Jul 1, 2025
Monday Night RAW - 30/06/2025
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Macao SAR China
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
Monday Night RAW - 30/06/2025
My vibe going into MITB
DOM LOSING THE IC BELT OVER A CURSEHAUSEN WASN'T ON MY 2026 BINGO CARD BUT I AM CACKLING OVER IT
YAY!!! okay so, i was wondering if you could write a fic where penta has a match against dominik and liv goes out to be on ringside. liv starts interfering with the match so reader goes out to help penta. maybe there's a part where penta was concerned for reader but he sees that she can handle herself and it fills him with pride? sorry if that's too long but i just got excited that you're accepting penta fics 😭🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
Solo Tú y Yo (Just You and Me)
🤍 Pairings: Penta x Female Reader
🤍 Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, Mild Violence, Sexual Content, Strong Language, Alcohol, Mask Play (Briefly). Nice and Fluffy
🤍 Word Count: 1.9k
🤍 Notes: Thank you for the request! And if you didn’t know Penta was hiding ALL THAT, and is also fine AF, now you know!
The crowd roared as Penta El Zero Miedo stood center ring, his eyes locked on Dominik Mysterio. The bell rang, and it was on.
Dominik came in fast with a cheap shot, then a flurry of punches. Penta took it, then hit back harder. A stiff kick to Dom’s thigh. A back elbow that snapped his head sideways. But the heat wasn’t just in the ring.
At ringside, Liv Morgan strutted along the apron, shouting, distracting, laughing.
“Let's go, Dom! Kick that masked idiot's ass.”
But Liv wasn’t done. She grabbed Penta's boot as he hit the ropes. Just enough to trip him. Dominik capitalized with a 619, then climbed up to the top rope for a frog splash
Penta rolled his eyes under the mask. "Pinche morra fastidiosa (damn annoying girl)," he muttered, ducking a clothesline and landing a sling blade.
One, Two…
I wasn’t about to let it end like that.
The metal of the barricade dug into my thighs as I vaulted over. My heart wasn’t just pounding, it was screaming.
Muscle memory kicked in. Years of training, of crashing onto mats in dusty arenas south of the border, carried me forward.
Security hesitated, unsure if this was part of the show. They didn’t recognize me anymore. Not without the mask. Once, I had my own name chanted from the rafters. But tonight, I wasn’t a star. I was in his corner.
Liv turned just in time to eat a stiff shove that knocked her back onto her ass, her fake lashes fluttering like she had the wind knocked out of her.
Dominik leaned over the ropes to yell at me.
That was all Penta needed. He stood, shook off the pain, ran the ropes, and hit Fear Factor so smooth it was like poetry.
One, two, three.
The crowd exploded.
I slid under the ropes and lifted Penta’s arm. He turned to me, breathing heavy through the mask, eyes locked on mine. There was fire there. The same fire we used to share under hot lights in Mexico City, back when I was known as La Sombra Fiera. We’d trained together. Fought each other. Loved, maybe. Lost, definitely.
Backstage, the lights were dimmer, cooler. The echo of crates rolling across concrete was like thunder from another world. We were in the eye of the storm, breathless and barely touching, but entirely seen. Penta peeled off his mask halfway, sweat dripping down his brow.
“No tenías que meterte (You didn't have to get involved.) ,” he said.
“We’ve both lost matches to people like that. I wasn’t about to let history repeat itself,” I replied.
He smirked. “Gracias. Me salvaste. (Thank you. You saved me.)”
There was a pause. The kind that hung heavy but didn’t need words to explain it.
“You always fight with honor,” he said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. “Con huevos. Eso se respeta. (With balls. That's respectable.)”
I looked at him, his face close, his hand brushing mine.
“No es por honor, (It's not for honor)” I said. “Es por ti. (It's for you.)”
He leaned in.
Quiet.
Still.
Then his forehead pressed to mine, mask to skin.
“No todos entienden este mundo, (Not everyone understands this world)” he said. “Pero tú sí. Y eso... eso vale más que mil victorias. (But you do. And that... that's worth more than a thousand victories.)”
Penta’s forehead rested against mine, the heat of the match still clinging to his skin. I could feel the adrenaline pulsing through both of us, but underneath it… something slower. Something heavier.
“¿Tú y yo? (You and I?)” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “¿Esto es real… o fue solo la adrenalina? (Is this real… or was it just adrenaline?)”
I didn’t flinch. “Es real. Desde antes que subieras al ring. (It's real. Since before you even stepped into the ring.)”
He stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time. Then he leaned in, mask still half-on, and kissed me, fast at first, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Then deeper. Surer. Like he’d been waiting for permission he didn’t need.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers rough but careful. My hands gripped the fabric of his ring gear, pulling him closer. I’d imagined this kiss once. After a match in Guadalajara, when he limped past me and winked, his ribs taped, but his swagger undimmed.
We broke apart just enough to breathe.
“I’ve been in wars,” he said, “pero contigo… me siento en casa. (but with you… I feel at home.)”
A sharp knock on the wall broke the moment. A stagehand shouted, “Wrap it up, Penta. We need you for post-match.”
Penta looked at me, then back toward the hallway, annoyed. “Chingada madre… (Motherfucker…)”
I laughed. “Go. Finish the job. I’ll be here.”
He grabbed his mask, but before pulling it down, he looked at me again, something softer in his eyes.
“Después de esto… nos vamos, tú y yo. No fans, no cámaras. Solo nosotros. ¿Te parece? (After this... we're leaving, you and I. No fans, no cameras. Just us. Okay?)”
I nodded. “Me parece perfecto. (That seems perfect to me.)”
He left with that slow swagger, the kind that says I just won, and I’ve got someone waiting for me. I leaned back against the wall, heart still pounding, knowing this wasn’t a one-night spark.
This was the beginning of something worth fighting for.
The arena was hours behind us now. The lights, the noise, the chaos, all gone. Just the low hum of city traffic and the soft thump of music leaking from a rooftop bar.
We walked through the crowd like shadows. Penta had swapped his mask for a black hoodie and dark jeans, but he still moved like he was in the ring, calm, dangerous, confident. I was by his side, heels clicking, hand brushing his.
He pulled me close as we slipped inside the bar. Not flashy, just dim lights, a good DJ, and no wrestling fans shoving phones in our faces. It felt like we’d carved out our own world.
“¿Qué quieres tomar? (What do you want to drink?)” he asked, leaning in close so only I could hear.
“Surprise me.”
He came back with two glasses, something dark for him, something smoky and sweet for me. “You look good outside the chaos,” he said, handing me the drink. “Pero todavía traes fuego en los ojos. (But you still have fire in your eyes.)”
I sipped. “Comes with backing up my man in the ring.”
He grinned, teeth flashing. “¿Tu hombre, eh? (Your man, huh?)”
I shrugged. “Unless you wanna debate it.”
“No hay debate, (There is no debate,)” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Eres mía. (You're mine.)”
We found a booth in the back, tucked into shadows. Music thumped, but our little corner felt quiet. He sat close, thigh against mine, his arm along the back of the seat.
We talked. Not just about wrestling, though that crept in. But about the grind. The scars. The people who never saw the toll. He told me stories from the road here, from nights he slept in his car after matches no one remembers now.
“You fight with everything,” I said. “And you never lose yourself.”
He looked at me, serious now. “That’s because I never had someone worth losing myself for. Until now.”
