Niki (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
niki_chidon) wrote2007-01-02 12:43 am
niki_chidon) wrote2007-01-02 12:43 am
Fic: Episodes of Getting Laid IV: Hurt (WWE, Edge/Jericho)
Name: Episodes of Getting Laid IV: Hurt
Author: Niki
Rating: NC-17, sex, violence, bad language.
Fandom: WWE
Warnings: Domestic violence and m/m sex. Mush.
Disclaimers: As before.
Pairing: Ain't changing.
Notes: Timelinewise I think this is somewhere around August-September 2004.
Summary: Rage. Shame. Despair. Tenderness.
Jericho POV
Hurt
- - - -
© Niki 2004
”Fuck you!” Punch. ”Fuck you!” Smack. “Fuck you!” Yet again my fist connects with his flesh. “Fuck you!” I yell, again and again.
He doesn't fight back. Why doesn't he fight back? It makes me even angrier. He merely dodges and blocks my attacks. (Must stop sparring with this guy, he knows me too well. He knows my moves too well.) In his eyes I see... fear.
Is he afraid of me? The thought makes my face turn even stormier, and my attacks even wilder, until I realise that he *can't* be afraid of me. He's afraid because he doesn't know why I'm doing this. He has no idea why I just marched in and started punching him in the face. He's afraid I know he loves me.
I push him violently away from me, to the other end of the room, and he stays there, crumpled in the corner. Looking at me. Why doesn't he fight back? It was easier when we did this: fight and fuck. Is that why I'm doing this? To get back to those days without complications – without emotions.
Am I trying to beat those feelings out of him?
Am I trying to beat those feelings out of me?
I stand here, trying to catch my breath, clenching my fists so tight that my knuckles are white, looking at him – bloody, bruised, beautiful. There's a trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth, and I think I've given him a black eye. Jesus.
Jesus indeed. I think I'm having an epiphany here.
I swallow, covering my face with my hands. What the hell was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? What the fuck am I thinking now? ‘To beat those feelings out of me.’ Those feelings. Caring. Love.
Jesus fucking Christ, love.
My hands fall down from my face. I must look as stricken as I feel. I can only stare at him. The blood, the resigned look in his eyes, that beautiful, kissable mouth, bruised. I feel so ashamed. I did that. It wasn't a fight; it was an assault.
I take a few halting steps, and fall onto my knees next to him, hiding my face in his chest. I'm trembling. He's rigid against me at first, then, hesitantly, his right hand moves to my back, and the other into my hair, and he's hugging me to him. My hands are grabbing the front of his torn shirt. I can't stop trembling.
“Hush, it's okay, Chris, everything will be okay,” he whispers soothingly, as if to a child.
I just press closer. It's so precious, to have him caring for me.
“Whatever it is, it will be okay,” he repeats, and I want to believe him.
But I just hurt him. And I have hurt him all this time, because he has loved me, and I haven't loved him back. Or have, but have been too fucking blind and stupid to see it. And what good could my love ever do to him?
I will just end up hurting him. Or he will end up hurting me. Everyone I love always hurts me. Always goes away. Always chooses someone else in the end. Everyone I let close betrays me...
So I don't let them close. I don't let anyone close. I didn't want to let him close. I drove him away, before, when what he felt was too much for me, and I didn't even know he loved me then.
Hell, maybe I loved him even then. Maybe that's why I kept going back, back to fight, to be friends, to fuck, to laugh, to train... maybe that's why I kept going back, and then, when I got too scared, I left, or made him leave. How much have I hurt us? How long?
“Chris? Chris, are you okay?” he asks, moving his other hand to my chin, to raise my face so that our eyes meet.
All I see in his face is worry. No blame. I wince as I see the bruise. I close my eyes, hating myself. If he doesn't blame me, I have to.
“Chris?”
“'m sorry,” I get out, seeking to hide my face once more. He won't let me.
I don't know what he sees in my face, but he bends his head to kiss me, softly.
His lip must hurt, so I hesitate. He pulls back, obviously concluding he made a miscalculation. I follow his head without thinking, and claim his lips. This time he hesitates before answering to the kiss.
It's not a passionate kiss, the kind we've shared before. It's a touchy-feely tender kind of a kiss I used to avoid like plague. He must know. He must know now. I've shown him this much, he must know. Is it too late to run?
Would I, even if it wasn't?
