Warnings: 3nd person PoV, slash (Cena/Punk), mild and infrequent profanity, curious play on kayfabe.
"John, you can call me Phil, you know." When John was first given that permission, it had come as a shock. The World according to CM Punk is neatly divided in two, the people who call him Phil and those who call him Punk. John Cena had firmly been on the Punk side of the divide until Money in the Bank, after Punk became the hottest property in wrestling and did he really have to describe himself as the hottest, that all changed. Punk became Phil and John likes Phil, likes how quickly his mind works, how he has a quirky sense of humour, likes how he is actually a good friend, a good person underneath all of his annoyance. For all John likes Phil, purely, simply and platonically, he wants CM Punk. CM Punk is all burning arrogance and self-assurance, it's incredibly sexy, the man is sexy in general but the way he, kayfabe Punk at least, drips with superiority is far too hot to ignore. Phil seems a little less assured, not insecure by any means but as though deep down, there is a tiny glimmer of uncertainty. John likes Phil, he wants to be Phil's friend but he plain wants Punk, wants to fuck him.
Storyline, kayfabe, pretend. John has to keep reminding himself that when he's standing in the ring with Punk, this isn't what Phil is really like, the same words over and over, trying to imprint them in his mind. It doesn't change the fact that when he's in the position to put his hands all over that body, when that body is wrapped all around him, all John wants is to throw the man down and fuck him, hard and fast over the nearest surface.
The line between kayfabe and reality is becoming more and more blurred, this so-called reality era, where fact and fiction are blurred together, makes life so much more difficult, makes keeping Phil, nice, funny, witty, sarcastic, hockey-obsessed Phil and Punk, witty, sarcastic, funny, sexy, manipulative, bitter, sleek, beautiful Punk, separate, more and more difficult. The neat divisions in John's mind keep getting blurred, it makes him worry that maybe he's becoming less John Cena the normal guy and more super Cena in real life. It worries him that there is less kayfabe and more of him invested in his character, John isn't a saint, John isn't a superhero, he's a man, just a man. A man who really wants to fuck the bastard unlocking the hotel room beside his. Its rare Phil is in full-on kayfabe Punk outside of publicity but he seems to be rather stuck on lately, his hair gelled, his lips twisted in that haughty smirk.
"You wanna come over, unwind?" It's a clichéd offer, John knows but really, he doesn't want Phil to be up all night, the man doesn't sleep well, perpetually needing to know what's going on, perpetually kept awake by a mind that rejects the rest his body needs. It's more Punk than Phil that meets John's eyes, lazy amusement glimmering in those sharp eyes. John wonders if he seems more like John Cena, the Champ or John Cena, the lonely divorcee at that moment. The best gimmicks in wrestling are those that are an exaggeration of a natural personality trait, sometimes John worries that it's too easy to forget that it is an exaggeration. He worries so much about Phil, how so often it's more likely that you're talking to a kayfabe construct than a real person.
"Sure thing, Boy Scout." Lazy smile, lazy drawl, calculating, sharp eyes, so very CM Punk. It somehow comes as no surprise that Punk has figured exactly what John really wants, when he's pressed against the door by that sleek body and kissed soundly, quick clever fingers diving under fabric to smooth over firm, solid muscle. John doesn't try to dominate the kiss, feels more like he's along for the ride, letting Punk dictate what he can and can't have. It probably sets a terrible precedent, John thinks, if he lets Punk take control here, Punk'll consider him a cakewalk and John Cena is a man who lives by the phrase never give up, there is not one ounce of quit in him, he is no cakewalk. He holds Punk's head still, battles his tongue back to his own mouth and tastes every inch of it. Punk tastes of gum and something utterly unfamiliar to John, unfamiliar but good. Finally confident that Punk has conceded the kiss to him, John lets his hands roam, down Punk's shoulders, to his trim waist, his tight ass, groping, stroking, trying to learn how this body feels when there isn't pseudo violence involved.
"Want you." Eventually John pants in Punks ear, he can feel Punk's firm length against his thigh, they've swapped positions, Punk is pressed against the door, one of John's thick firm thighs between the other man's legs, pressing against his groin firmly.
"Hmm." Punk doesn't really reply, merely squirms out from under John and pulls his gimmick shirt over his head, another sign that Phil hasn't come down fully from the night, he's still dressed in merch. Phil never wears merch willingly. John follows suit, stripping his own shirt off before grabbing the other man and kissing him once more, feeling the recently uncovered skin with the same enthusiasm he showed when it was still under cloth. Punk's hands are far from idle, aiming straight for John's pants, untying them with impressive dexterity, he takes John's cock in his hand and starts not so much stroking as solely teasing. John stops kissing and feeling up the man to moan against his neck and attempt to coordinate himself enough to tug the gym shorts Punk is wearing down enough to return the favour. It takes effort but John manages it eventually, however, Punk doesn't seem to appreciate the effort and shoves John down to the bed, sheds his pants and straddles John's legs, kissing him frantically, still stroking his cock.
