Fic: Constriction and Freedom 1/1 (Punk/Lita) R
Title: Constriction and Freedom
Pairing: Punk/Lita
Rating: R
Complete: Yes.
Genre: Angst, h/c, fluff.
Prompt:007. Freedom// Table
Summary: He feels freedom at the oddest of times, and tricked himself into not feeling it with her.
Warnings:Bit of sex mentioned.
Dedicated to kaotic_princez
In his mind there are many different types of freedom, almost all he has experienced in his life and definitely enjoyed.
There is the freedom of the first time he got in the ring, when the crowd booed him, because quite frankly he was fucking awful. But it felt good to get any kind of reaction at all, and he knew in that moment that this was simply where he was meant to be.
The second time he felt such freedom was on his first road trip, even if he was packed into the most cramped fucking car in his life, and Ace smelt faintly of too much alcohol and cologne all mixed together and Colt snored like a damn chainsaw, possibly louder but there was the thought in mind. This was how they would make something of themselves, this suffering, these awkward moments were their freedom because none of them would ever fit in in the so called real world and this was how they would win their bread instead of strapping themselves to desks.
He isn't the most patriotic of people (except for when he is) but when he gets to go visit the soldiers he feels free. He can be an asshole, and he knows it. He'll be the first person to admit he's not the most sensitive person, that he should come with a warning label and that when it comes to relationships he's a disaster and she knew that when they dated. She knew that when they fought and she knew it when they split too. He's a dick. She'd called him that too on more than one occasion.
As he's sitting across from a soldier who has been in Iraq for two tours, almost back to back and has hardly seen his wife for more than a week at a time since he enlisted. He suddenly thinks of her and realizes he's let something that could have been phenomenal go.
When he gets home he doesn't know what to do with himself because he's got time off for the holidays and the last time he'd had a Christmas he'd spent it at her house, cuddled on the couch and admittedly thinking of anything but Christmas. He'd felt constricted by their relationship even though she'd never expected anything from him but love.
It wasn't that he hadn't loved her, now that he thought about it, because he had. He had loved her perhaps more than he'd been ready to admit then, and had placed restrictions on himself, on that emotion so tight that he'd felt constricted in their relationship.
He'd broken up with her a month later and hated himself for it every fucking day.
As he sat alone in his living room he's hating himself even more because this is his Christmas, a can of Pepsi and a frozen pizza that's a little burnt.
“If this is freedom I don't think I want it,” he murmurs to himself, and understands, despite never having thought of it, why the winter holidays are notorious for suicides and depression. It's not like many of his growing up were happy affairs, not with an alcoholic for a father.
It's depressing, really depressing but he tries not to let it get to him. Tries not to remember red hair, then black hair and eyes that could pierce through him just as easily as any needle.
“Christ,” he mutters and hauls himself off the couch, pacing around the living room of the relatively small apartment and tries to remember when Chicago stopped being a safe have and started becoming stifling and dull.
He remembers nights spent in her bed, wrapped around each other and in her. The ways in which he would try to make her gasp, the little games they would play, their sexual life always playful and fun, sometime he'd never experienced before that. It was a completely different climate from their actual relationship which was fun, but often times serious. More serious than he would have liked.
It's torture, like the fucking ghosts of holidays gone past or something and he drags a hand through his shorn hair and lets out a bitter laugh. It reminds him of a teenage girl who changes her hair after her boyfriend broke up with her, as he'd gotten his head shaved not too long after their split.
There's a buzz and he figures it's Colt, because these days it almost always is, like his best friend has sonar about the times he'll actually be home or stalks him. He punches the button, not even worrying about whether or not it might be a fan because so far none of them have figured out where he lives.
When there's a knock on the door minutes later he opens it and is stunned into thinking he's begun developing hallucinations due to too much caffeine and sugar. It's been a while since he drank a case of pop in two days after all.
“I'm not one of those people,” she tells him, hair red again and hanging partially in her eyes.
“One of those people?” he finds himself asking, needing to know the answer and completely intrigued by this little game they seem to be suddenly playing and by the fact that she's here and the air seems so much easier to breathe.
She sighs and looks into his eyes, pinning him with a stare so intense he instantly finds himself smirking, not smiling because that would look goofy, no matter how much he wants to.
“One of those people who mopes and sulks, drunk dials and turns up at their exes house just because they can't imagine spending a holiday alone,” she nods her head.
He smiles this time, and is sure it reaches his eyes. “So you came here to tell me this?” he questions, stepping back to allow her in.
