Title: Desesperanza Mind Games
Author: Skye
Author's Email:
Pairing: CM Punk/Undertaker
Rating: 18+
Genre: Horror/Thriller
Disclaimer: I do not own anything here.
Authors' Note: I don't know how this idea came about, but I really liked it! I dunno. X3
Summary: The Undertaker is using his limitless powers to play mind games with Punk, praying upon the many weaknesses he has.
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Desesperanza Mind Games
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Punk walked back to his hotel room the eerie silence of the city making him nervous the whole way. It was bad enough that for some strange reason, he couldn't even get his car to attempt to start. He turned the key and it didn't even make a sound. As he walked, it had begun to rain. What were the odds of that? On top of all that, he could have sworn he was being followed. The faint clicking of boots on wet pavement sent chills down Punk's spine. He wanted so badly to turn around to see if there was something there but he was too afraid that something might actually be following him… Yes. Something… Not someone. This eerie presence that seemed to be following Punk like a black mist was not some person stalking him… This thing, this being, it was not of this world… Something was terribly wrong.
As Punk saw the lights of the hotel ahead he felt warmth and relief rushing through his veins ad he practically sprinted into the doors. He froze, however, when he saw that there wasn't a single person in the hotel… It was as if it were a ghost town. Abandoned. Looking like it hadn't been cleaned in months. The wall paper was peeling, and the crystal chandelier was covered in cobwebs and dust… This wasn't his hotel at all… It looked as if he'd entered a haunted house... Only this was a hotel…
Punk was frozen to the spot as he examined the dusty and empty lobby. He turned finally, to leave, go out the way he came and not come back. Where he would go didn't matter he just had to get…
The door…
Punk looked around, not seeing the wide glass double doors he'd just entered through. Goosebumps rose on the punk's skin, his fingers curling into fists and his shoulders hunching a little. He curled in on himself in fear.
He could have sworn there had been a door there just a moment ago…
Punk trembled in fear, his whole body shaking like a leaf as he realized the door was gone. That by some strange supernatural outside force the door had been removed. Punk ran forward, slamming his fists so hard against the wall that they began to bruise. The pain was nothing compared to the terror he felt. He wanted out, and out now. This wasn't possible. It just didn't make sense.
"No! I don't believe in this shit! Let me out! Let me out!! Now!!" he screamed. Punk, by some strange force, was thrown back from the wall, landing hard on the floor. The room was filled with a deep familiar laugh and Punk's eyes widened in horror. He knew that laugh. He knew who it belonged to. He could hardly believe his ears. He shook his head emphatically, begging for this all to suddenly vanish. For him to be safe.
Well Punk… You better start believing… Because this is very very real… You're in my world now… You're going to dance with the 'Taker… And wish you'd never won that belt…
Punk scrambled to his feet, running as quickly as he could, looking for an exit but every door was gone. It was all hallways, with no exits. Punk couldn't find a way out, up and down the stairs he searched frantically, his lungs burning with exhaustion. He had to escape, he just had to. He reached the fourteenth floor, the very top floor, and there, at the end of the hall, was a black door… The hallway seemed to drain of color as Punk walked cautiously towards the door. He knew in his heart that he would regret going near that door. But he also knew there was nothing else he could do. The Undertaker had made sure of that… Punk swallowed uneasily as he reached out and touched the doorknob. It felt like ice against his skin and as he slowly opened the door he saw the color draining from his own body. Everything became gray and pale, almost glowing. He looked into the darkness of the room, it was pitch black. As he stepped in and let go of the door it slammed shut and disappeared in a wisp of black smoke behind him. Punk was plunged into the darkness, so black he couldn't see his own hands. He licked his lips nervously, afraid to take a step further, in case he would find no floor for him to step on.
Are you afraid of the dark little Punk?
The words came, as if whispered in Punk's ear, he could practically feel The Undertaker's warm breath on the nape of his neck. Punk closed his eyes and shook his head.
"No…" he replied hoarsely, his lower lip quivered and his fingers fumbled against the hem of his shirt, his hands still taped up from the arena. He clenched his fists tight as the dark laughter filled the room again. It sent an electric chill up Punk's spine.
I know what you're truly afraid of Punk…
Punk opened his eyes to see in the middle of the room, there was now a bed, as if lit up by a spotlight from above, and he saw a grayscaled visage of himself sitting on the edge of the bed, rocking a little, his eyes wide and his lips moving quickly with muttered words of nonsense. He looked scared, his eyes deeply sunken in and the insides of his arms littered with track marks and bruises. His lips were chapped and cracking his hair grown out and beard unkempt. He looked a mess, and it made Punk cringe. Punk frowned deeply, taking a couple cautious steps closer. He watched as the other him pulled out a syringe and quickly began to prepare it. He tensed, his whole frame filled with fear and rage as he quickly advanced on the vivid black and white image of himself.
