a/n: ramenreignss deserves credit for this because it was her idea of teaming aj and alexa bliss as a tag team and it made me think of a world where cm punk is still with wwe and he finds himself strangely drawn to alexa by watching their tag matches. dashinginconverse also deserves credit because she didn't think this pairing was insane and gave me the confidence boost i needed to post this since i was unsure of my ability to write punk. the inspiration was from matt nathanson's song "faster."

~*~sweet on the tip of my tongue~*~

"you've felt it haven't you? those feelings that seem to get so big inside your chest, like something is so beautiful it aches?"

'glitch' – by heather anatasiu

"Olly Olly Oksenfree! Come out, come out wherever you are, Punkers!" Punk groaned at the sound of AJ's sickly sweet tone as the rhythmic sound of her skipping drew closer and closer.

He thought about making a run for it, but who the fuck was he kidding? Usain Bolt he was not. And really he knew better. Once the Black Widow had you in her cross hairs, there was no escaping. Even if he did take off down the hallway and try to hide in the men's bathroom or locker room.

"There you are!" Bright and annoyingly cheerful, doe eyes gleaming with purpose while he could tell the wheels were turning in her always calculating head. That grin she wore was equally at home on Harley Quinn's black lips as her own nude heart-shaped mouth and the way her eyes seemed to hone in on him like radar, made his spine stiffen. He figured she'd only look at Reigns like that now. A stare so intense it was like she stripped away his skin and was staring into his soul, you know, if he had one and whatever.

"Sooooo..." Drawn out and slow, stretching out the word until she was an inch from his face, standing up on the tips of her toes. "A little birdie," Giggling and a flip of raven hair. "Well, actually a not-so little birdie told me you seemed very interested in my tag team matches with Alexa. Now, what's going on in that head of yours, Punkers? I thought we had put our past behind us. Am I," The tip of a pink tongue circles heart-shaped lips while a fingertip reaches out and draws a smooth line from his chin down the front of his shirt, stopping just at the waistband of his trunks. "Wrong?"

Punk rolls his eyes; just what he needs Reigns going all jealous caveman on him. Grabbing AJ's wrists, he squeezes maybe a little too hard, but he needs her and her latest boy toy to understand he's not interested. He thinks about bending down to her level, getting right in her face, and screaming about just how not interested he is, but if she shed a single tear, his ass would be grass. And knowing the petite brunette as well as he did, he wouldn't put it past her to turn on the water works and run straight into his arms, sobbing about what an asshole he had been to her.

Reigns, of course, would eat it up with a spoon. It was amazing, really, considering AJ didn't even reach the curve of his biceps, how whipped he was. Not that anyone would ever say so.

Letting go of her wrists, he shoved her away, his tone gruff, "Tell your boy toy, I'm not sniffin' around."

"Oh, Punky-Bear," Sickly sweet and making him scowl. "Don't insult my intelligence. While Romie's possessive side is wonderful," A blissful sigh and eyelashes fluttering, and he can't resist doing 'gag me with a spoon,' which turns AJ's serene expression to a scowl of her own and has her jabbing him in the stomach with an elbow, making him double over, briefly. "And normally I would milk this for all it's worth," There's the Harley Quinn-esque grin again. "We," She strokes the bare skin of his arm, up and down, up and down with the tips of her fingers. "Both know it's not me you're watching."

Red. All Punk can see flashing behind his olive green gaze is red. "Don't..." Is all he can get past the grinding of his teeth as he stares AJ down with the harshest stare he can manage.

"You're watching..." He cuts her off with a deafening bellow as he gets right in her face, "SHUT UP!"

With his teeth bared viciously and the vein in his neck pulsing, most would turn tail and run. If they didn't, a GTS would clearly be in their future, but AJ wasn't most. As serene as ever, her lips quirked dangerously, slowly blooming into a triumphant smile, "You're watching her."