John's never really been with another man, hasn't really seen the appeal but he has taken a women like this. He knows that Punk will require lube and stretching and all manner of slow and patient things, yet Punk seems infinitely more interested in skipping all this and moving on to the fucking. He's writhing on top of John, rutting against him, rubbing their cocks together with his actions, even as John taps a dry finger against Punk's hole, trying to tactically show Punk that the next step is going to require some preparation.
"Wait." John reverses their positions easily enough, guides Punk face down onto the bed, tugs him so that his legs are hanging off the end of it, leaving him bent over, his ass in the air. John removes his pants, goes to his bag and grabs the little bottle of lube he carries, along with one of the condoms he has in case a ring rat manages to catch his eye. He coats his fingers and eases one into Punk. The man doesn't tense, takes it easily enough, a part of John is slightly disappointed, a part of him wanted Punk to be a virgin but it does mean that he can speed this along slightly, steadfastly ignoring the sullen little part of him that is wondering who exactly has taken Punk first. By the time John is working three fingers in and out of the other man, Punk is moaning softly, curiously softly, so gently that it's almost at odds with everything John knows to be true of Punk.
"Get on with it, Boy Scout." His tone is at least sharp and bitingly normal for him. John opens and rolls the condom over his cock, slicks more lube over it and lines up before admiring the view. Punk's hole looks so small, glistening with lube, softly pouting and pink, John brushes the head of his cock against it a few times, smearing more lube over it. Punk makes an impatient noise and thrusts back, forcing the head of John's cock into him, John's hands rush to the lithe hips of the other man, stilling his actions.
"Fuck, wait, Punk." John gasps, the man may not be a virgin but he's still exquisitely tight, his body squeezing and pressing around John like a vice. John rests his forehead against Punk's back, between his shoulder blades and enjoys the rippling contractions to the other man's muscles. "Fuck." John breaths against Punk's skin, the tightness, the warmth of his body almost overwhelming.
"C'mon, Cena, fuck me." Punk rocks his hips as much as John's firmly grasping hands will allow, though it's not much movement he's able to get, it's enough to inspire John. He rocks forward into Punk, fully sinking into the other man's tight heat in one slow thrust, withdrawing equally slowly, gently fucking Punk, slow and thorough, gathering speed carefully, eventually fucking him with swift fluid strokes. "My shin's been fucked by a purse mutt harder than this, Cena." He might be letting John fuck him, press him down against the bed but it seems that even in submission, Punk doesn't concede, the man doesn't just roll over and play nicely. John laughs softly and reluctantly pulls himself from the other man's clenching heat, stroking down his flank and slaps his ass firmly, moving to at the head of the bed, back against the headboard. He smirks down at Punk, still sprawled, face down, a look of mounting irritation on his face.
"C'mon, I'm sure you can do a much better job of fucking yourself." John strokes his cock lazily as he watches the unreadable emotions flicker through Punk's eyes, he's impossibly difficult to read, when you think you understand what one expression means, it turns out to be something else entirely. "C'mon, Mr Best in the World." His eyes narrow and he crawls up the bed to straddle John's legs, a slight scowl twisting his lips, as he takes John's cock in hand and slowly lowers himself down the length. "Ah, fuck, Punk." John murmurs, he's inclined to agree that Punk's ass, at least, is the best in the World, he's certain no woman he's ever been with has been this tight. Punk's body pulses around his cock and it's all John can do to keep himself under control, calmly observing the way Punk's hair is beginning to stick up at the back, the way he's sweating the gel out of it, the way his skin is flushed, glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looks so much like how he does in the ring, so much like Punk and nothing like Phil. John grabs the back of the man's neck and pulls him closer for a kiss, exploring the readily opened mouth with his tongue. He snags the little ring in Punk's lip and gets a sharp blow to the back of the head, the kiss broken harshly, Punk's eyes cold with annoyance.