My breath caught.
He slid his hand into mine. “When this life burns out, when the lights fade... I want you there. Still fighting with me.”
I nodded, fingers tightening around his. “Always.”
We didn’t need more words. Just that weight between us. That pull.
Later, when we left the bar and walked under the city lights, his arm slipped around my waist like it belonged there. And for the first time in a long time, both of us felt like we weren’t walking alone.
The hotel room was quiet, warm, and dark, save for the soft orange glow of the city leaking through the window.
Penta stood by the door, hoodie half unzipped, that same steady look in his eyes, the one he wore before a fight. I sat at the edge of the bed, watching him.
He reached for atop his luggage and grabbed his mask, caressing the fabric between his forefinger and thumb. Then he walked over, stopping in front of me and pulling the mask over his face.
“You ever wonder what it means, when I wear this?” he asked.
I smiled. “I don’t have to wonder. I wore one too, remember?”
He nodded. “You were a storm in the ring. La Sombra Fiera.”
“And you were the wildfire.”
“We burned everything down together.”
A pause. A breath.
“But you disappeared,” he said.
“Only from the ring,” I whispered. “Not from you.”
Once, we stood under neon lights in Monterrey, bloodied and laughing after a tag-team match that left us bruised and victorious. He kissed me then too, but back then, we didn’t know what it meant. Only that the fire was real.
Tonight, it burned again.
He nodded. “Tonight, I want you to see both sides. El guerrero… y el hombre. (The warrior… and the man.)”
I stood, facing him. My fingers rose to his mask, but I paused.
“¿Puedo? (Can I?)” I asked.
He didn’t answer just leaned in slightly, giving permission without words.
I slipped my fingers under the edge, dragging it up slowly. The fabric slid over his lips, then his cheekbones, until finally, I pulled it free.
He was beautiful in a quiet kind of way. No character, no performance. Just him. And he let me look.
“No todos llegan a este momento, (Not everyone reaches this point,)” he said. “Most people only get the mask. Nunca el hombre. (Never the man.)”
I cupped his face with both hands. “Then they missed out.”
Our mouths met slowly. There was no rush. It was the kind of kiss where you know you’re being memorized. His hands were on my hips, guiding me backward until we hit the bed. I pulled him down with me.
The mask stayed in my hand.
As we moved, clothes coming off in soft pulls, heat rising between skin and sheets, I slipped the mask onto my face, smirking as I looked up at him.
His eyes darkened, and he froze for a beat, watching me.
“Chingada, (Fuck,)” he whispered, running his thumb over my lips through the fabric. “You’re dangerous like this.”
“You like it?” I murmured.
“Me enloquece. (It drives me crazy.)”
He kissed me again, rougher this time. Like he wasn’t just making love, but claiming something. And when we finally collapsed into each other, sweaty, tangled, breathless, I kept the mask on, and he never looked away.
After, he pulled me into his chest, heart still pounding.
“From now on,” he said into my hair, “the mask stays with you. So do I.”
I smiled against his skin.
“Then let them all come for us. No tenemos miedo. (We are not afraid.)”
Wife?
Pairing: Penta x Reader
Summary: Penta decides to reveal a bit of his private life to his new professional life.
Trigger/Content Warning(s): none really, fluff, cuteness, secret family trope
Word Count: 696
A/N: this was just a cute little drabble, I’ve got a second part to expand on this idea in the works. I guess I’m just a sucker for a mask and a great personality. Enjoy. (Posting today cause it’s just a drabble and I felt like it.
Navigation
Series Masterlist WWE Masterlist
Penta kept to himself mostly. His home life was his. And he liked to keep it off camera. The only family member the world knew existed was his brother, but only because they were both professional wrestlers.
But since he moved to WWE, the idea of opening up in interviews didn’t leave such a sour taste in his mouth. He was on more TVs. More people knew his name.
But still…he was uncertain.
Even his new coworkers didn’t know much about his life outside of work.
They respected that he wanted to keep his home and work separate.
But he knew they were curious.
He would be too, he supposed.
It was after a particularly intense Monday Night Raw, coming home to worry that he knew he needed to at least let his fellow wrestlers know. Just in case he was injured and his brother wasn’t on the same traveling schedule as him. So he decided to do it at the right time.
And to have fun with it.
—
Another intense night of filming, in the city in the US he was living currently, he knew that they were in the audience. His girls. He could swear he heard their cheers over all the others.
Backstage he was doing an interview when he saw Rey come into the area grinning, leaning in to murmur that his girls were a hit backstage, lucky to get backstage passes.
Penta has to grin.
He finished the interview and walked to the area where the lucky fans could meet the wrestlers for the night. And there they were.
Standing calmly amongst the wrestlers she’d met that night, one of whom, Dominik Mysterio, seemed intent on playfully flirting. Of course he didn’t know that the pretty young woman was married to Penta. But that might make him flirt more. He was a little shit after all. Even when he was messing around.
Especially when he was messing around.
But the smile on (Name’s) face as she entertained the younger wrestler made him chuckle. Especially since she had their three year old daughter on her hip. Obviously wearing a child’s merch shirt of his.
(Name) wasn’t wearing any official merch, because she didn’t have to, his ring was on her finger. His daughter was on her hip. And a second child was in her just barely swollen belly. It was hard to notice yet. But he could see it. Which is why he knew any flirtation from Dominik wasn’t serious. He was married outside of the show as well. He was just a playful flirt. (Still his brother was standing beside her, taking to his niece, while keeping an eye on the two of them)
Penta, outside of the mask, was similar. And his wife...oh she was deadly with it.
He liked that about her.
The red sundress dress she wore was simple and the way it hung perfectly on her body had his eyes instinctually traveling along her body.
Based on the shirt that the young girl, his sweet Leticia, was wearing, they were waiting for Penta to meet the fans.
When Rey noticed his brother he nudged Leticia’s arm and motioned to Penta as he walked over. The girl knew who her father in and out of the mask. She was never scared of it.
She shrieked excitedly and practically flung herself out of her mother’s arms making the young woman laugh. It was what the girl shouted that shocked the other wrestlers though.
“Papi!”
Penta caught her easily holding her like the experienced and involved father he was. “Mi princesa,” he murmured, kissing her temple.
(Name) grinned and took the two steps to stand in front of her husband, “Do not get your face paint in her hair again,” she teased him earning a laugh, “Hey handsome.” She leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Mi Reina,” He laughed softly and wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her close.
There were a lot of questions to be answered from the stunned group, but he didn’t regret deciding to introduce her to everyone. He knew in his heart this was the right decision.
Next Part
Bad Decisions
Penta x OC
Warnings "18+, Smut
*Hi, it's me again. Back with my Penta bullshit. I appreciate y'all playing along with me while I hyper fixate lol. One day I'll get back to my regularly scheduled writing but until then... I hope you enjoy this one!*
You can read more Penta stories here: Master List
_________
The crowd pressed in on all sides, Allora stood in the margin, stripes crisp, arms folded in a manner calculated to suggest she didn’t care whether the house burned down around her. She let the noise wash over, gritted her jaw. Breathed. She bit down on the impulse to smooth the loose strand of hair that always wriggled free at her temple. Professional. Centered. Here for one reason.
The bell rang, sharp, and the energy hitched up another notch.
