around his waist now, and you feel that familiar flutter in your stomach.

Without looking away, you grab another towel and wrap it snugly around yourself, the plush material soaking up the last beads of water sliding down your skin. He’s close enough now that the damp tips of his hair brush against your temple, leaving tiny cool traces against your warm skin.

The air between you feels thick with heat and the soft scent of lavender, broken only by the quiet drip of water from the tub. Phil shifts just slightly, enough for his hand to skim over your hip in a slow, teasing pass, like he’s not quite ready for the moment to end.

“You’re so beautiful,” Phil murmurs, his voice low and rough as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.

You bite your lip, the faintest smile tugging at you as your hand rises, fingers grazing over the firm lines of his chest, still warm from the bath. “Phil…” you breathe out in a trembling whimper, your voice almost swallowed by the quiet.

His lips find the crook of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses there, each one lingering just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

“Yes, my love?” he murmurs against your skin before lifting his head. His eyes lock on yours, that familiar smirk curving his lips like he already knows what you’re going to say.

“I want to make you feel good…” you whisper, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, your words heavy with meaning.

“Yeah?” Phil’s voice drops lower, almost teasing, as his fingers leave your hips and trail slowly upward, tracing the curve of your spine until they rest at the small of your back. The heat of his touch seeps through your skin, pulling you closer to him, as if he’s daring you to say more.

You step closer, letting the towel wrapped around you slip just a little as your bodies press together, damp warmth colliding. Your fingers trace the familiar lines of ink on his arms before you rise onto your toes and pull him down, lips meeting his in a slow, deep kiss. His hands roam your back, one cupping the nape of your neck, the other gripping the towel at your back. Phil groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he tightens his grip. He turns, walking you backward until your shoulders hit the wall beside the bathroom mirror. The cool tile contrasts sharply with the heat of his body, his muscular frame pinning you in place.

Phil’s hand snakes out, fingers curling around the hem of your towel. With a quick, teasing tug, he pulls it free from your frame. The cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps rippling down your arms, and a shiver escapes you as your eyes meet his, green gaze dark and amused. His gaze drops, taking in every curve and plane of your exposed body. A low, appreciative sound rumbles in his throat, his hands coming to rest on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles against your skin.

"You're even more beautiful like this," Phil murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill through you. He presses closer, his towel-clad body flush against yours, and his lips brush against your neck, right below your ear. "I want to make you feel so good, baby. So good you forget your own name."

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper, tilting your head up to him and biting your lip. Phil groans low, eyes darkening as he looks down at you. Without another word, he scoops you up effortlessly in his arms, holding you close, and carries you out of the bathroom, the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

The mattress dips beneath you as he lays you down, his weight pressing between your thighs as his towel falls away. Your fingers trace the firm planes of his back, pulling him closer, his hot skin flush against yours. Phil nips lightly at your collarbone, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before soothing it with his tongue. His hands slide down your sides, one coming to rest possessively at your hip while the other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. You arch into his touch with a soft moan, nails digging into his shoulders. "I love how you sound," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His erection is now evident, feeling his thick, throbbing member press against the inside of your thigh.

“Let me ride you,” you breathily whisper, fingers trailing slowly down Phil’s chest and across his abdomen, brushing over the edge of his “Straight Edge” tattoo. Your touch lingers, teasing, as your eyes lock with his, green gaze dark and hungry.

Phil's breath catches as your fingers trace the familiar ink, his eyes burning with intense longing. He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he settles you above him. The movement shifts your hips, bringing you into direct contact with his growing arousal, and you both gasp softly at the sudden connection.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, hands gripping your hips, guiding you in a slow, teasing rhythm as your grind on his cock, now slick with your juices. His eyes are dark with want, locking onto yours as he watches your every reaction. "You feel so good," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently tugging you down for a deep, passionate kiss. His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding your lips to meet his in a searing kiss. The damp heat between your bodies mingles with the musky scent of arousal and the faint aroma of lavender lingering on your skin. His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as you roll your hips experimentally, drawing a ragged groan from his throat.

"I need you," you breathe against his lips, fingers trailing down his chest to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen. Phil's hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples in slow, torturous circles. He breaks the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point.

“You have me,” he mumbles in the crook of your neck, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. His hand moves to your waist, lifting you up slightly as the other grabs his throbbing erection and guides himself into you. You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as your bodies join together, the delicious fullness making your muscles clench around him. Phil groans, head tilting back as he savors the sensation of being deep inside you. Your bodies move together in a slow, sensual rhythm, each thrust and roll of your hips building the tension between you. The air fills with the sounds of your heavy breathing and soft moans, mingling with the soft creaking of the bed beneath you.

"Fuck baby, you're so big," you moan out, throwing your head back in ecstasy as his cock hits your sweet spot. Phil's hands slide up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as he pulls you down against him, chest pressing flush against yours. His hips move in slow, deliberate circles, each motion grinding his pelvis against your clit in just the right way. Your nails dig into his shoulders, body shuddering as pleasure coils tight in your core. "Phil—" your voice comes out breathless, breaking as he angles his hips, hitting even deeper.

"Say my name again," he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with need. You gasp as he thrusts up, your muscles tightening around him.

"Phil, oh god—"

“No,” Phil growls low, his voice rough and teasing against your ear. “Say my name.”

