Title: "Satisfaction is the Death of Desire"
Rating: Soft R
Characters/Pairings: CM Punk/Serena Deeb
Warnings: SES shenanigans, Punk/Serena style. You know how these guys roll!
Note: I'd like to mention here that, although wrestling fic may seem like RPF (and some of it out there is), mine is NOT. I write wrestling fic as if Punk and Serena were characters in a movie. Instead of going home and becoming their normal selves, in my fics I pretend they walk out of the ring and remain their characters. Does that make sense?

Inspired by the August 6, 2010 Straight Edge Society promo on SmackDown.

For the past week, Punk had been unusually kind to her. It's not that he was cruel to her normally, or that he never treated her well; it was just that this was... different. If she hadn't been enjoying it so much, she might have even labeled it excessive. It wasn't as if he was doing anything major, either- it was little thing after little thing after little thing. A warm smile, a simple look, a nod, his hand on her head, her back, her hip, an embrace, his lips against her cheek. It all built up into a deliciously satisfying crescendo of happiness that left her dizzy, left her glowing, left her feeling like she had found absolute bliss at last.

But then, suddenly, the little affections stopped. There were no more whispered words as he passed by her, no more affectionate touches, glances, smiles. The sudden absence of his warmth rapidly faded her flow, left her feeling hollow, feeling shriveled. Every time she saw him, her heart would swell with sudden hope, her mouth go go dry, her breath catch- but no. Nothing. There was nothing.

One night, though, there was something. They were in the hotel, and Gallows and Mercury were out. Punk had left soon after they had, without even a glance or a word to Serena. As the door snicked shut quietly behind him, the tears started. She had been standing near the door, impossible to miss and makeup carefully applied, her eyes glistening with that same hope that never went away, the hope that even she knew was pathetic, useless. All she wanted, hoped for, was something- anything- from him. He could yell at her, hit her, do whatever he wanted, she didn't care, she just wanted him to acknowledge her... but she had received nothing. The tears that came were fast, overwhelming, wracking her entire body, and she had only made it halfway to her bed before stumbled, faltering to her knees. Clinging to herself, Serena rocked back and forth, letting go and running her hands over her shaven head once, twice, again, before covering her face with her hands. A feeling of stunningly absolute desperation engulfed her as she tried to think of anything- anything- that she had possibly done wrong.

She didn't hear the door open, didn't hear his footsteps, didn't know he was there until he was kneeling in front of her, gently peeling her hands away from her face. Her tear-blurred eyes blinked once, confused, before widening when she finally realized who it was, that it was him, that he was here, with her, right now. Seeming almost unable to believe that he was there, her mouth opened, his name tumbling out, but he placed a finger on her lips, shaking his head. "Sshh, Serena. You don't need to talk. I'm here."

He leaned towards her, and as he did so she closed her eyes, a soft flutter of a sigh slipping from her lips as he kissed first one eye, then the other. He followed the trails of her tears down her cheeks with his lips and his tongue, and when he kissed her she could taste the barest traces of her salt. As he pulled away from her and stood, she kept her eyes on him, silent, unmoving, waiting- waiting for his word, his wish, his command; waiting for whatever he wanted of her.

The ghost of a smile curved his lips and he extended his hand to her, pulling her to her feet and into his embrace. They remained like this for a time, quiet, simply, her head resting on his chest, her eyes closed, breathing in his scent. Finally, carefully, he turned them both, settling her onto the bed, covering her body with his. His lips, his tongue, his fingers on her were heady, stronger than any drink or drug. Serena's every nerve seemed hypersensitive, every sensation magnified tenfold. As Punk removed her shirt and then her bra, the cool touch of air raised goosebumps on her skin; the warmth of his breath on her stomach made her shiver, once, and once more again. Her eyes were closed tightly, her fingers curved into her palms, the combined relief of his forgiveness and of the carnal representation of it that was soon to come shuddering through her body in hot waves. But, suddenly, Punk was not there anymore, was not on her, with her. He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at her closely, his expression unreadable. Running a hand over his head, he took in the look on her face, the slump of her shoulders, took in the despair, desperation, and defeat battling for dominance in her eyes, and he sighed. "Serena, you'll understand. Tonight, you'll understand."

Once more, he left her alone with only her tears for company.

"Satisfaction is the death of desire." As she gazed up at him, as he spoke those words, his eyes locked onto hers, the noise around them faded, and he was all she saw.

At last, she understood.