She watches him, her eyes guarded in a way he hasn't seen since they'd just begun dating and he realizes he will do anything to get rid of that look. “No, I came here because I can't imagine spending a holiday alone.”
He nods his head, “I know the feeling,” he responds, and closes the door when she finally steps in at those words.
She studies the apartment, taking note of the small tree on the coffee table, barely a foot high and almost drooping under the weight of the ornaments. “I was in town for a radio show.”
“I didn't expect you came all the way here just to be with me,” he replies, knowing once upon a time she most certainly would have. He takes her coat and hangs it up, practically able to feel the warmth of her bare arms just by standing close enough to her.
“No,” she shakes her head, averting her gaze to take another look around. “Look...I just...”
“I know,” he says, and nods. “I know.”
“Do you?” her gaze turns back to him and is accusing almost, as though blaming him for the pain she seems to experience and he's fully willing to take it. “You warned me,” she amends. “I should've known to heed the warning.”
“Will you next time?” The words fall out of his mouth quickly and he isn't even certain where they came from.
“This time?” There is hope there and he knows there is nothing he won't do to keep it alive, to not squash it.
“Yes, this time,” he breathes and steps closer to her, just as she does the same. He's looking into her eyes now and his right hand keeps clenching an unclenching as he does so. Her eyes are beautiful and he says so aloud, causing them to register her surprise and causing him to realize perhaps he hadn't complimented her enough in the past.
The smile that spreads across her face is gorgeous, and her lips look soft, and from past knowledge he's certain they'll taste of a holiday flavour of Chapstick.
“What is the warning this time?” she asks, unable to help herself as his hand engulfs hers and their fingers lace together, the pain she's been feeling almost instantly easing.
“If you come back you might not get let go of,” he informs her, pushing her hair out of her face with his free hand and dipping his head just slightly.
“If I come back I might not let you let me go this time,” she replies and breathes in and exhales all too quickly before he kisses her.
The kiss instantly fills him with warmth, easing the ties that have bound him for almost a year and his hand cups the back of her neck as her tongue sweeps along his bottom lip.
A moan is dragged out of him and he hauls her closer, wrapping his arms around her now as her arms slide around his waist.
Amy feels wonderful. He feels free.
The best kind of freedom is being with her and he knows that now.
Pairing: Punk/Lita
Rating: R
Complete: Yes.
Genre: Angst, h/c, fluff.
Prompt:007. Freedom// Table
Summary: He feels freedom at the oddest of times, and tricked himself into not feeling it with her.
Warnings:Bit of sex mentioned.
Dedicated to kaotic_princez
In his mind there are many different types of freedom, almost all he has experienced in his life and definitely enjoyed.
There is the freedom of the first time he got in the ring, when the crowd booed him, because quite frankly he was fucking awful. But it felt good to get any kind of reaction at all, and he knew in that moment that this was simply where he was meant to be.
The second time he felt such freedom was on his first road trip, even if he was packed into the most cramped fucking car in his life, and Ace smelt faintly of too much alcohol and cologne all mixed together and Colt snored like a damn chainsaw, possibly louder but there was the thought in mind. This was how they would make something of themselves, this suffering, these awkward moments were their freedom because none of them would ever fit in in the so called real world and this was how they would win their bread instead of strapping themselves to desks.
He isn't the most patriotic of people (except for when he is) but when he gets to go visit the soldiers he feels free. He can be an asshole, and he knows it. He'll be the first person to admit he's not the most sensitive person, that he should come with a warning label and that when it comes to relationships he's a disaster and she knew that when they dated. She knew that when they fought and she knew it when they split too. He's a dick. She'd called him that too on more than one occasion.
As he's sitting across from a soldier who has been in Iraq for two tours, almost back to back and has hardly seen his wife for more than a week at a time since he enlisted. He suddenly thinks of her and realizes he's let something that could have been phenomenal go.
When he gets home he doesn't know what to do with himself because he's got time off for the holidays and the last time he'd had a Christmas he'd spent it at her house, cuddled on the couch and admittedly thinking of anything but Christmas. He'd felt constricted by their relationship even though she'd never expected anything from him but love.
It wasn't that he hadn't loved her, now that he thought about it, because he had. He had loved her perhaps more than he'd been ready to admit then, and had placed restrictions on himself, on that emotion so tight that he'd felt constricted in their relationship.
He'd broken up with her a month later and hated himself for it every fucking day.