He opens his mouth slightly, and his tongue slides against my lips. I groan, pull him closer, and open my mouth to allow him access. Run? Run where? And why should I? Everything I want is in this room.
Forget fame, forget gold, forget money, forget girls. This. This is all there is.
Predictably, the kiss turns more passionate soon. Must get somewhere more comfortable. We get up from the floor, and break the kiss, still holding each other.
He's taller than me, but the fact has never made me feel threatened. He has never intimidated me, until now, and it's not his height this time either. It's his heart, his guts. How much courage does it take to stand here and hold me after all that I've put him through? After all that I've done. He's willing to give so much when I've given him so little.
Shit, I should have a world to give, and all I can manage is pain.
Lost for words, I kiss him again. But it's still tender, still full of emotion. Part of me still wants to run away in panic. Part of me still wants to assert my independence and get the hell away from this man who so threatens my accepted modes of existence.
Those parts are in a minority, though, so I guide him to the bed. Or maybe he's steering me to that direction. I'm past caring. I'm past thinking.
Jesus, if this is love, why didn't I accept it sooner? If everything can feel this much better only because of this... feeling all around us, if kissing and touching can feel different and new and even more intense; if this is how he can be, why didn't I let him love me sooner?
I'm lying on my back, enjoying myself. I close my eyes and just respond. Every touch, however light, brings me pleasure, now, in this supersensitive state I'm in. He's kissing my body all over, something he's never done – something I've never let him do. Man, he can do some wicked things with that mouth!
He hasn't even touched my cock yet, and I'm ready to come. Wait, this isn't supposed to be one-sided. I'm the one with some atoning to do, after all. The decision made, I turn the tables.
Somehow, I've ended up naked but he's behind. Must do something about that. His shirt is not a problem, seeing that it's half-torn already. I try not to remember why. I grin wickedly as I start to work on his belt.
Hey, I may be “the new, sensitive me”, but I'm still me! If I don't have him gasping in seconds, I've lost my touch.
I admit, though, that there hasn't been this much kissing in my past relationships with men. And there's one thing I've done for no one.
But I wanna. I gotta. Hey, if I'm gonna do it for someone, I'm gonna do it for him. How hard can it be? I've been in the receiving end of enough blowjobs to have some idea what to do.
I lower my head, and lick the tip of his erection. That produces some interesting sounds. I close my mouth around it, and look at his face. His eyes are closed and his face is contorted in pleasure. I must be doing something right. I experiment, and get instant feedback from his gasps and moans; he’s unable to keep silent now. Despite the occasional gagging, I've never felt more like a sex god than this very moment. Making him sound like that sounds like a good purpose for my life.
His cock is steel hard now, and I can feel he's close. Nope, not this soon. There's something else I want, something else I need tonight.
Reluctantly, I raise my head. I lick my lips, and he stares at the action mesmerised. I repeat the action, and he groans, closes his eyes and throws his head back. I think he mutters something like "evil", and smirks. I really did it to determine whether I mind the taste, but hey, whatever works.
I sit back and just look at him. He looks... glowing. Loved. Maybe I *can* do this. He sits up, and kisses me softly. I never knew you could do this: combine tenderness and passion, desire and caring.
I don't know how to ask for what I want. Before, it has been so easy. When we fuck, we fuck. But now... it must be more. And I want that "more". I reach for the lube on the bedside table, and question him with my eyes. He lies down, not releasing my eyes. I shake my head. Not tonight. Tonight is for him.
Tonight, I need him to take me. I need to show him what I cannot say.
There are no words, no smiles, just intensive staring, as we prepare for it. His fingers feel good, but I'm concentrating on what's coming too intently to truly abandon myself in the pleasure.
Then, finally, he's buried inside of me, and I just hold him close, not letting him move. I'm never going to let him go, you know. I'm never going to lose this. This would be the moment for words. But I think we both know it anyway.
“King of my world,” he says, with a self-mocking smile, and starts to move, slowly, pushing into me.
Way to take my breath away! Shit. Trust him to find the words. And I'm the one with the talk show and reputation!
“Love you,” I gasp, what else can I say now?
Face to face is not new. Holding his gaze is. The warmth in that gaze is. If I say that this, too, feels even better now, will you think me less manly?
It takes a while for things to heat up, but when they do, I'm already feeling about as good as I've ever done. There's pain, there always is. There's pleasure, there always is; but it's still new. It's more intense. It's more sweet. It's... fucking hell, who needs words?