Penta was already at the ropes, making a production of rolling his shoulders, flexing the tattooed geometry of his arms. His mask was blue and black tonight. He did that thing with his jaw, the twitch that preceded every escalation, and Allora realized with a flick of annoyance that she’d been watching for it. She’d seen him last week in Amarillo, this week in Denver, she’d even seen him in catering, hunched over a paper plate of food with his mask pushed up like some medieval crown. She should have been immune. She was not.
His stare cut the ring in half, carved a line that landed dead on her. She squared her stance.
“Watch me work, princesa,” he called, not bothering to drop his voice. Allora snorted, soft but sufficient. “I’m not here for you.”
He grinned beneath the teeth painted over his mouth, the heat of the moment transforming the sneer into something nearly feral. “Everyone’s here for me.”
She stalked to center, ignoring the cameraman squatting at her three o’clock, the dull ache beginning in her calves. Her mouth was dry, which was stupid, she’d done this hundreds of times, half-asleep, hungover, once with a broken wrist that no one knew about. Penta had a way of making the familiar strange, of refracting the event through himself until the whole building felt like an appendage of his ego.
Allora hated that she understood it.
She barked instructions at the men, keep it clean, break on her count, the same preamble she said every week and refused to let her gaze stray toward Penta again. The other guy tonight was a newbie they’d thrown to the wolves, so to speak. He nodded, all earnest tension, and Allora gave him a fractional smile in return. Penta rolled his neck in contempt.
They circled. Allora tracked them in tight steps, always just out of the periphery. The first lockup was textbook, but Penta, true to form, wrenched it into something ugly, an elbow jammed under the rookie’s chin, the casual torque of his wrist skirting just this side of legal. Allora dropped to her haunches, snapped a warning: “Watch the grip.” Penta didn’t even look at her, just growled, “Ay, relax,” and bullied the kid into the ropes.
They broke, and Allora, already irritable, flicked her fingers at Penta’s shoulder as a gentle rebuke. He let the contact linger, rolled the muscle beneath her touch in a slow, knowing way. Her own skin went cold, then hotter. She snatched her hand back.
The match proceeded in surges, flashes of technical competence interrupted by spasms of aggression. Penta played to the crowd, of course, every gesture a challenge to decorum, while the rookie tried valiantly to remember his moves and not get beheaded. Allora’s job was to keep the show moving, bleed off the excess, and if she caught herself anticipating Penta’s moves with an accuracy that bordered on intimacy, she kept it to herself
They tumbled, rebounded, locked and reversed, the ring a crucible for their egos. Penta threw an illegal forearm and Allora, this time, didn’t warn, she bodily interposed herself, palm planted against his chest, pushing him off. She could feel the heat radiate through the thin fabric, could smell the faint ghost of whatever cologne he’d drowned himself in. She’d meant to say something, give him a penalty, assert her dominion but what came out instead was, “I said, keep it clean.”
He tilted his head, slow. “Or what?”
“Or I make you.”
The rookie, stunned by his own survival, blinked in the corner, half-forgotten. Penta leaned in, voice pitched low so only she could hear, “You want to try?”
She let the moment hang, then, “Keep talking and see how fast I shut you up.”
He blinked just once then gave her the smallest of nods, as if acknowledging the gambit. He backed off, hands in the air in surrender, swagger momentarily dialed down. The crowd, oblivious to the nuance, chanted his name.
The match resumed, but the dynamic had shifted. Penta moved with a new caution, testing boundaries, while Allora tracked every gesture, every flick of the eyes, every calculated hesitation. When the rookie pulled off a miracle reversal and sent Penta sprawling, Allora felt a surge of vicarious pride, tempered instantly by the sight of Penta’s face as he rose. The smile was gone, replaced by something flat, analytical. He was recalibrating.
They went three more rounds, sweat pooling on the canvas, before Penta finally pinned the kid. Allora hit the mat, counted fast, and called it, slapping the canvas with finality.
The bell. The roar.
As the victor peeled himself up, Allora expected the usual gloat, the signature celebration. Instead, Penta stalked over, looming close. For a second she thought he might say something, maybe even thank her, but instead he lifted her hand in his, squeezed hard enough to bruise, if she let him. The contact was intimate, almost tender, and when he let go, the tips of his fingers lingered a split-second longer than strictly necessary.
She glared up, refusing to blink.
He gave her that half-smile again, this time with something like respect. “You got it right this time, ref.”
She wanted to say something scathing, something that would puncture the moment and restore her equilibrium, but nothing came. Instead she held his gaze, chin lifted, daring him to make a scene. He didn’t. He just turned, raised his arms to the crowd, basked in their adulation like it was sunlight.
Allora exhaled, tension draining from her shoulders in a single wave. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing the errant strand back into place. She could still feel the imprint of his grip, the phantom heat where their skin had touched.
The crowd was already shifting its attention, greedy for the next spectacle, but Allora lingered. She watched Penta from the edge, cataloging every tick and tremor, every concealed glance he cast back at her.
She felt the thump of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears, and she shifted her weight as fatigue began creeping into her limbs as she exited the ring. It was always like this, a gradual build towards exhaustion, but she refused to let it show. The match had barely scratched the surface of what the night would hold. This was merely the prelude to something bigger, a drama that was bound to unfurl as the night wore on.
The parking lot was dim under the flickering lights, and Allora leaned against the side of a light pole, arms folded tightly over her chest, spine pressed into the cool metal. The night air was still thick with the remnants of adrenaline, the pulse of the crowd still resonating in her bones, but now it was just her and the shadows that stretched across the asphalt. She glanced at her phone again, biting down on her impatience, the Uber app blinking its frustrating countdown.
“Waiting for my autograph?” That voice caught her off guard, drawing her attention.
Allora’s heart quickened as Penta emerged from the building, wearing fresh clothes, the mask pushed back on his head. The glow from the lot illuminated the contours of his face. He stepped closer, a predator lured by the scent of something intriguing.
“Hardly,” she replied, irked by the way it sounded so rehearsed, like he said the same lame ass line to everyone who waited outside arenas, desperate for a scrap of his attention. She straightened, keeping him in her periphery.
He was less a mask now, more a person, mussed hair and tired eyes, the sloped nose broken some number of times before. A crisp white t-shirt with the ghostly shadow of his tattoos beneath; black jeans, ripped at the knee.
She kept it neutral. “I’m not a child. Or a ring rat.”
“Cuenta tu chiste,” (tell your joke) he said, the Spanish tumbling easy and fast. “I’m listening.”
She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move away as he closed the gap, hands jammed deep in his pockets. The overhead bulbs blinked an uneven rhythm along his cheekbones.
“Oh, did you want my autograph?” She teased.
He clicked his tongue. “Is it worth getting?”
A passing car sent a wash of white light across them, and Allora watched the momentary uncertainty cross his face. A small storm passed through her. She could turn and leave, ignore this small intrusion, pretend she didn’t care about the weird gravity between them but something made her stay rooted and, instead, flicked the top of her water bottle with her thumb. It broke the tension with a hollow snap.
Penta rocked forward onto his toes. “You don’t like to talk?”
“I’ve got an early flight.” She took a slow pull from her water. “And you’re not half as interesting out here, trust me.”
He tilted his head, measuring. “You want an apology for earlier?”
Allora huffed. “I want you to save the theatrics.”
He shrugged, a gesture that looked less like capitulation and more like he was rolling off a burden. “Sometimes the ref needs to be reminded who owns the ring.”