Fingers muss slicked back hair, nearly tearing out the dark strands from the roots and she has the audacity to giggle. And then she starts to skip around him, but before she can make one full circle, he grabs her and his blunt nails sink into the skin of her wrist, gripping harshly. "Don't even fucking think about it, Lee." Nothing bout a deadly growl, low in his throat, rumbling from his chest.

"Or you'll what?" She challenges, strong chin jutting forward, doe eyes dangerous.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, all right? This is just some crazy idea that's spinning its web in your head. Reigns obviously isn't that exciting or you wouldn't be slinking around here trying to get your rocks off by teasing me."

"Oh, Punky," Sympathetic and lips downturned into a brief frown. "You don't want to know how exciting Romie is. I don't need to tease you to get," Button nose wrinkles. "My rocks off," A shudder of disgust rippling through her petite body. "Trust me. But if you ask me," Smug and sing-song once again, as a finger reaches out to trace the length of the waistband of his trucks. "If anyone needs to get their rocks off, it's you."

All he's left with, after AJ skips away, is her mocking laughter in his ears.

And the need to punch everything in sight.

Humming, a different kind of humming, but there's humming in his vicinity again. This humming is bouncier – not that he knows what the fuck that even means – and then it's, like, he's literally smelling the sun. The smell is like every fresh flower he's ever smelled all rolled into one with a brightness that's blinding, and there's also this inciting smell of salt underneath, and he whirls around, this desperation bubbling inside for him to know just what or who is the source of that smell.

He has to drop his gaze down and there's that familiar crown of cornflower hair, streaked with blue, and if he believed in God, he'd curse him. Because when he looks lower, his olive gaze is held by periwinkle and he can't stop his eyes from drifting, and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Perky breasts encased in a sports bra lead the way to an a well-toned stomach with a glittering jewel inside its navel and then there are legs – not exceptionally long – but shapely and oh, wouldn't they just be wonderful wrapped around his waist?

BAD PUNK! BAD PUNK! BAD! BAD! BAD!

Was she even fucking legal? Because honestly – even with H dressing her up in that little goddess get up {one way ticket to boner town for Phillip Jack Brooks, please} – she looked to be about sixteen, like she should be waving pom poms and yelling 'GO TEAM' in some high school gym, not participating in tag matches with AJ.

"What?" Spat, like the four letters, were so much bitter on his tongue. Those big eyes go a fraction wider and there's a flinch of her tiny body, and he feels like a jackass. "Sorry," Gruff and not sounding contrite to his own ears, but she visibly relaxes and then pink lips spread into that beaming smile she always flashes during her entrance when she does that stupid 'bliss kiss' with all that fucking glitter and then the weird as hell 'blissful curtsy' she does before getting ready to start a match.

Not that he fucking knows it's called a 'bliss kiss' or a 'blissful curtsy' because he sure as hell does not, thank you very much. Only acne ridden teenagers and forty year old creepers who beat off to her... And, fuck, he feels his blood boil from the thought and there's this weird protectiveness surging through him. She doesn't deserve that. To be thought of as nothing but eye candy, like her only worth is to pose for a poster that goes up in some weirdo's locker or some skeeze's bedroom wall.

You wouldn't think it, with as sweet as she is, but she's tough and has heart and can fucking wrestle.

"...Okay?" Breaks through his haze, and he blinks repeatedly, fingers sifting through messy hair. "What?"

Brightly colored blue nails fidget with the left strap of the bra, and Punk thinks he's going to swallow his lip ring, because fucking seriously? Then she bites her lip, and he wants to scream. At her or at himself, he's not sure. But with his brain in his goddamn pants, he doesn't know which way is up to be honest.

"I just asked if you were okay? You were just kind of staring..." So soft, he barely hears it, and there's this blush coloring the apples of her cheeks, and yeah, this – whatever the hell's going on – definitely needs to stay in fantasyville. Cause she's fucking blushing and only twelve year olds who popped their first boners do that. And he doesn't know what the fuck to do about it. Other than think it brings out the blue of her eyes, and seriously what the fuck is that about?

