Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel of sorts to Growing Flowers


If those are the cinderblocks they built Titan Towers from, no wonder everything is crumbling down round their ears. - Punkin 3.14

The message from Punk was a surprise, he'd given no indication he'd been watching any WWE product since the one time Jon had ordered him to weeks, well months ago. That he was watching Jon get written off television was an unexpected, but thoroughly welcome shock.

U wntd Seth 2 smash my f4ce in2 concrete 4 real? - sent

Well... Realism is important! What you get written off for? You hurt? You didn't tell me you were hurt? Are you coming home or do you want to go hide out in Vegas? I'm not adverse to some nice weather, and Colt's still in Scotland... - Punkin 3.14

Written verbal diarrhoea is something Jon's been getting used to, with Punk's usual target for his apparent boredom in a different time zone that costs too much money for him to text constantly, Jon's been catching the fallout. He can't say he minds, it's nice, well perhaps not nice, but it's like getting a little glimpse of the madness of Phil behind the more familiar madness of Punk. They might have had their come to Jesus moment, which was gloriously understated and utterly nerve-wracking, but they're still learning each other. Scraping time to spend with Punk remains impossibly difficult, the WWE touring schedule is punishing and Punk refuses to be near anyone or anything WWE related, barring a few notable exceptions. In the far too rare and far too short moments he gets to spend with Punk, he'd somehow forgotten to mention he was going to shoot a movie. Punk's message, the blatant hope that Jon's coming home, and he's still not quite over the thrill that thought inspires, is as gloriously sweet, as it is horribly depressing. It's cute how desperate Punk is for Jon's company, cute and utterly reciprocated, which makes telling him the truth of why Jon was curb-stomped through cinderblocks almost something he wants to keep to himself.

"Hey Punkin." It seems easiest to call, to explain in words what's going on, to explain that Jon's going to be away, even more away than usual.

"Hi! So do I need to get anything special in? Do you need nursing my poor little Cabbage Patch?" Punk sounds worried, curiously worried, and cabbage is a new one on Jon. He can only imagine it's the result of some rambling conversation between the Saints, if only because most weird Punk related things are generally traced back to a conversation with Colt.

"Cabbage?" Of course asking will keep Punk talking whilst Jon finishes packing his shit up, and trying to work out if he remembered to book a flight to O'Hare. He remembers making sure he'd have time to spend a little while with Punk before filming started, but booking the flight might have been too organised for him. He's pretty sure he did remember, and the scrawled note in his pocket confirms that he has a ticket to Punk's home.

"Well... You're all chubby cheeked like a Cabbage Patch Kid, and -"

"I hate your mom." Jon mutters, he can hear the conversation between Cabana and Punk, can hear the moment they both came to that conclusion, and it makes him glad Colt's gone for a month. He's almost certain the blame for the doll comparison can be placed squarely on Cabana's shoulders, and he almost wants to punch the bastard in the face. Of course that would lead to him punching Jon back, and whilst he's got inches on Cabana, the Chicago bred bastard has a weight advantage, and probably wouldn't pull his punch, dating his Punkers or not.

"Poor Colt... He could be entirely innocent in all this. I mean he's not and it's entirely his fault, but you assume the worst, which is just unfair." Punk laughs, and Jon smiles slightly, zipping his case shut, and nodding vaguely at Joe, who'd just wandered into the locker room.

Your woman? He mouths, and Jon nods, knowing full well that he's wearing some kind of dorky happy smile based on the grin that overtakes Joe's face. Say hi.

"Roman says hi." Jon tells Punk as he continues ramblingly protesting Cabana's innocent guilt.

"The Rock's cousin?" He interrupts his own ramble, and Jon laughs, picturing the exact face Punk would be pulling, the almost cute look of mild confusion. "Uh... Hello Roman?" Jon laughs at him again, and shakes his head.

"The woman says hello." He nods to Joe, getting pulled into a hug before he grabs his bag and leaves the locker, heading for his rental, fully intent on catching the plane to Punk's hole of a city. He can hear Punk squawking indignant about not being a woman, and how being referred to one is an affront to women, and his much lauded manliness, doesn't Jon know that he's a geek trapped in the body of a Viking, which has Jon shaking his head and laughing. Punk is a very odd creature sometimes.