Allora felt the heat rise along her jaw before she could clamp it down, the blush crawling up her throat and pooling somewhere beneath her cheekbones. She’d spent years learning how to keep her cool, how to deflect with a look or a joke, but Penta’s words, the smooth lack of effort in them, always found a way to cut beneath her guard.
“Certainly not you,” she fired back, sharper than she meant.
He didn’t flinch. If anything, the insult seemed to amuse him. He let the silence hang, twirling the mask in his fingers now, then he gave her a look that was half appraisal, half challenge. “You sure about that?” he said, voice pitched just shy of gentle mockery. The smirk at the corner of his mouth was dialed down, but it didn’t blunt the intensity in his eyes. “You think they come to see you, princesa?”
Allora barked out a laugh, abrupt and unsparing. “Oh, you got jokes.” She refused to let him see how much the nickname stung, the way it branded her as less than, despite everything.
He nodded, solemn as a priest, then arched one brow in a practiced gesture. “I’m a funny man. The people expect it. You, though?” He leaned in, closing the distance just enough for her to catch the faint trace of sweat and cologne, the mix oddly intoxicating. “You don’t even try, do you?”
She snorted. “Maybe I don’t feel like playing for the camera twenty-four-seven. Some of us have dignity.”
He spread his hands, made a show of it. “That's for losers. You win, you get the right to be ridiculous.”
“Is that what you call it?”
He shrugged. “I call it survival. You know how many people in there even remember who reffed the match tonight?” His gaze flicked upward, as if searching for something on the roof of the nearest parked car. “Zero, probably.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you think they’ll remember you forever? You’re not that special, Penta.”
He braced an arm against the light post, trapping her between the cold metal and the long shadow his body cast. “I’m special enough for right now.”
If she wanted, she could have ducked away. Instead, she stayed, stubborn and unblinking. The longer the standoff lasted, the more she could feel the thrum of something electric beneath the surface, annoyance, maybe, or desire, or the line where they blurred together.
She let out a breath, tried for a dismissive scoff but it came out as something softer. “You’re like a bad penny. Can’t get rid of you.”
He grinned, the old swagger back in force. “You keep flipping me, though. Maybe you just like the game.”
Allora opened her mouth for a retort, found nothing, and settled for a glare. It was enough to make Penta straighten, just a little.
He stepped back, gave her the space she hadn’t asked for. “You know, princesa, you’re welcome to come out with us. The crew’s hitting up El Búho. You ever been?”
She shook her head. “Not my scene.”
“Could be.” He tilted his head, watching her for a long moment. “Could surprise yourself.”
She doubted it, but the invitation lingered, sticky and persistent. She looked down at her phone, at the Uber ETA that now read nine minutes, then back at him. “If you’re trying to impress me, you’re doing a shit job.”
He laughed, genuine this time, the sound low and rough. “No need to impress. You already noticed, didn’t you?”
She felt the flush again, spread wider, but she refused to let the silence do the talking. “You think you’re so fuckin’ special, don’t you,” she shot back, and this time her smile was the real thing, crooked and unguarded, as if they’d both finally admitted the terms of engagement. Penta made a little flourish with his fingers, clowning, but there was an undercurrent there if you knew where to look. She did. A twitch of the lips, a sidelong glance at her water bottle, the familiar way he weighed the space between them, little tells. She could call him out on it, but just as easily could let him keep pretending this was all a joke.
She let the seconds drag. He looked restless, but not in that dangerous way, just kinetic, like a dog straining at leash. If she closed her eyes, she could convince herself she didn’t notice the way the air shifted when he moved.
She popped the cap off her water again, took a long, slow drink, then bared her teeth in a too-bright smile. “You’re gonna be late to your own afterparty. Go on, get,” she said, shooing him away.
He grinned wider, wolfish, and stepped back, giving a little two-finger salute. “Maybe see you there. Or not.”
“Not,” she said, without conviction.
He walked backwards, keeping her in sight for a few steps. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up again. But when the car finally rolled up and the driver glared at her over a trash-filled dashboard. “Where to?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he was chewing tin foil for fun.
She gave the hotel name. The car pulled away from the curb, tires hissing on the broken blacktop.
-----
Allora showered and collapsed onto the bed, arms splayed overhead. Somewhere outside, a distant motorcycle ripped through the silence and her phone buzzed against her thigh.
Unknown number.
The message was waiting on the lock screen, a bland little bubble that might have been from any of the dozens of numbers she’d picked up over the years, colleagues, promoters, ex-lovers, people with too much time and not enough boundaries, but this one had the stink of recent history on it.
You handled Penta good tonight. 😉
Eyebrows raised, she thumbed it open and weighed the odds. A fan? Someone trolling her? But she knew better, she could almost hear Penta’s voice in the phrasing, the lazy confidence, referring to himself in third person… but she refused to give him the satisfaction of being right.
She typed a curt, Who is this? and sent it, then tossed the phone onto her chest and stared at the stucco ceiling like it might reveal a pattern worth following. The reply was instant, smug: u know
Of course she fucking knew. Allora let the phone rest there, pressing into her ribcage, as she debated letting him stew in his own self-importance. She should block him. Delete the thread. Instead she found herself typing, You’re an ass. The words hung there, insufficient and childish. She pressed send anyway.
The typing dots flickered to life, then: u luv it princesa
Allora hurled the phone across the bed and flopped onto her side. The comforter snagged her elbows. She closed her eyes and counted the pulses in her throat. She couldn’t tell if she was pissed, flattered, or both.
The phone rattled once in her hand, tacked on a second buzz for emphasis. Another message, barely a minute after the last.
What r u wearing? 🥵
It was so perfectly him, no lead-in, no explanation, just the laser focus on getting a rise. She set the phone on the pillow, glared at it, then shut her eyes. In the vague fizz of exhaustion, her brain replayed the sequence in the parking lot, over and over, each time with a new retort she could have landed. She hated that he took up this much bandwidth. She hated that she had let the banter escalate, hated the bit of her that wished she’d called his bluff.
A chastity belt.
She let the words stand, a twisted little amuse-bouche she could drop into his lap and walk away from. Penta’s response came back almost instantly, as if he’d been lying in wait for a counterpunch: Que?
It was gratifying, the way she could still catch him flat-footed. She could imagine the exact shape of his frown as he tried to puzzle it out, the childish impatience that always gripped him when he sensed a joke just out of reach. For a few seconds she said nothing, savoring the image of his hands hovering over the keypad, probably flexing his jaw in annoyance.
Then another message, even more desperate: is this a kinky thing?
Allora grinned at the ceiling, feeling the fatigue melt off her shoulders. Some days, she wondered if he’d ever met a woman who could talk circles around him; most days, she suspected he’d just been waiting for someone to try. She thumbed out a reply, taking her time.
Google it.
The line landed with the finality of a dropped gavel, and she didn’t even need to watch the typing dots to know he’d be searching, the gears in his head spinning furiously right up until the punchline hit.
Princesa, I have a key for this belt. 🗝
The audacity. Allora propped herself up on the pillows and eyed the phone. She could almost feel Penta’s grin radiating through the screen, two time zones wide and twice as shameless. She let her fingers hover over the keyboard, willing herself not to give him more fuel, but fury and entertainment were a potent blend. She could practically see his stupid face as he typed, expecting her to fold.
You wish! she shot back.