There's moaning and gasping and incoherent shouts. I come so hard I think I'll pass out. Maybe I did, because the next thing I realise is lying on the bed, gasping, and he is lying next to me, holding me close. He's also gasping for breath.
My hand trembles as I raise it, but for a completely different reason than before. His face is glowing from sweat and satisfaction. I touch the bruise on the side of his face gently.
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” he just says. I can't read his expression.
“I mean it. I love you,” I don't know where the courage is coming from. Meeting Trips armed with a sledgehammer? Piece of cake. Meeting Adam's eyes now? Not on your life.
“I figured,” he smiles, sounding all casual. Too casual. I finally meet his gaze, and realise he’s nothing but.
“I love you too,” he says simply.
“Yeah, I know. You told me.”
“I did?”
“Ages ago. I just... I've always been slow,” I admit, but defy him to comment on that.
“But you didn't run.”
“I'm not that stupid. Well, maybe I am, but I just... couldn't. Part of me must have known.”
“And today?”
“Something just... flipped in my head. When I saw you in the ring, getting beaten, I felt... I felt like coming there to beat Batista myself. I've never felt protective about anyone. It scared me. So I took it out on you, naturally. I wasn't ready to accept the fact that you'd snuck behind my defences.”
I touch the bruise again, softly, trying not to hurt him any more.
“Then I realised what I was doing, and... and that it was too late.”
He doesn't say anything, just looks around the hotel room.
“I think I like this town,” he says decidedly, then grins at me.
I grin back, happy that we got through the dangerous emotional stuff, and that he accepted my admission of stupidity relationshipwise.
“I think I like anyplace with you and a bed.”
“Is the bed a requirement?”
That sounds casual, but I can see the true meaning behind the light words. Is it just sex.
I shake my head slowly, grin disappearing.
“No. Not anymore. I don't think it ever was. And I don't mean the time in the gym, or the kitchen table either, what I mean is... Sex was a handy excuse for me to hang around. Not that it wasn't great. But it isn't all, Adam. Not anymore.”
His beaming smile is contagious. Man, he's gorgeous. That thought brings another one, which creates response in my body, and I roll on top of him.
“How much are you hurting?”
“Hurting?” he frowns, eyes glinting, “why would I be hurting?” he asks, pulling my head down for a kiss.
Author: Niki
Rating: NC-17, sex, violence, bad language.
Fandom: WWE
Warnings: Domestic violence and m/m sex. Mush.
Disclaimers: As before.
Pairing: Ain't changing.
Notes: Timelinewise I think this is somewhere around August-September 2004.
Summary: Rage. Shame. Despair. Tenderness.
Jericho POV
Hurt
- - - -
© Niki 2004
”Fuck you!” Punch. ”Fuck you!” Smack. “Fuck you!” Yet again my fist connects with his flesh. “Fuck you!” I yell, again and again.
He doesn't fight back. Why doesn't he fight back? It makes me even angrier. He merely dodges and blocks my attacks. (Must stop sparring with this guy, he knows me too well. He knows my moves too well.) In his eyes I see... fear.
Is he afraid of me? The thought makes my face turn even stormier, and my attacks even wilder, until I realise that he *can't* be afraid of me. He's afraid because he doesn't know why I'm doing this. He has no idea why I just marched in and started punching him in the face. He's afraid I know he loves me.
I push him violently away from me, to the other end of the room, and he stays there, crumpled in the corner. Looking at me. Why doesn't he fight back? It was easier when we did this: fight and fuck. Is that why I'm doing this? To get back to those days without complications – without emotions.
Am I trying to beat those feelings out of him?
Am I trying to beat those feelings out of me?
I stand here, trying to catch my breath, clenching my fists so tight that my knuckles are white, looking at him – bloody, bruised, beautiful. There's a trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth, and I think I've given him a black eye. Jesus.
Jesus indeed. I think I'm having an epiphany here.
I swallow, covering my face with my hands. What the hell was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? What the fuck am I thinking now? ‘To beat those feelings out of me.’ Those feelings. Caring. Love.
Jesus fucking Christ, love.
My hands fall down from my face. I must look as stricken as I feel. I can only stare at him. The blood, the resigned look in his eyes, that beautiful, kissable mouth, bruised. I feel so ashamed. I did that. It wasn't a fight; it was an assault.