"So... You've neatly avoided telling me anything..." Punk trails off and sighs. Jon knows that sound, has learnt it well, has heard it far more often than he wants to have. They might have only been together for a little while, but he's been forced to last minute apologise to Punk for not seeing him more often than Jon wants. Punk understands, he's been on the same circuit as Jon, had it worse for the last few years he was still WWE Superstar CM Punk. Understanding doesn't make it any easier though, doesn't make Jon hate being away from Punk any less, doesn't mean Jon doesn't wake up with a drained cell phone on his chest instead of Punk most mornings, feeling the vice in his chest, and the worms trying to resurrect themselves.

"They... They've got me doing a movie." Jon sighs and gets in the car, hearing Punk chuckle. He sounds actually genuinely amused.

"Really? Ha! That's kind of cool, Chipmunk." It seems this conversation with Cabana has spanned many stupid nicknames. Cabana did say he was trying to think of a name that might stick for Jon, though honestly, he thinks he might like some of the less PG one, after all, he's mentally christened Cabana as bastard, it only seems fair.

"Never call me that again, ever." Jon mutters, a smile on his face as Punk laughs, he sounds happy though, and there'd been a hint of pride in his tone when he'd congratulated Jon.

"No to chipmunk... Maybe to Cabbage Patch?" Punk laughs again, and the vice makes an unappreciated return. Physical manifestations of emotions are something Jon is tired of, the worms were mostly obliterated by an awkward confession of his love for Punk, awkward though it was, it's something he thinks back on with fondness. For far too long they'd danced around each other, for far too long he kept stomping on Punk's toes in a cruel and fearful masochism tango, when he'd invited Punk to three count waltz gently to the tune of the three most terrifying words in the English language, it'd been an incredible relief. Then when Punk had accepted, and turned out to be a good little dancer, it'd been the best thing ever. "You've gone awfully quiet. You considering Cabbage Patch?"

"What? No! Thinking about dancing..." Jon shakes himself from his strange thoughts, and considers putting the phone on speaker to drive to the airport or hanging up. "I gotta go, Punkin... I'll call you soon, okay?"

"I'm gonna expect an explanation for the dancing... Cause your entrance music is horrible for it, and if you think I'm gonna go to some club an-"

"Punkin... An analogy... The masochism tango." The very idea of taking Punk to a dance club, the very idea of trying to get him to any kind of dancing that doesn't involve bouncing or banging his head makes Jon want to laugh. Punk is many things, some good, some bad, some wickedly delightful, but graceful, elegant, or able to dance doesn't feature anywhere on the list.

"You're not whipping me... I refuse to be whipped! I am not a government mule!" He sounds indignant once more, and Jon is beginning to mentally countdown the days till the other Chicago bred bastard is home, because Jon's Sphinx bastard is going insane. Whilst it was cute at first, Punk needs the runoff for his madness his best friend provides far more than he lets on.

"No whipping... I'll call you later, okay?" Jon listens to Punk sigh softly, in his mind, he can see Punk run a hand through his hair, can see the sullen half pout that'll be on his lips.

"Alright... Call me when you can, kay?" He sounds as sullen as that mildly ridiculous pout he more than likely is wearing, and as much as Jon wants to keep talking, the sooner he hangs up, the sooner he can get to the airport, it won't get him back sooner, but it'll be one-step closer at least.

"Yeah... Later." He hangs up, and starts heading home he supposes.

When he finally gets to Chicago, it's the tiny hours of the morning. He's fairly confident that Punk will be awake, Punk's usually awake, so he doesn't bother being quiet as he clumps up the stairs, half expecting Punk to say something.

"Hey." He pushes the living room door open, the TV's on so when there's no response from Punk, it's a bit of a surprise. He's curled up on the couch, lying on his side, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. "You sleepin'?" It's one of those moments, glorious little moments where there's some feeling creeping through Jon's body, some strange electricity filling him. It's not a feeling he's ever had before, not one that he's familiar with, but enjoys because it's unfamiliar, unlike the Punk inspired maladies; this feeling is something he adores. He brushes Punk's hair from his face, getting a soft little grumble from Punk. "Shh... C'mon bed, Punkernickle." Punk isn't light, and he's nothing but deadweight, but it's not too hard to scoop him up and carry him to bed.

"Why are you carrying me? I have feet you know." Punk sounds mildly amused and more that a little sleepy, his voice soft and quiet.

"Lemme be all macho, hmm?" Jon kisses the top of his head, and uses his shoulder to nudge open the bedroom door, then drops Punk on the bed.

"Very impressive." Punk yawns, and wriggles under the covers, apparently the loose pants he's wearing constitutes sleep clothes, and Jon strips down, before climbing in behind the snuggled up bundle of blankets Punk's gathered around himself.