The dots blinked, then froze. She pictured him in some shitty afterparty bar, surrounded by fans and swooning women who thought they stood a chance with him, but with his full attention pinned to the way she moved inside his head. The image was almost enough to make her smile.
No, that is your wish.
He couldn’t help himself. Every line from him was a test, a challenge to see if she’d flinch or double-down. Allora refused to let him set the tempo. She took her time with the next reply, building it carefully, each word a little landmine:
You don’t even have the right tools.
This time the response lagged. She pictured him reading it, parsing it, trying to figure out if it was a tease or a threat or both.
I have many tools. For professional use only.
She barked a laugh, then dialed it back, conscious of the thin hotel walls. God, he was relentless. She almost admired it. Almost.
You couldn’t open a can of beans. she wrote. But if you want to embarrass yourself…
The dots paused. When his reply finally landed, it was longer, and somehow almost earnest:
Maybe is good to embarrass yourself sometimes. Maybe that is strength, no? You should try.
Allora stared at the message, something in her chest going weirdly sideways. She thumbed a quick, lighter reply to cover the crack: Save the therapy for the ring. And try not to choke on your next promo.
Maybe you show me how to choke. 🍆
She groaned. But there was no denying it, he got her, even if she hated admitting it. For a while she let the silence stretch, picturing the way he’d be drumming his fingers, waiting for her to slip. She wouldn’t. Not tonight. She turned the phone over, screen down, and let herself drift for a minute in the quiet, but the buzzing started up again.
don’t fall asleep or you’ll miss me. come party.
U scared?
come out or you have to listen to the stories they say about you
Allora snuffed a disbelieving huff. She could picture the table of wrestlers, half of them nursing injuries, drunk, the proud congregation of beautiful, sad boys who only functioned as a collective. She’d spent years learning how to bounce off the perimeter long enough to not matter, never quite fitting in or out. She wasn’t scared. She just didn’t want to see what kind of mess she’d make of herself off the clock.
But she ordered the car anyway, and when it came, gave the address. El Búho used to be a auto shop, she’d heard, now all concrete floors and high ceilings and echo. The bouncer checked her ID with a tedium that implied he already knew she was coming, then waved her past like a traffic cone.
The wrestlers stuck out, not because they were huge, mostly they were just broader and less comfortable in their clothing, as if muscles pressed too eager against polyester. Penta was easy to spot. Mask on, spun sideways over a new crowd, he held court with two other guys from the card, a couple of hangers-on, a brunette in a leopard coat and a blonde who wore a mini dress, who kept trying to slide into his orbit. He met her eyes right away and raised his glass.
Showman.
She made a beeline for the end of the bar, half out of stubbornness, half because she was thirsty and didn’t plan on spending the evening wedged among fame-drunk idiots. The bartender didn’t even bother with a menu, just slid over a bottle and a single-serve tequila, as if he’d been briefed on her arrival by central command. Allora wrapped her fingers around the glass rim, rolled it between her palms, then steeled herself and shot it.
From the corner of her eye, she tracked Penta’s progress as he maneuvered through his admirers. He had crowd control down to a science, a few words for the eager autograph seeker, a little flash of teeth for every selfie, a promise whispered to the brunette that made her bite her lip and collapse into the stage-whispered giggle. Allora could map the next five minutes with her eyes closed. It would have repulsed her if it hadn’t been so expertly performed.
By the time she reached the table, the blonde with the mini dress was already trying to sit in Penta’s lap. Penta palmed the offending thigh and somehow without missing a beat in conversation or even a sip of his beer, redirected the blonde onto the adjacent chair.
As she closed in on the cluster of chairs, Penta caught sight of her and, seizing the moment, sent up his hands in mock benediction. “Mi princesa is here!” he announced, voice ricocheting around the cinderblock walls like a thrown bottle. Every head at the table swiveled as if on cue, the blonde’s expression going instantly wary, the leopard-coat woman offering Allora a once-over with the cool efficiency of a TSA agent. Even the two wrestlers flanking Penta; his brother Rey Fenix and the new rookie he’d beaten earlier in the evening, paused their small talk to see what the fuss was about.
Allora didn’t even slow her pace. “Not your princesa,” she shot back, deadpan, grabbing the nearest open seat with a scrape that set the blonde’s teeth on edge. She planted her elbows on the table, a clear declaration of territory, and let Penta’s gaze linger on her for exactly one second before she turned to the others. Social physics dictated that someone would now introduce her to the other women, and she waited just long enough to enjoy the awkward dead air before one of the other guys coughed and supplied, “This is Allora. She’s the boss.”
“Just bossy.” Penta grinned, wide and unrepentant, but Allora noted the micro-expression, the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes before he turned the charm back up to full blast. He gestured for the bartender, ordered her a tequila without asking, and for a moment there was only the low throb of reggaeton from the speakers and the click of glasses hitting the table.
Allora leaned back, doing her best to appear unmoved by the spectacle. The blonde made a half-hearted attempt to re-enter the conversation, but Penta’s attention was locked onto Allora, as if the rest of the table had faded to grayscale.
The brunette blurted a laugh, but it sounded flat. “You’re the ref, right?” she asked, loud enough for the table and three onlookers at the bar. “That’s like…the judge?”
Allora just nodded, and let the silence do the work for her.
“Is it true you hate all the wrestlers?” the blonde pressed, making a big show of what she hoped was playful aggression. “I heard you pull the new guys aside and warn them not to fuck with you.”
She could feel the heat from Penta’s stare, but she kept her eyes angled toward the table. “Some guys need very direct instructions,” she said, letting it dangle whether she was joking or not. The tequila arrived, sloshed almost to the lip. Allora licked salt from her thumb, drank, grimaced. She could already feel the flush working up her throat. Not entirely unpleasant.
A beat, then the rookie, poor bastard tried to wedge in a compliment about her technique on the three count earlier. “You have a really fast hand, Miss…” Lame. But he meant well; she softened just slightly as she corrected him, “Allora is fine.” She did not look at Penta. It defeated the purpose if she did it deliberately.
Fenix (both friendly and genuinely harmless) offered an olive branch in the form of a lime wedge. “Taste’s better this way.” he winked. Allora took the wedge, bit down, and let the sting and acid burn clear the taste of easy talk away. “You at the house show tomorrow?” she asked, keeping her gaze on Fenix, ignoring the way Penta kept drumming the table with his index finger like he was itching to cut in.
Fenix shrugged, knocking back the last of his drink, “Yeah, you working it?”
Allora gave him the up-and-down, then turned just enough in her chair to lock eyes with Penta, who was already watching her over the rim of his glass. “Always. Maybe I’ll ask to ref the match myself,” she said, letting the words linger like confetti after a parade. The suggestion was what it was, a provocation, a dare, a line in the sand, and she saw exactly how it landed on Penta, whose left eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly before he covered it with a smirk.
Penta set his glass down a little harder than necessary. “I think you just like to be in charge,” he said, smiling too wide to be entirely friendly.
“I love power.” she winked at Penta and then, instead of looking at the table, at her sleeves, at the sweating bottles on the scarred wood, she looked at him. She saw the hunger, the way his teeth pressed to his lip, the calculation running in the moment of pause. He was going to say something lewd, she could see it in his posture; “Say it.” she leaned in.
“I say nothing.”
“Oh, but you want to.”