"What are you doing!?" Punk demanded watching himself tie his arm off, and then press the needle into his vein. Punk's own arm burned and he shook his head in discomfort and his face pulled into an intense grimace of absolute rancor. He couldn't stand this. This was wrong.
"No!!"
He reached forward to wrench the syringe away from himself but his hand went straight through the hallucination and it fluttered away in a sudden burst of black butterflies. Punk dropped to his knees against the edge of the apparently solid bed. The darkness around him seemed to go on forever and he felt sickened by the sight he'd just witnessed. The very thought of letting himself do that haunted his mind, his fingers twitched and his teeth chattered out of fear.
"Why…? Why are you doing this to me…"
The laughter met his ears again and Punk closed his eyes tightly, trying to block it out, but it was all around him, like a thick fog that he could feel on his skin.
You are scared of weakness Punk… Scared of surrendering to the flesh… To the needs that you have fought so hard to suppress… But even you can't go on living happily like this… Open your eyes and look at yourself Punk…
Punk reluctantly opened his eyes to see himself again, on the opposite side of the bed, lying there, hugging himself tossing and turning, trying to sleep. The dark circles under his eyes never looking more apparent than they did right then as he looked at himself in black and white, plain as day, looking so weak and needy. Punk hated the way he looked. He'd never seen himself looking so weak and sickly. He generally avoided mirrors but this was ten times worse than any mirror would be… The vision was so much more vivid than even reality. He could practically feel the ache of sleeplessness the other him was experiencing and the sheets getting damp with cold sweat…
You would rather toss and turn than take a sleeping pill to rest. You would rather lie there all night than give in and do what your body wants you to…
Punk shook his head fiercely. He couldn't let The Undertaker get to him. He couldn't let him win.
"No! I don't want any of that! I don't need it! I'm stronger than that…!" he countered, closing his eyes tight again, not wanting to look at himself anymore. This whole thing was making him sweat and shiver. He felt cold and as if he were going to vomit. There was a long few moments of silence, and Punk began to wonder if it had all gone away and if it was just a nightmare. The silence however, was suddenly broken by a loud moan from his own voice. Punk looked up suddenly, eyes widened in horror as he saw himself there on the bed, beneath the Undertaker, writhing in pleasure. He shuddered from head to toe, the sight getting to him. He could feel his pants tightening, but refused to acknowledge it, trying his best to fight the things he was seeing and feeling.
"Stop! What will that accomplish! Showing me that!!"
Because you want it Punk. You want to give into the sins of the flesh, the pleasure which you deny yourself. You fill that void with things like victory and pride…
Punk felt the coolness of the world heavyweight championship belt come to rest against his waist. He looked down at the object, hating it at that moment. He got up and stumbled back from the bed a few paces, out of the light. He could smell the sweat and sex in the air and it was choking him. The smell of his own and The Undertaker's respective colognes, the faintness of dirt and wood fires, and the musk of himself. It was wonderful and at the same time sickening.
Does it feel good around your waist Punk…?
"Stop it…" Punk whimpered, biting down on his tongue as he watched the other him thoroughly enjoying the slow and sensual sex that the Undertaker was providing him. He could hear breaths and moans as if they were right by his ear and it made him tremble.
It seems like you want something else much more… It seems like you want what that you has… Lying beneath me…
Punk swallowed hard, his lip quivering as he bit so hard, blood began to seep from a small wound in his tongue and out over his lower lip. He shook his head. He couldn't give in, he had to deny it.
"No." he croaked. Punk forced his eyes shut and then suddenly, his whole body felt on fire, he felt pleasure coursing through his veins, an intense fullness. He let out a long moan and his eyes snapped open as he realized he was now in the place of his hallucination. The Undertaker smirked, shaking his head as he continued his slow and sensual pace.
Feels good doesn't it Punk? Feels greater than the belt right…?
The belt that had been around Punk's waist vanished and Punk looked down, finding himself intensely hard. He couldn't deny the wonderful pleasure coursing through him. It was getting to be too much.
That's okay Punk… It looks better on me anyways…
The Undertaker's dark laughter echoed in the room as the belt slowly materialized around Taker's waist. Punk whimpered as the color slowly returned to the room and then himself and finally The Undertaker. This was Punk's hotel room, and Taker was really above him.
"I'm going to take it from you Punk. Everything. And when I'm done with you, you'll crave those drugs and alcohol which you preach against… And you'll crave me…"
And then in a sudden flash, a cloud of black butterflies floated up and the undertaker was gone, leaving Punk and the belt alone as the butterflies fluttered and began to dissipate into smoke Punk could hear that laughter again fading away. Tears came to his eyes and he shuddered in fear, his mind unable to comprehend what had been done to him.
"Why…?" he rasped to himself. "Why…?"
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The End