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If you were to ask Bryan Danielson what Miz was about, he'd rattle off a list of pre-approved nouns -- Miz wasn't exactly observant, was brash, rude, and bordering on abusive. He wasn't wrong on most levels, just the one -- Miz had an uncanny knack for observing people, and observing why they react as they do. It just so happened that nine times out of ten, he was a catalyst.
The tenth time? They were both reactants. Both equally heated, both equally wanting.
Danielson tasted like creaming soda, in retrospect. An addictive sweetness Miz just couldn't get enough of; panting, hot and heavy breaths, nose to nose, and sharing the same air. They were in each other's faces, trying to play one-up-man-ship on romance. He was trying to kiss the nervousness away, kissing so that they didn't have to talk about the fucking business, kissing so that he didn't feel angry because the internet world thought they weren't a match made in fucking heaven. And he was not losing any ground; the matches might force him to roll over, but he wasn't going to roll over in this.
Danielson nipped at Miz's lips, wanting more than soft palate and slick, wanting tongue. Never let it be known that they didn't fucking know other, the duel was on.