Penta cocked his head, a slow, feline motion that was theatrical even by his standards. She could see the showman’s impulse at war with whatever flicker of caution he still possessed. The moment hovered, bright and precarious, as if everyone at the table was waiting for him to go one syllable too far
The two other women, sensing a power shift, tried to cut in with a laugh, but it landed limp on the concrete floor. The rookie looked like he wished he could teleport out of the booth and into traffic. Even Fenix, king of refusing to take anything seriously, was glancing between them now, trying to decide if he was supposed to intervene or just spectate.
She let the moment hang, savoring the way it tasted, hot, risky, the kind of thing you remembered in a week when you were back to living out of a suitcase and wondering what the fuck you were doing with your life. “Maybe you should practice saying what you want,” she volleyed back, her voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby tables to tune in but not so loud that it turned the moment into a bit.
He smiled, but it was a different smile this time, less teeth, more threat. “Not here,” he warned, pushing his chair back a fraction. “Unless you want everyone to know.”
A pause, then, “Maybe I do,” Allora deadpanned, and for a second she thought he’d really take the bait.
But instead he just raised his glass in a lazy salute and said, “You first,” and Allora could feel the table’s collective disappointment that the fireworks hadn’t gone off yet.
Instead she leaned in, close to his ear and whispered, “You want me to fuck you.” Her lips against the shell of his ear, the hot lap of tequila on his cheek, the drag of her denim thigh pressed casual but firm to his knee under the table. She felt the tremor run through his face, the smallest convulsion, there and gone, more animal than man. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, for one beat. Then he grinned, as if what she’d said had been a punchline only he understood, and whispered back, “Entonces hazlo.” (then do it) He dared, the words sharp as gravel in his mouth, this close and not backing down. She could feel the burn in her cheeks, the little jump in her pulse. Time slowed to a flicker.
She drug his earlobe through her teeth, not a peck, not a desperate thing, but a calculated press, lips parted just wide enough she knew he’d feel the shape of her teeth when she closed them around the delicate tip. His hand found her thigh under the table, not tentative but not groping, either, palm wide and hot even through denim. She let him squeeze, let him own the space for half a second, then pulled away, teeth bared in a smile.
Allora topped her drink, tequila rough now but necessary, ballast against the swelling pressure in her chest. Penta mirrored her, barely breaking eye contact. His other hand drummed the rhythm of her pulse on her thigh; two quick, two slow. She wondered if he knew what it did to her, if he registered the thermal spike up her spine, the way she’d felt her hips clench under the white-hot attention. A familiar urge, viscid and reckless, pooled somewhere below her navel and crystallized into a dare.
The conversation at the table ambled forward but it was pure background hiss, washed out by the feel of Penta’s fingers curling once, hard, into her thigh, a clear message: I see you, I know you’re watching me. The dare of it rang in her insides. She didn’t flinch. Instead, on one pulse of music, she slid her hand under the lip of the table and let her knuckles drop to his denim, the backs of her fingers grazing the inside of his knee. He jerked, maybe not visible to anyone else, but she watched his breath catch, the dilation of his pupils. She traced the seam of his jeans, slow, deliberate, thumb rolling up until it caught the bulge rising there, pressed her knuckles in as punctuation.
He exhaled a ribbon of Spanish too fast to catch and set his glass down with a thump, and for a second she thought he’d break. But he gripped her wrist under the table and twisted, not enough to hurt but enough so she knew it wasn’t a courtesy. It was expectation. Ownership. He used his grip to drag her hand up another inch, just enough to give himself away without looking at her, without flinching in the theater of the moment. There was a blood heat under the denim, a tension that left nothing to mystery; her fingers lingered, mapped him, let the heel of her hand compress the ridge.
He held her there, his eyes unreadable behind the mask until his thumb did a thing, a pulse at the base of her palm and then she got it, the message: not here, not now. The anticipation was its own pleasure, like the moment a wrestling hold stretches before the joint pops or the breath before the airplane falls from turbulence. Allora let her hand rest where he wanted, no more, no less.
At some forgotten cue the table rose and scattered to the bar, Fenix off to claim shots, the rookie peeled away in defeat, even the two women gone, one to the bathroom, the other to the DJ corner. They were alone now, sort of, the emptying space a vacuum press around them. Penta didn’t let go.
He leaned in, the words bouncing off her lower lip so only she could catch them, “You like this game?” His fingers were a vise and a question. She answered by scooting closer, so their knees bracketed each other. She pressed her knee in between his, crowding the already-warm air between their bodies.
“I like beating you at it,” she said, louder than before.
He reached for her jaw, let his fingers frame her chin, a cage at the hinge of her jaw. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either; it was principled, like showing off a submission hold without cranking it for pain. He kept her face pointed at his, lined up, pupil-to-pupil. Even this close, she couldn’t see anything but the blackness behind his mask.
“You hate to lose,” he said, almost admiring.
She tongued a grain of salt from the seam of her lips. “You’re not winning.”
It was supposed to be a checkmate, but he laughed, shoulders shaking. “I don’t need to win. Only need to see how far you go.”
She waited for him to move first. He didn’t. The standoff had a weird purity, two stubborn creatures, neither sure who would flicker first. It could have been adolescent, maybe it was. But it belonged to them, the sweat and the want and the humming current between bodies trained to channel energy until it burst. Allora felt her pride scrape raw in her chest; she was aware of every millimeter their skin touched, the arc of her cheek under his palm, the crush of denim on denim under the table. He pressed his forehead to hers, the hot arc of their faces brushing before he yanked the mask up, rolling it to his forehead, exposing the soft, dark stubble from jaw to cheekbone. He looked younger without the mask and face paint, or maybe just more breakable.
She wondered if he knew what that meant, to lower the armor. Allora didn’t give him time to overthink it. With the calculus of impulse and alcohol, she slid her hand up his thigh, fingers teasing the dividing stitch of denim. She felt the hitch in his breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He said something in Spanish, croaked almost, just a syllable. There was a private, charged comfort in the way he let her see him, not just the persona, but the man; sweaty, a little unsteady, amused and aroused in equal measure.
Still pressing her jaw, he kissed her, reckless. It wasn’t pretty. Teeth clicked, noses jammed. She tasted lime and salt and the background hum of panic at how little she wanted to stop. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in, nearly lifting her off the chair. Her knees bracketed his hips now, and she shoved back, palm flat on his chest, pinning him in place. She liked the way he took the pressure, not yielding but accepting it, as if every escalation was something to be absorbed, banked, and weaponized later.
His hands were on her hips, then her ass, her mouth found the edge of his jaw, a slow, dragging kiss. Nothing showy, nothing rehearsed. He let out a sound, quiet, desperate, so real it scared her, just a little. She felt the old panic crowd her lungs, the urge to bolt.
But he stayed so still. He just waited. Any other guy would have ruined it, forced it, made a joke. Penta just let the thing live.
She pulled back, searching for the mask of swagger. It was gone. He blinked, lips swollen, caught off guard, blinking at her as if someone had just peeled away the last shield. For one, two, three beats, he didn’t say a word, just watched her face, mapping every twitch of her mouth, every ragged swing of her chest. Without the façade, his eyes, caged in thick lashes, looked almost gentle.
There was a joke in there, so obvious she almost groaned aloud, but she saw the way he braced for it, the way the joke would have glued the mask back in place. So she held his gaze, let her palm rest on his jaw, fingers tracing the sticky heat of his skin. They sat like that, neither moving, until his lips quirked; tentative, then certain, as if discovering he still owned them.