I take a few halting steps, and fall onto my knees next to him, hiding my face in his chest. I'm trembling. He's rigid against me at first, then, hesitantly, his right hand moves to my back, and the other into my hair, and he's hugging me to him. My hands are grabbing the front of his torn shirt. I can't stop trembling.
“Hush, it's okay, Chris, everything will be okay,” he whispers soothingly, as if to a child.
I just press closer. It's so precious, to have him caring for me.
“Whatever it is, it will be okay,” he repeats, and I want to believe him.
But I just hurt him. And I have hurt him all this time, because he has loved me, and I haven't loved him back. Or have, but have been too fucking blind and stupid to see it. And what good could my love ever do to him?
I will just end up hurting him. Or he will end up hurting me. Everyone I love always hurts me. Always goes away. Always chooses someone else in the end. Everyone I let close betrays me...
So I don't let them close. I don't let anyone close. I didn't want to let him close. I drove him away, before, when what he felt was too much for me, and I didn't even know he loved me then.
Hell, maybe I loved him even then. Maybe that's why I kept going back, back to fight, to be friends, to fuck, to laugh, to train... maybe that's why I kept going back, and then, when I got too scared, I left, or made him leave. How much have I hurt us? How long?
“Chris? Chris, are you okay?” he asks, moving his other hand to my chin, to raise my face so that our eyes meet.
All I see in his face is worry. No blame. I wince as I see the bruise. I close my eyes, hating myself. If he doesn't blame me, I have to.
“Chris?”
“'m sorry,” I get out, seeking to hide my face once more. He won't let me.
I don't know what he sees in my face, but he bends his head to kiss me, softly.
His lip must hurt, so I hesitate. He pulls back, obviously concluding he made a miscalculation. I follow his head without thinking, and claim his lips. This time he hesitates before answering to the kiss.
It's not a passionate kiss, the kind we've shared before. It's a touchy-feely tender kind of a kiss I used to avoid like plague. He must know. He must know now. I've shown him this much, he must know. Is it too late to run?
Would I, even if it wasn't?
He opens his mouth slightly, and his tongue slides against my lips. I groan, pull him closer, and open my mouth to allow him access. Run? Run where? And why should I? Everything I want is in this room.
Forget fame, forget gold, forget money, forget girls. This. This is all there is.
Predictably, the kiss turns more passionate soon. Must get somewhere more comfortable. We get up from the floor, and break the kiss, still holding each other.
He's taller than me, but the fact has never made me feel threatened. He has never intimidated me, until now, and it's not his height this time either. It's his heart, his guts. How much courage does it take to stand here and hold me after all that I've put him through? After all that I've done. He's willing to give so much when I've given him so little.
Shit, I should have a world to give, and all I can manage is pain.
Lost for words, I kiss him again. But it's still tender, still full of emotion. Part of me still wants to run away in panic. Part of me still wants to assert my independence and get the hell away from this man who so threatens my accepted modes of existence.
Those parts are in a minority, though, so I guide him to the bed. Or maybe he's steering me to that direction. I'm past caring. I'm past thinking.
Jesus, if this is love, why didn't I accept it sooner? If everything can feel this much better only because of this... feeling all around us, if kissing and touching can feel different and new and even more intense; if this is how he can be, why didn't I let him love me sooner?
I'm lying on my back, enjoying myself. I close my eyes and just respond. Every touch, however light, brings me pleasure, now, in this supersensitive state I'm in. He's kissing my body all over, something he's never done – something I've never let him do. Man, he can do some wicked things with that mouth!
He hasn't even touched my cock yet, and I'm ready to come. Wait, this isn't supposed to be one-sided. I'm the one with some atoning to do, after all. The decision made, I turn the tables.
Somehow, I've ended up naked but he's behind. Must do something about that. His shirt is not a problem, seeing that it's half-torn already. I try not to remember why. I grin wickedly as I start to work on his belt.
Hey, I may be “the new, sensitive me”, but I'm still me! If I don't have him gasping in seconds, I've lost my touch.
I admit, though, that there hasn't been this much kissing in my past relationships with men. And there's one thing I've done for no one.
But I wanna. I gotta. Hey, if I'm gonna do it for someone, I'm gonna do it for him. How hard can it be? I've been in the receiving end of enough blowjobs to have some idea what to do.
