Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A prequel of sorts to Visiting Graves
Jon sat on a stool, staring at the wall of optics, trying very hard not to listen to his road and Shield brothers complaining about how they missed their women. He's never really had that attachment to another person, never felt the need to have his happiness intrinsically linked to that of another person. Other people make life complicated enough without having to worry that they might be sad, lonely, or sick. They keep attempting to draw Jon into conversation, something is bothering Colby, he has that mother hen look in his eye and Joe keeps watching Jon carefully, wearing an expression that's distressingly similar to that mother hen look. There's a strange but welcome dynamic between the three of them, something Jon wasn't expecting but very grateful for. Colby and he have the most in common, they both came up on the Indys, they both slogged away in high school gyms, wrestling for $20 in rings that were safety inspector's nightmares, they understand each other's love for wrestling and the pain they went through to get here. Joe, on the other hand, he was basically born with silver wrist tape, his path was very different, yet, that same love is there and its love that binds them together. It's an odd relationship for Jon but it's one he's come to rely on, one he's come to enjoy. He's not worried about losing it, not worried about it breaking when they're split up and Joe's put on the fast track to the main event, if only because he's thought this through, has come to the realisation that ten years down the line, they'll be reforming to a massive pop. If nothing else, The Shield has guaranteed all three of them one last massive nostalgia pop.
"Seriously, the fuck are you staring at me like that for?" Jon snaps, sick of the infuriatingly motherly stare of Colby.
"Nothing... It's just... Ah, no... It's nothing." He rubs the back of his neck, sighing down at his glass of beer. "Just..."
"Thought you'd be elsewhere." Joe downs the last of his drink, and flags the bartender over, getting three more beers.
"Ain't got anywhere else to be." Jon shrugs, polishing off his own drink, and standing, intending to go for a smoke.
"Sure you don't." Colby mutters, frowning down at his cell phone. His woman usually calls by now, and the fact that she hasn't has him maudlin and mopey. Joe's solution to this had been getting him drunk, but Joe hadn't taken into consideration that fact that his own woman hadn't called him either, so he was almost as bad. They really are the worst drinking partners when they're moping, and Jon isn't, but then again, he's not got anyone to mope over. He does kind of, sort of have someone, but they're really more of a fuck buddy than anything. Their relationship is ill defined and mutually beneficial; it's nothing more than incredibly good sex, and occasional conversations about work. Though the dynamic has been shifting lately, has been ever since he came back from his break. Yes, he. Pretty is pretty regardless of what's between their legs, and Jon's fuck buddy is pretty, even his cock is kind of pretty, and cocks are not pretty. Only he's seemed distant as of late, not his usual prickly ill-tempered self, all contrary and capricious, rather he's been cuddly and distant all at once, as though there's something playing on his mind that he doesn't want to talk about. Though, in honesty, he rarely shares what's on his mind in the first place. Jon's fuck buddy is a master of using a thousand words to say nothing at all.
"I'm smoking... Make sure he doesn't drown." Jon's not really sure which of the two he's talking to and about, both of his brothers look like they could easily sit there drowning their woman related sorrows all night. That's another unexpected bonus to the thing he has with his fuck buddy, there's none of this sorrows to be drown bullshit. It's in, fuck and out. No emotions, no attachments, no hassles. Just a simple, straightforward transactions of mutual physical pleasure.
Eventually, his brothers' women call, eventually he's left alone and he migrates from beer to whiskey. Drinking shots, and smoking more than he should. Several pretty randoms flirt with him, but he's not in the mood for someone random and unknown. He's in the mood for his pretty little fuck buddy, and thankfully he has a key for his room, gifted earlier in the day with the expectation it would be used, probably long before now. Though, honestly, it's not like his fuck buddy sleeps all that much. It's one of the best things about fucking CM Punk really, being safe in the knowledge that a three a.m. booty call is rarely out of the realms of possibility.