As he sat alone in his living room he's hating himself even more because this is his Christmas, a can of Pepsi and a frozen pizza that's a little burnt.
“If this is freedom I don't think I want it,” he murmurs to himself, and understands, despite never having thought of it, why the winter holidays are notorious for suicides and depression. It's not like many of his growing up were happy affairs, not with an alcoholic for a father.
It's depressing, really depressing but he tries not to let it get to him. Tries not to remember red hair, then black hair and eyes that could pierce through him just as easily as any needle.
“Christ,” he mutters and hauls himself off the couch, pacing around the living room of the relatively small apartment and tries to remember when Chicago stopped being a safe have and started becoming stifling and dull.
He remembers nights spent in her bed, wrapped around each other and in her. The ways in which he would try to make her gasp, the little games they would play, their sexual life always playful and fun, sometime he'd never experienced before that. It was a completely different climate from their actual relationship which was fun, but often times serious. More serious than he would have liked.
It's torture, like the fucking ghosts of holidays gone past or something and he drags a hand through his shorn hair and lets out a bitter laugh. It reminds him of a teenage girl who changes her hair after her boyfriend broke up with her, as he'd gotten his head shaved not too long after their split.
There's a buzz and he figures it's Colt, because these days it almost always is, like his best friend has sonar about the times he'll actually be home or stalks him. He punches the button, not even worrying about whether or not it might be a fan because so far none of them have figured out where he lives.
When there's a knock on the door minutes later he opens it and is stunned into thinking he's begun developing hallucinations due to too much caffeine and sugar. It's been a while since he drank a case of pop in two days after all.
“I'm not one of those people,” she tells him, hair red again and hanging partially in her eyes.
“One of those people?” he finds himself asking, needing to know the answer and completely intrigued by this little game they seem to be suddenly playing and by the fact that she's here and the air seems so much easier to breathe.
She sighs and looks into his eyes, pinning him with a stare so intense he instantly finds himself smirking, not smiling because that would look goofy, no matter how much he wants to.
“One of those people who mopes and sulks, drunk dials and turns up at their exes house just because they can't imagine spending a holiday alone,” she nods her head.
He smiles this time, and is sure it reaches his eyes. “So you came here to tell me this?” he questions, stepping back to allow her in.
She watches him, her eyes guarded in a way he hasn't seen since they'd just begun dating and he realizes he will do anything to get rid of that look. “No, I came here because I can't imagine spending a holiday alone.”
He nods his head, “I know the feeling,” he responds, and closes the door when she finally steps in at those words.
She studies the apartment, taking note of the small tree on the coffee table, barely a foot high and almost drooping under the weight of the ornaments. “I was in town for a radio show.”
“I didn't expect you came all the way here just to be with me,” he replies, knowing once upon a time she most certainly would have. He takes her coat and hangs it up, practically able to feel the warmth of her bare arms just by standing close enough to her.
“No,” she shakes her head, averting her gaze to take another look around. “Look...I just...”
“I know,” he says, and nods. “I know.”
“Do you?” her gaze turns back to him and is accusing almost, as though blaming him for the pain she seems to experience and he's fully willing to take it. “You warned me,” she amends. “I should've known to heed the warning.”
“Will you next time?” The words fall out of his mouth quickly and he isn't even certain where they came from.
“This time?” There is hope there and he knows there is nothing he won't do to keep it alive, to not squash it.
“Yes, this time,” he breathes and steps closer to her, just as she does the same. He's looking into her eyes now and his right hand keeps clenching an unclenching as he does so. Her eyes are beautiful and he says so aloud, causing them to register her surprise and causing him to realize perhaps he hadn't complimented her enough in the past.
The smile that spreads across her face is gorgeous, and her lips look soft, and from past knowledge he's certain they'll taste of a holiday flavour of Chapstick.
“What is the warning this time?” she asks, unable to help herself as his hand engulfs hers and their fingers lace together, the pain she's been feeling almost instantly easing.
“If you come back you might not get let go of,” he informs her, pushing her hair out of her face with his free hand and dipping his head just slightly.
“If I come back I might not let you let me go this time,” she replies and breathes in and exhales all too quickly before he kisses her.
The kiss instantly fills him with warmth, easing the ties that have bound him for almost a year and his hand cups the back of her neck as her tongue sweeps along his bottom lip.
A moan is dragged out of him and he hauls her closer, wrapping his arms around her now as her arms slide around his waist.
Amy feels wonderful. He feels free.
The best kind of freedom is being with her and he knows that now.