The blue of her eyes, his conscious or whatever, snorts derisively.

"Girl like you gets stared at all the damn time," Snarky and biting. "You probably do a lot of the staring yourself, in the mirror. When you're snapping those stupid selfies and tweeting and going on instagram."

He's doing this – being a jackass – because he can't be nice, being nice isn't going to do her any favors. Being nice will just put ideas in her head. Ideas like he's friendly and they can talk and he's approachable and she shouldn't walk the other way when she sees him coming. Because he's not friendly, they can't talk, he's not approachable and she should walk the other way when she sees him coming.

He doesn't dare look into those periwinkle depths, but he can't resist, and it's like someone unplugged a light. Her eyes are dark and there's this little frown on her lips and her shoulders are slumped.

"You're not using the treadmill are you?" It comes out so quick, it's like the words are smushed together, like she's suddenly desperate to get away from him, and he shouldn't be proud, but he is. Because that's exactly how she should feel. Like she's desperate to get away from him.

"All yours Princess."

Sleep doesn't come easy. How can it, when every time Punk closes his eyes there's this little pixie dancing behind his eyelids? Never leaving him alone? Always there with her glitter and those bright eyes with that beaming smile? And that damn scent of all the fresh flowers in the world mixed with just a hint of salt underneath, something that hints that she isn't as innocent as she looks. As he makes her out to be.

"You think you're so big and bad," A hint of giggling underneath while blue streaked cornflower curls bounce around bare shoulders. "But you're really not. You're like," Eyes are so bright, it's like staring into the motherfucking sun. "A bear with a thorn in its paw and it doesn't know how to get it out, so it's angry and roars," A little hand makes a claw and what he assumes is supposed to sound like a roar escapes pink lips. "But all you need is someone," Low and smooth, warm like honey being poured over his skin. "To pluck it out."

"Princess," A hearty chuckle. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"That's what you think. You think I'm some little girl wanting to live out a fantasy," Truth – because he's dealt with enough liars to know she isn't – colors her tone. "But that's not who I am. I don't want to change you or dress you up in a suit instead of your jerseys and baggy jeans. I just," And damn there she goes biting her lips again, and fuck, does she really have to look at him through those long eyelashes? "Want to know you..." A pause and then "Phil," Drips from those lips, so smooth, like velvet.

And fuck has his name ever sounded better? Has he ever wanted anyone to say his name as badly as he wants her to? Has he ever even liked his name before this?

Jolting out of his dream, Punk doesn't know how he's still fucking breathing. His heart is pounding so goddamn hard he thinks he ran a fucking marathon or some shit. Sweat is coating his skin like he went through a grueling workout.

All he hears, as he tries to calm his pounding heart and racing pulse, is Phil. And it's just like she said it in his dream. As if he's being wrapped in velvet. As if she's right there; in his bed, curled next to him, looking like some Disney princess or some sappy shit like that. Her long eyelashes resting against her cheeks, her lips opened just so – creating a perfect 'o' – as her perky breast rise and fall with each easy breath while she's absorbed in her dreams.

It's so fucking real, he swears if he looks to his right, she'll be there. Not a figment of his imagination, but really there, and he can't explain it but he imagines her drowning in his personalized Cubs jersey, which really fucks with his head because he hates chicks wearing his clothes.

Sure, it's hot as fuck, he won't lie, but he knows what it's about. It's about taking ownership of him, about saying how he's theirs. And he sees right through it. Cause he's never been anyone's.

Not even Vinnie Mac can say he owns Phillip Jack Brooks.

Let alone some little pixie he's barely said more than six words to. No matter what his fucking dreams say.

"Watch it, Princess!" He knows she didn't bump into him on purpose. She was high after pinning Cameron to win the match for her and AJ and to vault them into the number one contender spot for the Diva's Tag Team Titles against Paige and Emma.