"You cold?" He tries to tug some extra from around Punk, trying to add to his own meagre share of the covers.

"Huh? No... Just not used to having you home all that much." Punk lets the blankets go easily, and squirms over to Jon, pulling him to his back, tucking himself up to Jon's side, falling asleep as quickly as Jon.

Domestic was once a word Jon dreaded, but it's now something he adores. Domestic means he gets to spend his time lazily holding Punk, watching TV, and enjoying not feeling even mildly unwell, domestic means their dancing to the beat of the same drum and it's glorious. Domestic is how Jon spent the majority of his scant downtime between finishing with Raw, and going to film this movie. A few days with Punk, pottering around, indulging in everything being on the road means he can't have, which isn't strictly true, there's plenty of opportunity for Jon to fuck rats, but that would defeat the purpose of having a Punk at home. Punk who is perfectly capricious, and as likely to indulge Jon as he is to tell him to fuck off, his plants need watering. It's a ridiculous thing to be jealous of, but there's a tiny part of Jon that's envious of the way Punk sings to his plants, of the way he caters to their every need with gentle fingers, and patience. Domestic is perhaps also the word for Jon himself, he's become rather contented with the idea of a life lived at the whims of his Sphinx, contented with the idea of having nowhere else to spend his days, but lying with his head in Punk's lap.

"You look rather pleased with yourself." Punk's voice drags him from his thoughts, and Jon glances up with a smile.

"I am." His smile doesn't shift, and Punk rolls his eyes, looking mildly put out, before leaning down to kiss Jon's lips.

"Dare I ask why?" Punk laughs, as he settles back against the sofa, his fingers absently stroking along Jon's collarbone.

"No real reason." Jon shrugs, he's not sure there is a real reason he's feeling quite so contended with himself. This might be the last night they have together for a while, but they've done nothing out of the ordinary, a quiet, comfortably lazy day in the same way all the other days have been comfortably lazy. Punk pulls an odd little pout, and Jon smirks at him, reaching up, and pulling him down for an awkwardly angled kiss. "No real reason but that I love you." He smiles as he breaks the kiss, and a rather self-satisfied smirk spreads over Punk's lips. "I recall, not so long ago I was denied a goodbye blowjob by Joe." Punk laughs, and shifts beneath Jon, his smirk fading into a more indulgent smile.

"You were." He nods, shifting more, causing Jon sit up. "I suppose you'd like one now then?" Punk moves to kneel between Jon's legs. "Like this?" His hands are at Jon's fly, looking up at him, waiting for the go-ahead. Jon considers it, and nods vaguely; he does like Punk on his knees. Jon's hand finds its way into Punk's hair, and he moulds it to the curve of Punk's skull.

"How..." Punk glances up from opening Jon's pants, drawing his cock out and beginning to jack it. Jon has a considerable amount of memories of Punk on his knees blowing him, memories of it being something hurried backstage, memories of it being hard and fast, all drool and gagging. Since they've progressed into being in a relationship, he's been careful with Punk, careful because they're domestic, careful because they're in a relationship, careful because Phil is warm and cuddly, and Jon thinks he likes careful, but if he's honest, Jon wouldn't mind being a lot less careful. Punk smirks at him and opens his mouth wide, resting the head of Jon's cock on his tongue.

"Punk?" Jon's fingers press lightly against Punk's skull, the urge to pull his head forward, to bury his cock in Punk's throat is strong, but he's holding back. Punk lets Jon's cock drop from his mouth, and rolls his eyes.

"You want a fucking written invitation?" Punk sounds so much like he did in hotel rooms up and down the country, his eyes narrowed, and the last time Jon was in something like this situation, he'd be drunk and convinced Punk that he was going to leave him. This time though, there's a little of cuddly sweet Phil behind Punk's coolly assessing stare, there's more than a hint of Phil in the smile that Punk has to keep fighting to keep his mouth open.

"Jesus... Demanding aren't we?" Jon chuckles, palms his cock, swiping Punk's lips with the head. "Want me to fuck your tight little throat, baby?" Punk snorts, and rests his fists on Jon's thighs, looking to stand, but Jon's hand is in his hair, holding him in place. "C'mon baby... You were all raring to go."

"You call me baby once more and I punch you in the balls." Bristling capricious Punk is firmly in charge it seems, and Jon laughs, a full deep belly laugh.

"Sure... Whatever, Punkin." He mutters, and slides his cock into Punk's mouth, feeling his tongue swirling round the head. "Just the tip?" He laughs, and Punk pulls back, his tongue dabbing at the slit, his eyes locked on Jon's.