She quashed the tremor in her fingers and slid in closer. His hand, greedy now, hooked at her waistband, thumbs pressing into the quick pulse at her hips. How long since she’d wanted something this much? She’d gone a full year, maybe more, on self-control alone; it was her single superpower, the talent to freeze everything in a lockdown of wit and precision.
He rolled his jaw, a bruised grin threatening. “You’re dangerous,” he said, still breathless. She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest, felt the rapid percussion of his heart, the way the heat collected just under the collar of his shirt. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” She let him have it, the loaded pause, the challenge hummed out in every cell of her, the wreath of sweat and aftershave and triumph on his skin. Allora let her thumb brush his throat, a slow, up-and-down stroke over the lump that bobbed when he swallowed. It felt like holding a living threat.
"Yeah. Dangerous," she said, voice stripped all the way down, ruinous. If she looked left or right she'd see the crowd, their own little planet of heat, and she suspected that's what he wanted, if not a full spectacle, then at least the surety that this wasn't a secret, this wasn't a thing to be hidden. She yanked him by the shirt collar, lips mashed to his, and it was clumsy but she didn’t care, she liked the way it crashed.
He made a sound, open-throated, a flare of want that felt too intimate, but didn’t break. His hands kept to her waist and her lower back, tight and then tighter. She let him squeeze, let him try to communicate with the absurd pressure of a grip strong enough to move mountains. He could leave a mark. Allora wanted it.
She twisted away long enough to drag him off the chair and toward the corridor at the back, not looking to see if anyone watched, to see if anyone cared.
She shoved him first, backwards, into the Cinderblock wall. He made a moan around the force of it, teeth bared. She grabbed for the waistband of his black jeans and found the button already popped. He’d known. He’d hoped. Fuck it.
It was movie lighting in this corridor, puddles of shadow and the spill of gold from the street light above them and in it she saw him not as a mask but as a body, lean and carved, a sum of bones that somehow asked for more punishment. She pressed him back with her hips and undid the zipper herself, forcing fingers down, into the heat, finding bare skin where there should have been boxers, the expectation of sweat and the steely pulse of him, raging and urgent.
He bit her neck, but softly. Teeth glancing the edge but not breaking the skin, just holding her there, a brand. His hands groped up under her t-shirt, seeking skin, and Allora let him, her own body starved for the full-body press of another person. He dragged the waistband of her jeans lower with frantic, uneven jerks, fingers too thick to finesse but persistent, unyielding. When her bare thighs caught the draft of air it sent a shudder up her spine hard enough that she gasped. He caught the sound with his mouth.
She craved friction, the rub of heat to offset the chill on her bare skin, so she braced herself on his chest with both hands, flung her knee up to ride even with his. The angle was stupid, desperate. She didn’t care. She clawed his jeans past the resistance and shoved at the denim until he was half-exposed, cock rigid and leaking, propped in the hollow her palm made as she seized it. Allora swore, a half-laugh, half-groan. She squeezed just hard enough for him to feel her intent.
Penta muttered a rush of Spanish she barely understood. He cupped her ass with one hand, the force of it hurt but it also made her bite down on her own tongue to keep from moaning. She let her hand slide up and down the length of him, slow at first, watching his face slacken and tighten with each pass. The subtle power of it was a shock; all her, her rhythm, her control, the way she could change his breathing with a flick of her wrist. He jerked against her grip, the skin fever-hot and silken. She wanted to see what it did to him, really see, the arch of his neck, the way his lips twisted, the way his hips bucked when her thumb rolled in the right spot.
She pressed her forehead to his, a hard knock, not romantic, just bracing. "You wanted this," she muttered, and he nodded, pressing his hips into the vee of her thighs, his hands digging under her shirt and up her rib cage, thumbs skittering to the sides of her breasts. Allora never let go, not once, even as he kneaded her with a pressure that bordered on pain. She liked it. She rocked into him, denim scraping denim, the sound sharp and ugly, all friction and no grace.
He brought his mouth to her ear, his breath fast and ragged now, said her name almost like a question: "Allora,” He reached between them and thumbed her clit, two fingers precise, zero hesitation. Electric. She bit down on his shoulder and threw her hips into him, not soft, not gentle, just a hard, shuddering push. His cock rode the seam of her palm, then the angle changed and he pressed brutally tight to her pubic bone. The friction, their bodies mobbed in sweat and adrenaline, sent a sharp sting in her core that made her almost dizzy. He groaned, head thunked back against the wall, open-mouthed, and kissed her like he had to tear her open from the inside.
“Yeah, like that,” she rasped, and took his cock in a fist, stroking in rhythm, the two of them lurching with the pulse and squelch of skin. Every stroke lined up with his thumb and fingers slick between her thighs, obscene, mechanical, perfect. He groaned and shifted his stance for better leverage, hand fully under her shirt now, mouth at her collarbone, sucking small, brutal marks as though intent to tattoo his presence. Her own body; traitor, weapon, whatever, responded with a full-body surge, legs bracketing him, shaking.
The world funnelled down to fingertips; hers on his skin, his slipping up under and inside her, no stutter, no asking. She gritted: “Wait-” but he kept rubbing her clit, ring-callused fingers, rubbing circles that made her knees threaten collapse. She let out a sound, too loud, and he clamped his hand to her jaw, squeezing the noise into something feral.
He had her jeans shucked halfway down her thighs before she’d even realized. Denim bunched under her ass as he hooked her up, lifting so her pelvis found the perfect counterpoint to his. The wall was cold, gritty against her bare skin, but the friction between them, the heat of his body, made everything else irrelevant. She let her head drop forward, could smell the musk of him, the kind of scent that burrowed and stitched itself in for weeks. His hands found her ass, kneaded, then parted her, two fingers touching and testing, then sliding in, and she didn’t want measurement or preparation, she wanted to be filled so full it erased every other thought she’d ever had. She shifted, opened her legs wider, letting the denim twist and bite behind her knees, and Penta lost no time; he lined himself up, holding her thighs as if he was wrestling her into place, every inch of him hot and hard against her.
“Do you want me.” he grunted, a dare, not a question. Allora didn’t bother responding; she let her body answer, rolling her hips forward until she notched him exactly where he needed to be. The first push hurt, she had forgotten, somehow, how sharp it could feel, how the burn of stretching and filling and total loss of control could scrape every nerve raw. She sucked in a breath, braced herself with both hands on his shoulders. Penta watched her face, just for a moment, not checking for a green light so much as gloating in the way she shuddered and forced herself to take every inch he gave her.
He pumped slow at first, shallow, like he was showing off his self-control, but Allora saw the lie; his hips twitched, the muscle at his jaw working overtime, his fingers went white-knuckled where they clamped her ass and the back of her thigh. She wrapped her calves around his waist, locked him in, and pulled him deeper. He felt so big inside her it emptied every thought she’d ever had. The stretch wasn’t just sharp; it was total, a pulse of hurt and blinding want. Allora locked her ankles at the small of his back, all leverage, and bore down with a twist that was ugly and exact. He reeled forward into her, head knocking the concrete above her shoulder. She caught the thick rope of his hair in her fist, and arched until her spine was scraping cinderblock, hips grinding up to match every shove.
