So this is an idea I've had for a while now. I've always wanted to write something like this, but at this moment, I'm not entirely sure where to go with it. I had one idea but the more I thought about it, the more it didn't work. So I'm trying a new tack.

I should make it clear that this is a male OC - he is NOT based on anyone. Please do not read him as Cody or Evan or whoever. Because that's not how the story is intended and you'll ruin it for yourself lol.

Also, it's set in the late 90s - everyone is around 17 or 18 years old.

WARNING: Sexual content and hints of slash. More of that to come if I continue.

DISCLAIMER: WWE owns Randy Orton. I, however, own the OCs. Also, the title comes from the song Superstition by The Kills and used without permission.

At the moment, this is a one-shot. It might turn into a prologue for a longer story. I have a little idea floating around that might work, but we'll see. Any ideas on where this could possibly go are more than welcome.

Enjoy.

Bea's tongue slides down my neck, her teeth nipping the skin every so often. Her hands slide up my sides, under my shirt. Her hand creeps up across my stomach, two cold fingers brush across my nipple and then twist it sharply.

"Fuck!" I cry out, pushing her off me. She tumbles to my side.

"I thought you liked it," she scowls. "You screamed when I did it the other day."

"Because it fucking hurt," I mutter, rubbing my chest.

Bea doesn't say anything. The usual cold shoulder then. I count the seconds. I make a bet with myself – 30 seconds before she clambers back on top of me, undoes her bra, hitches her skirt up, unzips me and...

Her hand slides down my arm. And bingo. She crawls over me, her mouth too wet, her hands too cold. She fumbles with my zipper for too long. I push her hands away and tug my pants down for her. She grabs my hand. I close my eyes, as she raises herself up and places my hand between her legs.

I jump as I realise she's not wearing anything underneath her skirt. My finger slides into her easily and she gives me what I think is too over-zealous moan. It's the over-exaggerated bend of the back, the deluded smile that gives it away. She has perfected the noise, but the expression that go with it? She needs to spend more time in front of the mirror. Practice makes perfect.

She pulls away, leaving my finger unpleasantly sticky. I go to wipe it on her skirt, but she grabs my hand.

"Taste me."

"Bea..."

"Go on," she says, her voice laced with sweetness. She pushes my hand up towards my face.

"Fuck's sake, Bea..." I wrench my hand free and wipe the finger on the bedcovers.

"Lighten up... I was only teasing," she rolls her eyes. She raises her hips again and then slides down onto my cock.

She rocks back and forth, working hard to keep her face matched up with her moans and groans. She does all the right things. She clenches around me, grinds down hard, swivels her hips every so often. She even touches herself.

If I was someone else, I would be a lucky guy.

Bea left an hour ago. As she left my room, I noticed a dribble of semen on the back of her thigh. I decided not to mention it. She'll discover it sooner or later.

I roll onto my front and grind my crotch into the covers, smelling my own sweat on the bedsheets. Spreading my legs a little wider, I press down harder, rotating my hips. I bite at the sheets, tug at them, imagining that it's thick skin instead. I stretch out my arms, wondering what it would feel like to trace my fingers over toned arms, to feel the grooves in the muscles, to run my fingers over taut skin pulled tight over thick veins.

I sometimes wonder if I could get away with this with Bea. Flip her over, fuck her from behind, push her head between the pillows and pretend to fuck someone else.

The definition of perversion is a concept describing those types of human behaviour that are a serious deviation from what is considered to be orthodox or normal.

Am I abnormal for thinking what I think? Possibly.

Am a deviant for wanting what I want? Most likely.

Am I pervert? Maybe you should decide for yourself.

The thing is... That when I fuck Bea, I close my eyes and fuck someone else. When I jerk off, I don't imagine her, but someone else. And when I have a dirty dream – it's not her. It's someone else. Now, maybe that's not unusual – everyone fantasises right? And sometimes that fantasy can take over a bit – seep into reality a little.

My fantasy is with me every waking hour. It's there when I wake up, when I look in the mirror, when I bend over the sink to spit out toothpaste, when I slurp milk out the carton, when I have a sneaky cigarette before class, when I jerk off in the bathroom at lunch, when I drive home from school, when I watch porn, when I fall asleep.

It's ever present.

Because he's ever present.

I roll onto my back and grab my cock, tugging desperately. I remember when I saw him earlier, leaning back against the wall, almost hidden in the shadows, a sneaky cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. The epitome of...

Fuck...

I twist my head into the pillows, bite down hard as I come over my hand and stomach.

Randal fucking Orton – the source of my perversion.

And the best part? He hasn't got a fucking clue. But if he did... We'd both be fucked.