I lower my head, and lick the tip of his erection. That produces some interesting sounds. I close my mouth around it, and look at his face. His eyes are closed and his face is contorted in pleasure. I must be doing something right. I experiment, and get instant feedback from his gasps and moans; he’s unable to keep silent now. Despite the occasional gagging, I've never felt more like a sex god than this very moment. Making him sound like that sounds like a good purpose for my life.
His cock is steel hard now, and I can feel he's close. Nope, not this soon. There's something else I want, something else I need tonight.
Reluctantly, I raise my head. I lick my lips, and he stares at the action mesmerised. I repeat the action, and he groans, closes his eyes and throws his head back. I think he mutters something like "evil", and smirks. I really did it to determine whether I mind the taste, but hey, whatever works.
I sit back and just look at him. He looks... glowing. Loved. Maybe I *can* do this. He sits up, and kisses me softly. I never knew you could do this: combine tenderness and passion, desire and caring.
I don't know how to ask for what I want. Before, it has been so easy. When we fuck, we fuck. But now... it must be more. And I want that "more". I reach for the lube on the bedside table, and question him with my eyes. He lies down, not releasing my eyes. I shake my head. Not tonight. Tonight is for him.
Tonight, I need him to take me. I need to show him what I cannot say.
There are no words, no smiles, just intensive staring, as we prepare for it. His fingers feel good, but I'm concentrating on what's coming too intently to truly abandon myself in the pleasure.
Then, finally, he's buried inside of me, and I just hold him close, not letting him move. I'm never going to let him go, you know. I'm never going to lose this. This would be the moment for words. But I think we both know it anyway.
“King of my world,” he says, with a self-mocking smile, and starts to move, slowly, pushing into me.
Way to take my breath away! Shit. Trust him to find the words. And I'm the one with the talk show and reputation!
“Love you,” I gasp, what else can I say now?
Face to face is not new. Holding his gaze is. The warmth in that gaze is. If I say that this, too, feels even better now, will you think me less manly?
It takes a while for things to heat up, but when they do, I'm already feeling about as good as I've ever done. There's pain, there always is. There's pleasure, there always is; but it's still new. It's more intense. It's more sweet. It's... fucking hell, who needs words?
There's moaning and gasping and incoherent shouts. I come so hard I think I'll pass out. Maybe I did, because the next thing I realise is lying on the bed, gasping, and he is lying next to me, holding me close. He's also gasping for breath.
My hand trembles as I raise it, but for a completely different reason than before. His face is glowing from sweat and satisfaction. I touch the bruise on the side of his face gently.
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” he just says. I can't read his expression.
“I mean it. I love you,” I don't know where the courage is coming from. Meeting Trips armed with a sledgehammer? Piece of cake. Meeting Adam's eyes now? Not on your life.
“I figured,” he smiles, sounding all casual. Too casual. I finally meet his gaze, and realise he’s nothing but.
“I love you too,” he says simply.
“Yeah, I know. You told me.”
“I did?”
“Ages ago. I just... I've always been slow,” I admit, but defy him to comment on that.
“But you didn't run.”
“I'm not that stupid. Well, maybe I am, but I just... couldn't. Part of me must have known.”
“And today?”
“Something just... flipped in my head. When I saw you in the ring, getting beaten, I felt... I felt like coming there to beat Batista myself. I've never felt protective about anyone. It scared me. So I took it out on you, naturally. I wasn't ready to accept the fact that you'd snuck behind my defences.”
I touch the bruise again, softly, trying not to hurt him any more.
“Then I realised what I was doing, and... and that it was too late.”
He doesn't say anything, just looks around the hotel room.
“I think I like this town,” he says decidedly, then grins at me.
I grin back, happy that we got through the dangerous emotional stuff, and that he accepted my admission of stupidity relationshipwise.
“I think I like anyplace with you and a bed.”
“Is the bed a requirement?”
That sounds casual, but I can see the true meaning behind the light words. Is it just sex.
I shake my head slowly, grin disappearing.
“No. Not anymore. I don't think it ever was. And I don't mean the time in the gym, or the kitchen table either, what I mean is... Sex was a handy excuse for me to hang around. Not that it wasn't great. But it isn't all, Adam. Not anymore.”
His beaming smile is contagious. Man, he's gorgeous. That thought brings another one, which creates response in my body, and I roll on top of him.
“How much are you hurting?”
“Hurting?” he frowns, eyes glinting, “why would I be hurting?” he asks, pulling my head down for a kiss.