Penta whispered her name, not the joke version, not the arena growl, but the real one, whisper-rasped with awe or need or pain, she couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He pistoned into her, breath coming hoarse and hard against her cheek, hands bracing her as if he worried she’d splinter apart from the force. Maybe she would.
Allora rode the line between pleasure and something darker, a hair-trigger place where even the smallest shift could tip her over. She clawed his shoulders, which only made him thrust harder, eyes squeezed shut, jaw locked in that stubborn hinge she already knew by heart. The friction was too much; she fought to keep it together, to hold off, but he slid forward faster, harder, her whole body boiling up against the block wall. Then she let go, all at once, head thrown back, and made a noise so wild it echoed against the painted cinder. He didn’t stop, even as she came, in shuddering, ungraceful bursts, nails digging into his biceps. She wanted to mark him, wanted him to wince next time he flexed.
She locked tight around him, and he grunted, pumping ragged and desperate, and then he was shoving even deeper, the flex and throb of him inside her a singular, shattering side effect of the ugly, beautiful friction. He finished, full and violent, hips jerking with each pulse. She felt it, the slick of heat.
It was over as fast as it started, the tunnel vision snap-shotting itself into memory. His hands kept holding her, holding, holding, like there would be a next round, like he didn't trust gravity not to peel them apart. For a moment, that was enough.
Then he slid out, slow and careful, as if to apologize for the abruptness. Allora bit back a whimper. Her whole body throbbed, the outline of his fingers a fresh galaxy of bruises and sweat. She staggered, pitching forward until her face was braced against his neck. Her lips grazed the patch of flesh under his jaw, still slick with sweat. He laughed, or maybe sobbed, a sound so raw she felt it in her own chest. His arms stayed hooked around her until their breaths fell into the same halting cadence.
Neither said anything. She could hear the DJ booth a hundred feet away, the bass notes tunneling through the floor and up her spine. Somewhere outside, car alarms rippled, a pack of dogs howled at the moon.
His fast fingers were already yanking her jeans back up, clumsy but efficient. She caught a glimpse of her own body; belly slick, thighs red-raw from the friction, a vague ache spreading up her hips and out. She pressed her palms to her eyes, felt the pulse behind her eyelids go sharp and star-shaped, and let out a laugh so surprised it hurt.
Penta caught the edge of her shirt, wiped the sweat from his lips and gave her a look so hooded, so high and distant, it was almost a mask itself. He buttoned up, rolled his neck, then leaned forehead-to-forehead with her, thumbs braced to either side of her jaw, anchoring them together.
"You okay, princesa?" he whispered, like a punchline after the fact.
Allora didn't trust her voice. She nodded, the movement blurring her vision. She waited for the shakes to stop, for something like equilibrium to return, but her knees kept forgetting how to work.
Penta nuzzled the side of her temple, lips soft where he'd only ever used words to bruise her. The empty corridor felt weirdly tender, shame and pride drowned in the same afterglow. She pulled at her waistband, gave herself a perfunctory clean-up, not dignified in any sense. Her hand shook as she straightened up.
He saw it, that tremor, and caught her hand, held it steady for a second. "You win," he said, mock accusing, but the joke crooked at the end, left unfinished. She looked up at him, really looked, at the sweat stuck in the grooves of his forehead, at the ugly-hot desperation in the slump of his shoulders.
She tried to speak but the first attempt was a cough, embarrassingly small and girlish. She bit her tongue and exhaled in a laugh, the noise damp and shaky. She felt high, like all her skin had been set on fire and left to smolder.
Penta grinned, raking his hand through his hair, mussing it until it looked somewhat straight. He pressed his nose to the side of her face, just under her eye, and made a sound, almost a purr, but with the edge of a threat. Then he, with a kind of resigned care, wiped her lips with his thumb, like anyone could erase the mess they’d just made. The thumb lingered; she tasted salt, and herself, and him.
Maybe she’d been shaking since the moment she entered the car, or maybe she’d always been like this, all nerves and impatience and iron-cased stubbornness. He pressed her hand to his lips and grinned, as if the taste of her on his mouth was currency, proof that she hadn’t won so much as tied.
She supposed there were worse things.
He spoke first, low, as if keeping a secret just for them. “You going to call me tomorrow?” He said it with a smile stitched on, semi-dumb, voice still stripped by the gravel of sex and tequila.
Allora had to think about it, how long since she’d even wanted to call someone after, to admit their existence carried across the boundary of her own? “You’ll call first,” she said, and hated how it sounded in her own mouth, fragile and fanged at once.
He tapped the side of her cheek, soft as a brush of air. “Maybe I just wait and see you in the ring.” His thumb still drew circles at the point of her jaw, hypnotic, gentle. “Or maybe I kidnap you, and make sure you remember who you belong to now.” He grinned. And she couldn’t even argue the point.
A voice filtered down the corridor, his brother calling his name. The hollow scrape of a backdoor door opening, and they both startled back, the spell interrupted. Allora tugged her shirt down, friction, raw at the hem, and shook her hair loose, half-heartedly reconstructing the image he’d so perfectly destroyed. Penta fumbled with his mask, pulling it over his face in one motion. She watched the way it snapped back into place, the sudden cold iron of his persona locking in. It was almost sad, the way it had to end.
He turned to walk away, throwing a look over his shoulder, "You win...this time."
@fistsandfangs @thenortherner1 @leighla3 @sgt-peppers-coffee-club @lyss866 @wisteria-bae @sharmelasworld @madhatterbri @charmed1990 @eringobragh420 @femdisa @fearlesschimera @purplementalitybluebird @fafomama @xbriexx @jstarr86 @ctinadiva @isabella-2025 @vebner37 @jeyusos-girl @cyberdejos2 @raya-hunter01 @crxssjae @bebesobrielo @empressdede @brie-mode-activated @mzv11 @thetribalqueen @yana3sworld @sayyestoheav3nn @nicolewoo @jaded-human @cutttteeee @trippinsorrows @trentybenty @electronicwitchsandwich @bloodlinesbabe93 @abadbitchblogs @yana3sworld @jackson-nickthedate @eatlifthockey @mselenalovebug @transparentphantomface @pittieprincess22 @christinabae @miss-kuki-nz @rose-bliss @crimsonrose418
penta's springboard mexican destroyer RAW | 9.15.25
You’re now a member of WWE’s creative team. Of the following story pitches, which is the one you’re choosing work on? Basically, you’re gonna ask Triple H to be the lead creative on that specific story pitch.
Iyo Sky is jealous of Rhea Ripley hanging out with Jey Uso
Finn Balor revives the “Dashing” gimmick
The Street Profits get lost in the Backrooms to promote the A24 Backrooms movie
Jevon Evans and Ilja Dragunov both fall for Stephanie Vaquer (love triangle)
Trick Williams and Seth Rollins feud because Trick stole the “freakin” name
Gunther is only nice to AJ Lee for some reason (mystery?)
Asuka becomes Dark Asuka (Fiend-like gimmick)
Drew McIntyre’s car was stolen. Turns out, Kevin Owens did it for fun.
Oba Femi and Shinsuke Nakamura become bros due to their mutual love of baseball
Kairi Sane feuds with Roxanne Perez, turns into Heated Rivalry (namedropped)
Dragon Lee and Otis accidentally discover Triple H’s buried gold
Damian Priest is haunted by Judgement Day-era Damien (revealed as Penta)