"Not a fucking chew toy, Boy Scout." He snarls as he leans back and starts fucking himself on John's cock, raising and falling with hard but unhurried movements, his pace deliberate and certain. He fucks like he wrestles, all technique and natural talent. He moves with grace, riding John's cock with distressing elegance, moving up and down, rolling his lithe hips, driving John's length deeper and deeper inside of him. John is torn between watching Punk's body move over his cock or watching the man's face, his head is thrown back but his eyes are decidedly focussed on John's, watching him with careful attention. "Touch me." John raises an eyebrow at the command but does take Punk's cock in his hand and strokes him at the same pace Punk's set. Punk's eyes finally close, he makes a soft subtle noise, a gentle huff of air that sends a tingle down John's spine, inspires him to buck his hips and drive his cock into to Punk. "Ah, fuck! Again." Without thought, John does as he is bid, rocking his hips up into the Punk as he comes down, find rhythm as easily as they do in the ring, matching each other's pace and style, complimenting each other beautifully. John watches Punk ride him, watches his own hand move over Punk's cock, his hips bucking up into the tight body moving over him. "Close." Punk gasps out, John can feel a smirk forming on his lips, now that it's been mentioned, he can sense how close Punk must be, his breathing is fast and irregular, his balls look tight in their sack, his movements losing their rhythm.
"Come for me, Punk." John mutters softly, giving Punk's cock another stroke, the man comes quietly; his head back and turned to the side, the tendons in it standing out. John is surprised when instead of collapsing against his now cum covered chest; Punk redoubles his efforts to bring John off, moving faster, harder. John is certain he's never come harder, his vision darkens and he has no idea if he screamed or not.
John lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, Punk wasn't in the bed when he recovered, recovery really being the most accurate description for what he just did. Sex has never been like that before, never has it felt so in tune and yet so disconnected to the person he was sleeping with, fucking Punk can't be reconciled with what John knows of Phil. Phil doesn't sleep around, Phil only sleeps with women, women he's in a committed relationship with but Phil is and yet isn't Punk. The whole thing makes his head hurt and all John really wants is to fall asleep but he has to make sure that the sexual tension that he and Punk indulged, hasn't adversely affected his friendship with Phil.
"You okay there, buddy?" Phil's face appears over John, his hair damp and limp, a hotel towel around his shoulders, he must have taken a shower. John nods and sits up on the bed.
"What happened here?" A ludicrous question that deserves the cheery bark of laughter it gets from Phil.
"We had sex, John-boy." Phil sits on the end of the bed and grins. "You wanna confess your undying love to me?" His grin gets bigger; he looks so much younger with this big, almost goofy grin on his face.
"I'm not in love with you, Phil." John rubs the back of his neck, hoping he hasn't wiped that happy grin off of Phil's face, he looks genuinely happy so very rarely.
"Ha, good!" John chances a glance at Phil, the man is still grinning cheerfully. "So we chalk that all up to alien sex pollen and move on, yes?" Phil gets off the bed with a wink and starts putting his shoes on.
"Alien sex pollen?" John somehow doesn't think it's going to be that easy. He has no idea how he's going to be able to concentrate on wrestling Punk when he knows how those sharp eyes look with lust dancing in them, how close to dishevelled with sex, dishevelled with wrestling looks.
"Clearly John-boy, you don't watch enough shitty sci-fi movies." John laughs, Phil is leaning against the door jab, his overly bright grin softened into something more familiar, a smile John has seen him wear when he answers the phone with a Cabana or when Kofi says something nerdy and funny or when John walks into a locker room.
"Next time I can't sleep, I'll come visit your room, I'll even bring you popcorn." John gets out of bed with a laugh and walks to the bathroom, he pauses, stands feeling slightly awkward in the doorway, naked and resisting the urge to hide his gentiles. "Now, piss off, Phil. Some of us enjoy sleeping." John hears an amused good night followed by the door to his hotel room closing. He's glad that this incident seems to have positively reinforced their relationship; it was Phil in a good mood that left John's room. The one problem John has now is that he wants Punk back, he's going to have to work out if he can have both Punk and Phil, he's going to have to work out if he can somehow handle the curious problem of being Phil's friend and Punk's fuck buddy because that is exactly what John wants.
A/N The title comes from my own curious obsession with kayfabe and the general oddness implicit in it, it's more than being an actor with a role, it's rather like living two lives, the person you really are is someone you aren't able to be as often as the character you play for the audience. (It fascinates me even more with older wrestlers, having to follow kayfabe to the extent that heels and faces wouldn't even stay in the same hotels.)
Yes, I'm still on holiday and yes, everything else is on hold till I'm home... unless I'm stuck on more trains.
batwolfgirl I hope that this did justice to your prompt, sorry if it's not exactly what you were hoping for but it's where my mind (and the epically dull train journey I was on) went with it.
Reviews are always nice, so if you enjoyed it or if you hated let me know. Requests or smutty prompts are always cheerfully accepted. :3