"I didn't mean..." She starts and he quickly cuts her off. "Look where you're fucking skipping next time. This is the big leagues now, short stuff. Eyes up. Next time someone might just club you with an elbow."

"I just wanted to tell you..." That voice chiming like bells is right there and he wants to scream because he doesn't hear enough of it in his own head when he's just trying to fucking sleep. "I don't need you to tell me shit, Princess. See this?" He stretches out his shirt. "It tells me all I need to know, that I'm the best in the world."

"You were really great out there." Is whispered behind his retreating form and he pretends like he didn't hear, except she doesn't know that it stays with him, even weeks later.

"I just don't understand," There's sniffling and hiccups and then a raw scratchy whisper of, "Why does he hate me? I've only tried to be nice."

He swallows thickly, watching from behind an equipment truck while she and AJ sit on a large crate backstage. AJ's cradling her and stroking those blue streaked cornflower curls. "I knew," Shaky and pitiful as tiny shoulders quake. "I wouldn't be his favorite when I was called up to the roster, that he would like Paige or Charlotte more, but I didn't think he'd hate me. I just..." A hand swipes at tears, and he feels sick. Like he's literally going to blow chunks at any moment. "Want to know what I did."

The hand that isn't stroking her hair is curled into a fist, a fist that's getting tighter by the moment and from his vantage point, he can see AJ's jaw ticking subtly and he knows her teeth are grinding. Just like the wheels in her head are turning. She's plotting revenge.

And most likely this revenge is going to involve a Superman Punch and several spears.

"I know the regimen for your hair must take hours and hours, Reigns, but if I'm not mistaken it says Divas on the wall," Punk knows he's taking a huge risk needling the large Samoan, but he can't resist. "Here," His lips quirk into a grin as he snarks, "I'll spell it for you so you get it through that caveman head of yours. D-I-V..."

He can't finish before he's grabbed by the collar of his shirt and lifted from the ground. Grey eyes swirl like the pit of a hurricane and they're close enough he can hear the grinding of the other man's teeth.

"I don't know what your fucking deal is, Punk, and I don't give a shit, to be honest," Nothing but a growl, as if they're in the ring and he's waiting to make his move to Superman Punch or spear. "But April told me what you did to Alexa, how she came to her in tears about you hating her and wanting to know why, and for that, I should fucking rip your spleen from your body. Alexa doesn't deserve you beating on her cause she bumped into you a few times or how she wanted to tell you, you put on a good match here and there. You were a newbie once to, man, you know it ain't easy finding your place here."

"Are you gonna put me down, caveman?"

"I should put you through the fucking wall..."

"Oh my God!" Drowns the door to the locker room being opened and both men turn their heads to see Alexa in their line of vision, her mouth dropped open and her eyes wide. "What are you doing?!"

The other man is surprisingly gentle, settling Punk back on his feet, instead of dropping him like the Second City Saint expects. He's sheepish as well, and what the fuck is going on? Princess has him as whipped as AJ?

"AJ said you might do something like this..." Cornflower blue streaked curls bounce as she shakes her head, soft smile coming to those pink lips. "But you don't have to." Soft and warm as she reaches out to stroke the skin of his wrist, and oh what's that? Jealousy a harsh voice whispers with a vicious cackle underneath. Because his blood spikes and his heart does this weird thing and his stomach twists, and yeah, he needs to get his fucking life under control because what is he? A fucking twelve year old? Some lovesick buffoon? Who trips over himself and sees red at every little thing like fucking Ambrose with Nikki? Hell no.

"I can take care of myself." She puffs out her chest for show, and seriously, why? And then she raises her right arm and flexes, beaming at the large Samoan as she teases, "Check out the guns, Ro, I got this."

He shouldn't laugh, because laughing will only encourage her. It will make her think he's softened and that he doesn't hate her, which he doesn't, but she doesn't need to know that. Her knowing he doesn't hate her will only lead to bad things. Things like her thinking they could be friends. And that she can talk to him and he won't bite her head off. And then she'll get ideas... AJ like ideas and no.