"Fuck me. I miss you fucking my throat." Punk's wearing a smirk, and Jon's more than grateful he's getting the verbal equivalent of the previously offered written invitation, is grateful that Punk misses the rougher side of sex. As much as Jon adores the soft, sweet sex that's become the staple of their love life, there are times he wants something rough and dirty, to have Punk offering him it, is more than appreciated.

"You sure?" Jon cradles Punk's jaw, his thumb pressing at the joint, making him open his mouth wider. Punk nods, and Jon shakes his head. "Okay, Punkin... Lemme know if it's too much for you." With little preamble, Jon draws Punk's head down, feeling his tongue rubbing the underside of his cock, the head nudging at Punk's throat. "Relax... You can take this fat cock, baby." Jon's hand tightens in Punk's hair, and he smirks at the glare he gets from Punk. "That's it." Punk takes his cock a little deeper, and Jon holds his head still, staring down into Punk's eyes as they widen slightly, his nostrils flaring. He guides Punk's head back, letting him gulp down air, before thrusting back into his mouth, far deeper than before. He feels Punk's gag reflex make his throat spasm around his cock, a soft chocking sound escaping Punk, and once more he lets Punk back, lets him catch his breath. "Okay?" Punk doesn't answer, he instead sucks Jon down, taking him as deep as he can and starts bobbing his head rapidly, his throat contracting on the occasional involuntary gags he has. Jon holds Punk's head still, and thrusts up into him, rapidly fucking his throat, stopping only when Punk raps on his foot. When Jon releases him, he pulls back coughing. "Punkin?" Jon's hand curves around Punk's cheek, and he shakes his head.

"More." His voice is rough and croaky, the abused edge to it makes Jon's cock twitch, and he concedes to Punk hoarse request, fucking his throat almost without mercy, his hands tightly tangled in Punk's messy hair, holding him in place longer and longer, letting him up for air and to cough less and less. When he comes down Punk's tight throat, his hands are on the back of Punk's head, holding him in place, not letting him pull back and snatch a breath, until there's a sharp little smack to his ankle. Punk's eyes are watery and round, he's gulping for air, his hair's a mess, sticking up at odd angles from the rough treatment, but there's a smile on his lips. In that moment, dishevelled and panting, Punk is more beautiful than he's ever been.

"Jesus..." Jon mutters, swiping his thumb over Punk's slightly swollen bottom lip.

"Ha, I've not been a Jesus impersonator for a long time... I'll have to introduce you to Compton... He's a pretty good Jesus." Punk laughs, the sound rough as it leaves his just fucked throat. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and runs over Jon's thumb, the soft smile stretching into a grin.

"Kind of beat up for Jesus, isn't he?" Jon grins back at him, hands cupping Punk's face as he leans down for a kiss. "Hero might be a better Jesus impersonator."

"Pff... Too fat and too blond." Punk snorts, shoving at Jon's shoulders, and clambering up into his lap. "Course, neither of them are Jewish enough..." Punk kisses Jon, slow and thorough, a hint of the taste of Jon's cum mingling with the flavour of Punk.

"Does that mean your mom is Jesus? Cause I really don't think Jesus would be quite so into-"

"Be very careful with what you say next, Cabbage Patch. You owe a lot to my Cabana." Punk smirks, and Jon cups the back of his head, pulling him down for another kiss. Jon has to break it to laugh, more amused than he should be at the ridiculously overly protective nature of Punk towards Cabana. It'd be sad if the sentiment wasn't so blatantly returned, even with an ocean between them, the Saints look out for each other. Jon's not entirely certain, but he'd like to think his Shield brothers would be at least half as protective over him, he's almost certain that Punk is as protective of him. He's pretty sure Punk would defend him if he felt it was necessary, even against Colt.

"Match-making..." Jon smiles, kissing the tip of Punk's nose. "Was all I was gonna say... Quite the little match-maker your mom." Punk raises an eyebrow, and moves to curl back up at Jon's side, returning to watching the show that's playing.

"Probably time we started returning that favour..." Punk nuzzles against Jon's shoulder, and Jon concedes to the unspoken request that Punk's making by wrapping his arm around him. "You gonna tie your pants or you hoping to get lucky again?" Jon laughs and kisses Punk's hair, but he leaves his pants open, he's always secretly been an optimist.

