Cora Vc: CATCH MEEEEEEEEEEEEE - Blog Posts
there is no one who knows her better than him, no one who understands the delicately chaotic workings of a mind that could just so easily break as it could blossom. for all the effort of saying he wasn't taking her seriously, cora knows there's no one better to press her – no one better to test the strength of a surgically repaired knee. even if he's more distraction now than teacher. more hazy fog clouded into her mind when she needed it clear to think, more inhaled scent of him – smoke and his cologne, a little bit of sweat. it takes effort to breathe against his teeth on her neck, to not allow dark eyes to fall shut as she leans back into the open air of their garage. “ you're not fighting fair. ” she mumbles, half - whine for the mark she knows she'll bear upon tanned skin, before hungry brown eyes scan over his body in search of her exit strategy.
she's not a flyer, prefers her feet on the ground – a few reckless stunts from tops of cages that'd left her shoulders less than perfect that insist she doesn't continue to make the same mistakes over and over again. but cora's nothing if not inventive, if not willing to try anything once if it suits her; right now anything to put him flat on his back suited well enough. her fingers tangle into his beard, gentle at first before wrenching tight to shove him back, a delicate nudge of her foot to his chest – fingers curled around the ropes as she maneuvers up to stand upon the turnbuckle, letting go one by one until she's balancing hands free and staring down at him with the same sort of quiet determination one might see in a toddler before they reigned down chaos.
she doesn't know what exactly she's going for, doesn't really know what to do with her hands or . . . any other part of her – half crossbody, half flying nothing, meant to collide into him and little else. a reckless leap of faith without a secondary thought or hesitation – shit eating grin curled onto her mouth.
he had pushed her into the turnbuckle with his palms on her hips first. the motion of his hips followed right after. experimentally first, then with purpose. moxley knows about training for a comeback⸺ knows about the feeling of carrying a chip on the shoulder that is so heavy, one might lose balance and stumble off the path of determination and instead end up with doggedness. fuck, he’s wandered down the wrong road once or twice or a hundred times before. it is the tenacity of waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for body to comply with mind again and shit ; fuck him if he’d let cora crash and burn the way he had. fuck him if, between fight and bite, he didn’t make sure to remind her why they even step in the ring. together.
“ i’m taking you so fuckin’ seriously. “ mumbles between kisses and breaks the touch of tongue to tongue just for a second⸺ just long enough to dig fingertips into the skin of her thighs and lift her up onto the top turnbuckle. she’s taller than him now, his lips right against her throat to suck on sensitive flesh and rub his beard against the quickly irritated skin. “ c’m on⸺ ‘m sure ya know a wait outta here. “ and he knows a way further in, sinks teeth into muscle and skin and groans in excitement over the salty taste of her body.