Because she isn't AJ. AJ could handle him. Her mood changed at the drop of a hat, too. She liked video games and comics. And yeah, maybe she was a little clingy {okay, a lot clingy}, but she had been burned before.

And then he was brought back to what dream Princess had said to him, "I'm no some little girl who wants to live out a fantasy" no, no, no, no. Bad Punk. Bad Punk. Bad, bad, bad.

"You make her cry again," Suddenly there's a deadly growl in his ear and a large hand clamped on his shoulder, squeezing tight. "And it ain't just gonna be your spleen I rip from your body, Brooks. Don't fucking test me."

"Well, now that the caveman has gone to hunt for food or firewood or whatever it is that Reigns does when he's not wrapped around AJ's finger..."

"Why do you hate me?" And wasn't he supposed to be the blunt one? Well, Princess just cut right to the chase, didn't she?

"That's the fucking problem, Princess..." There's a glare he didn't think her face was capable of, but then again he'd seen her – well, okay he hadn't seen her, but he had heard her – cry, so maybe he shouldn't be that surprised that she could glare. He didn't think she'd been capable of crying either. Not when she smiled so damn much.

"Alexa..." Her name is shaky off his tongue, but it tastes so sweet and fuck he wants to say it over and over and over. "I don't hate you. I don't know what the fuck is going on, which makes me mad as hell, because I always know what's going on. I'm a step ahead of everyone. No one gets over on ol' Punk, but fuck... You..." It's dumb and maybe he should just grab a boom box and play Extreme's "More Than Words" outside her window, which is the sappiest song he knows, because that would be better than fumbling around like some dumb kid.

He has a way with words, god fucking damn it. He made cutting promos at art form. He's the best on the mic since Rowdy Roddy Piper no matter how delusional Ambrose gets. And yet with these periwinkle eyes staring at him curiously and being surrounded by the scent of flowers, he can't get out words at all.

They're just stuck.

"I don't hate you, okay? Just trust me when I say I don't hate you." And he's gone because he can't fucking stay because he's a fucking mess and it's all her fault and it's not like he can punch her to make it go away.

"It fucking sucks, huh?" Punk doesn't know why he's sitting next to her. He watched her and AJ's tag title match against Paige and Emma, and Widow Bliss – their team name – fought hard against Black and Blondie, but came up short.

"It does." Bitter laughter that doesn't fit leaves her lips and it makes him frown.

"You guys gave it your best shot..."

"Don't tell me CM Punk's gone soft and he's giving out A's for effort now?" The laughter is brighter now and her eyes are lit up like they normally are.

"If you were anybody else, I would've knocked you into next week for that implication. Normally I don't let anyone besmirch my upstanding character in such an awful way."

"So what makes me different?"

Well, fuck, if that wasn't the most loaded question. Olive holds periwinkle as a taped hand reaches out for a strong chin, turning slightly, so they're inches away. He can hear her breathe. Unsteady and quick. He can see her eyes flicker to his lips, then the metal that's there and then back up to his face. He can hear her breathless and curious, "Punk?"

And he should have some quip at the ready, some smart ass remark on his tongue, waiting to burst forth, but there's only honesty, "Everything," and then his lips are crashing onto hers.

Strawberry bubblegum. Fucking strawberry bubblegum. That's what she tastes like. If glitter had a taste, he figured that's what Alexa Bliss would taste like, but no. It's strawberry bubblegum.

So good it's going to send him spiraling into an addiction he's been trying to avoid this whole damn time. But he's had one taste and one isn't going be enough. Not even fucking close.

Hands dive into those bouncy curls while glittering blue nails clutch at the nape of his neck, dragging fingertips through the thickness of his dark hair. She sighs into his mouth, opening hers, and his tongue dives inside, desperate to tangle with hers. She's right there; in his lap, the heat of her body melting into his.