Leaving Punk is not fun. It wasn't fun when they were still in the mutually beneficial, ill-defined thing, it was all paranoia and nervousness. Then, during the malady stage of their relationship, leaving was giving the horrible minor physical ailments Jon suffered through free reign to fuck with his day. Now, leaving Punk is like condemning himself to poor sleep, and a constant ache in his chest, different to the vice, more like something hollow, something waiting for the warmth of Punk's presence to fill it. It'd been a fairly easy decision to get the train to the airport, the last moment he spends with Punk, he wants to be something domestic, not a mildly distant goodbye in a crowded airport. He'd left Punk with a kiss and a vague promise of calling when he landed. It's far from enough, but it'll have to do for a month, because there isn't going to be time to skulk back to Chicago, no matter how much Jon wants to, he's going to be busy, and he knows it.

Every day is the same, yet utterly different. Every day consists of playing at someone else, acting is a lot like wrestling in that respect, but it involves so much more waiting. Jon isn't a fan of waiting, his mind is constantly abuzz, he's got a million different paths all planned out, from the ridiculous to the sublime. It's a sliver of comfort in a lot of discomfort. Being on the road and away from Punk is one thing, at least then there are tiny snippets of time he can call, there's endless journeys he can make entertaining by texting, here there's no time. That's probably the worst thing about this whole movie making process, at night instead of having the energy to call Punk, or even accept a call from him, all Jon can do is collapse into bed and sleep.

They're maybe halfway through filming when the ache in Jon's chest becomes too painful to really deal with, he needs Punk, needs to hear him at the very least. It was a spur of the moment thing, sending a text that toed the line between needy and sweet, all but pleading Punk to put his distaste for the WWE aside and come up to see Jon. He didn't get a reply, and he honestly wasn't too surprised. He'd been expecting silence, and honestly almost expects an irritated text from Cabana, with threats and exasperation at how two people can be so stupid, there's literally nothing that will bring Punk this close to the WWE, not even Jon, and it was foolish to ask. Yet nothing comes, and sleep crept up on Jon, leaving him alone in an empty bed, aching with the desire to be sharing it with his capricious Sphinx bastard.

"Boo." The bed behind Jon sinks slightly, and he turns, pulling Punk close without really waking up, sleep begins to slip away as he realises that this isn't some kind of incredibly pleasant but utterly false dream. Punk is here, warm and soft in his arms. "Go back to sleep." He whispers softly, but Jon ignores him, pulling him closer, nuzzling at his neck, earning a soft little whimper of a noise. He's not entirely sure he trusts this to not be a dream, Punk being there would be far too good to consider, and it seems so unlikely that he'd have made the trek all the way to where Jon's filming just to share a bed with him.

"Why you here?" Jon sounds strangely drunk, even to his own ears, he supposes it's being tired, it's working on this damn movie, the shooting at weird hours, the lines, the prancing around in costume and the waiting, the god-awful periods of waiting around doing nothing that are incredibly tiring for no good reason.

"Got lonely." Punk squirms in Jon's arms, settling himself into a more comfortable position, his fingers petting the skin of Jon's back.

"Lonely?" Jon snorts, kissing the skin of his shoulder, already mourning the fact that in scant few hours he's going to have to wake up and somehow persuade himself to leave what will be the utterly compelling idea of lying in bed all day with Punk. He knows lonely, knows it painfully well, and is at war over the idea of Punk feeling that way. Miserable at the thought of Punk wandering around with that aching hole in his chest, but elated that he'd come to sate that loneliness by being with Jon, braving his distaste for the WWE for him.

"Lonely." Punk repeats firmly, nuzzling against Jon. "Love you, missed you too much, so I'm here. How long we staying out here, anyways?"

"We?" Jon feels distinctly like a parrot, like he's pointlessly repeating words because as ever, the Chicago bred Sphinx bastard is refusing to say what he means from the get go. It should be annoying, and most of the time it is, but it seems kind of endearing in that moment. A sure sign Jon's been away too long, if he's finding Punk's most annoying habits cute, he needs to be reminded of them more often.

"Of course we. I told you, I'm lonely, Cabbage Patch." Punk snorts, and moves to straddle Jon, pulling his shirt over his head, and grinning. It seems he's decided that sleeping is over-rated, and with a mostly naked Punk on top of him, Jon is desperately inclined to agree with his Sphinx bastard, especially when he's being quite so unexpectedly straightforward.


littleone1389 As ever, Dean-muse does so love to make sure you get your wish... Though with perhaps a little less cooing over little gerbil cheeks than you'd have liked! ;)