Your breath catches as you realize the meaning behind it, he wants you to call him by Punk. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the weight of it sinking in. Everyone. fans, friends, even the crew, always called him Punk. But you’ve always called him Phil, and it’s felt personal, intimate, separate from the persona the world knows.

“You… want me to…?” you whisper, voice trembling slightly, unsure but drawn in by the intensity of him so close.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smirking against your skin, fingers tightening at the small of your back. “Say it. Punk.”

The word tastes strange and thrilling on your tongue, the shift in what you call him sending a shiver straight down your spine. "P-Punk," you whisper, the name sounding different, somehow more intimate, as it leaves your lips. He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest as he thrusts up, burying himself deeper inside you. The name on your tongue changes something between you, heightening the moment and the connection, his hands gripping your hips with newfound intensity as he moves you against him in a steady rhythm.

“That’s it baby, fuck, you’re all mine. All fucking mine,” Phil grunts, thrusting faster now, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. You feel your walls tightening around him, pleasure building rapidly as he fills you perfectly, hitting that sweet spot with every movement. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as your back arches, head tipping back with a gasp.

"God, Punk," you moan, the unfamiliar name slipping out again, carrying a different weight now. His name on your lips drives him wild, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he thrusts harder, faster. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you as he drives up into you over and over. You can feel it building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with every thrust, every delicious drag of his cock inside you. Phil's eyes are locked onto yours, dark with intensity, lips parted as he watches you unravel beneath him. His hands slide up to grip your waist, holding you steady as he fucks into you with deep, purposeful strokes, each one designed to push you over the edge.

"Come for me, baby," he growls, the words thick with want. "Let me feel it."

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with firm, steady pressure, and that's all it takes. Your muscles clench and spasm around him as pleasure explodes through your body. "Punk! Oh fuck!" You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as your orgasm tears through you. Phil groans, feeling you pulse and spasm around him, and his control finally snaps.

Before you can even process what was happening, he flips you onto your back, his powerful body looming above as he now drives into you with relentless, deep thrusts, chasing his own release. Your bodies move together in a frantic rhythm, skin slick with sweat, the sounds of their lovemaking filling the air. Phil's eyes never leave yours, green gaze dark with desire as he pushes your legs back, angling for even deeper penetration.

Your legs tremble, his cock dragging across sensitive nerves every time he thrusts. He growls as your body milks him, tightening around him in rhythmic pulses that send intense waves of pleasure through you both. "Fuck, baby," Phil grunts, his hands gripping your thighs as he fucks into you, deep and unyielding. "You feel so good. So tight. So wet."

His words send another tremor through your body, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in the sheets. The sweat on his skin glistens in the dim light, muscles straining as he moves. “God, I’m gonna cum,” Phil groans out. You tighten your legs around him instinctively, heels digging into his ass as you urge him deeper.

"Come for me, Punk," you whisper, fingers tracing up his sides, feeling the flex of his muscles as he thrusts. His breathing falters, a choked groan escaping as he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as his orgasm rips through him. Warmth floods inside you, his cock pulsing as he spills deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release. Phil collapses against you, still moving in shallow thrusts as he rides out his climax, pressing you into the mattress with his weight.

Your arms wrap around him, holding him close as his breathing slows, your fingers tracing light patterns along his back. Phil's forehead rests against your shoulder, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his orgasm. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, pounding as intensely as yours. His lips press against your neck in a soft kiss, teeth grazing lightly before he murmurs, "Fuck, that was—" He doesn't finish the thought, just exhales heavily against your skin, arms tightening around you in a possessive hug. Your fingers trail up his spine, feeling the sweat-slicked skin beneath your fingertips.

The room is heavy with the scent of sex and lavender, your bodies cooling together as you lie entwined on the rumpled sheets. Phil's breathing slows, his face still buried in the crook of your neck as he catches his breath. He pulls back slightly, green eyes meeting yours with a lazy, satisfied gaze. A soft smile plays on his lips as he runs a hand through your hair, fingers tangling gently in the strands. "That was intense," he murmurs, voice still rough from exertion. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, gaze locked on yours. "I like it when you call me Punk." His words are laced with a husky quality, sending a shiver through you.

"yeah?" you ask, still out of breath.

He nods, eyes dark and intense as he holds your gaze. "Yeah. Makes me feel different. It’s hot." He presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly, his face inches from yours. You let out a soft laugh, breath still uneven, your fingers brushing over his chest as you study his expression.

“Different how?” you ask, teasing lightly, though your voice is still thick with warmth.

Phil smirks, that familiar glint of mischief in his green eyes. “Different… like I’m not just the guy everyone yells at from the crowd. Like I’m… yours,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of your back, pulling you slightly closer.

Your lips curl into a soft smile as you lean into him, pressing your forehead to his. “You are mine, Punk,” you whisper, letting the word linger between you, heavy and intimate.

He groans softly, a low sound that vibrates through you, and buries his face against yours again, nipping gently at your jaw before capturing your lips in another slow, deliberate kiss. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer, while the other traces slow, light patterns along your side.

The two of you lie there, tangled in sheets and warmth, the world outside forgotten. Every brush of skin, every whispered word, every shared breath only deepens the quiet intensity that lingers between you, a mix of love, desire, and trust that belongs solely to the two of you.

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