She's sweet as fucking hell, but so goddamn hot at the same time.

He feels like he he's died and gone to fucking somewhere as her hips grind against his. And it's that motion, a slow swivel and then a press and a more insistent motion, that brings him back to reality.

"Whoa... Whoa... Hey, cowgirl," He laughs, somehow finding the strength to push her back, just so. "Slow down."

And oh just fuck him already. Because seriously she has to look like that? She's sitting back on her haunches, curls mussed and lips bruised and plump, periwinkle from her irises left behind for dark blue velvet and there's those perky breasts rising and falling from exertion, and he's only fucking human damn it!

"Don't push me away. Don't kiss me like that and push me away. If you do, I will let Roman rip your spleen from your body."

"If I'm dumb enough to push you away after that kiss, I'll give Samoan Thor permission myself to rip my spleen from my body."

think you're all about me but i'm all about you/turn the lights down let me show you it's true/get a little taste of what i'm into/think you're all about me but i'm all about you

"Jebus, Bliss, do you want me to start drinking?! What the fuck is this that's assaulting my ears?!"

Instead of responding, Alexa just kept bouncing around the kitchen of Punk's Chicago high rise and singing along with Hilary Duff. Dipping her finger into the vegan brownie batter, she happily licked her finger clean. Before dipping again and proffering the digit in his direction, "Want some?"

He shook his head, two long strides had him right by her side in an instant. "Don't think you can turn this around by sticking your brownie covered finger in my face. Get this shitty – I don't dare call it music – stuff off my radio, and then we can cover each other in brownie."

"Hilary Duff's not so bad. I have Miley Cyrus' album Bangerz on my iPod you know."

"Are you trying to make yourself less hot? Because, honestly, after the N Sync sing-a-long from Memphis to Nashville, I didn't think it was even possible for you to make yourself less hot. Or are you trying to kill me? That's it, isn't? You're trying to kill me so you can take all of my money and live here in my very humble abode with your boy toy the Selfie King Breeze. You're nothing but a gold digger in a tutu."

"Funny, you say that N Sync sing-a-long made me less hot, because if I remember right, you practically pounced on me as soon as I had one foot inside our hotel room."

"You were the one with your hand down my pants the entire ride. And then you spread your legs so I'd know you weren't wearing panties. I'm only human, Alexa. It's shocking, I know, but it's true."

"It's not like your taste in music is that great. All they do is yell."

"If you want to break up all you had to do was say so. I'm a big boy, I can take it..."

"Stop," She giggled, shaking her head. "Breaking up is the last thing I want. If music's the least of our problems, we've got it pretty good, if I do say so myself, Phil."

Ah, there it was, his name dripping from those lips. Just the way he liked it. The only way he liked it.

He didn't think he'd be here again, in a relationship, sharing his bus and his home with another person. In fact, he figured both would just be revolving doors for all kinds of women. But this little blonde pixie slipped under his skin, inside his veins and took hold of the deepest parts of him and wouldn't let go until he couldn't deny it anymore, and now here they were.

It felt like days ago when he was snapping at her and being mean and had made her cry. But that was almost a year ago.

Now, she walked around his bus or his home in his clothes. She painted her nails on his couch. She baked brownies and cookies in his kitchen. Her clothes – so much more colorful – hung next to his. Her girlie shampoos and perfumes had a place next to his shaving cream and Irish Spring soap. Her movies – romantic comedies he would never admit to liking – mingled with his action films. Her chick lit found a home next to his comics.

And every night, she'd lay curled up next to him and whisper, "Night, Phil," before drifting off.

He liked that a lot, but liked it even more when she was utterly exhausted after showing him her flexibility once again, in every position, possible while he basically tried to literally crawl inside her skin as they fucked or made love, depending on the mood they were both in.

He was in bliss, literally and figuratively.

a/n: lyrics belong to hilary duff's song "all about you"