Jon opens the door, and frowns, the lights are out, the TV off, and Punk's curled up on his side, looking miserable, eyes closed, hair almost slick with sweat. He might be asleep, he might not be, it's hard to tell. There are times when Jon envies him being straight edge, envies that it means that he's never had to deal with roiling stomachs and wobbly floors caused by whiskey, but it does mean he deals with illness in a different manner. Drug free, it's a lovely ideal but in this business, it can be a very stupid one. Pain and illness can be dealt with much more easily by self-medicating. Jon slumps against the wall and manages to kick his shoes off, chuckling at the thought of a drunk Punk, trying to imagine if he'd be one of those giggly, flirty drunks or a grouchy, violent one. The purpose in coming to Punk's room had been sex, a good, hard, drunk fuck, not something Punk particularly enjoys, but it's rare he turns Jon down when sex is on the cards, and there's a level of drunk that Jon is permitted to be without Punk throwing him out. Jon thinks he's on the right side of it tonight, but seeing Punk has reminded Jon that he's sick, and has been sick for a while. For a long time now, he's been looking more and more pale, has been more and more almost clingy. It's not that they've gone from fucking in locker rooms to flowers and snuggling on the couch, but there's something changing in Punk, something that Jon is far from comfortable with, something that's making Jon stomach roil without the aid of whisky.
"Wha?" Punk groans and sits up, his damp hair sticking up in all directions, rubbing at one eye with a fist. Jon watches him with narrowed eyes, there is a slight chance that something in him would like to change too, but it's not getting the chance, what he and Punk have is good exactly as it is.
"Go back to sleep." Jon mutters from his slumped position on the floor. "You look like shit."
"You come here t-" Punk's interrupted by a yawn, what ever it was he was about to accuse Jon of coming to him for is lost to his own exhaustion. He flops back down on the bed, and pulls the covers back on the side he's not lying on. "No snoring, no drooling, no groping." He turns over and seems to fall back asleep. Jon smiles vaguely, stripping to his boxers, and lays on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come to him. Punk's restless, his sleep filled with twisting and turning, throwing the covers off and pulling them back on. Jon lies on his side watching him, watching him struggle against his own dreams. In an attempt at soothing him into being still, Jon runs a single finger down the curve of Punk's spine, it seems to settle him somewhat, and Jon grins slightly, feeling proud for no good reason he can come up with.
"Lie still, you bastard." Jon says softly, not willing to wake Punk up. There'd be no point in it, the poor bastard is sick, and it's no fun fucking an invalid. Over the course of the night, Jon's woken up many times, he's certain his shins have to be covered in an array of ugly bruises. In the end he resorted to trapping Punk's restless body in his arms, squeezing him tightly for a good long while. It settled him down somewhat, had let Jon sleep without fear of assault for time.
"Oww." At least until Jon's woken by a hard smack to the head. His vision still slightly bleary from going so rapidly from asleep to awake. "The fuck was that for?" Punk is standing by the bed, his hair in disarray, the bags under his eyes bigger than usual, his skin so pale it almost looks translucent. He points to his thigh, a scowl on his lips. Blossoming on his skin is a bruise, a large ugly bruise. "Where'd you get that?" Jon sits up, leans closer to the marred skin.
"You! You fucking shit." Punk smacks Jon again and glares down at him, as he presses a soft kiss to the mark. There's a good reason behind this action, Jon rationalises to himself, he doesn't want Punk to stay pissed at him, nothing more, nothing less, a kiss to placate Punk's temper.
"It looks nasty... But if it makes you feel any better." Jon peels back the covers, baring his heavily bruised shins.
"That was me?" Punk sounds remorseful, his fingers trailing up Jon's shins carefully, his touch barely registering it's so light.
"You're a terrible person to share a bed with." Jon laughs, trying to wipe the odd expression on Punk's face off. "You kick worse that a horse."
"I don't usually." He says softly, shaking his head, and turning from Jon. "Just ask my Road Wife how good I am at sharing a bed." He pulls his shirt off over his head, and sits on the end of the bed, scrubbing at his face. His posture is so incredibly tired looking, like he needs to lie back down and sleep some more. His exhaustion makes something writhe in the pit of Jon's stomach, but he ignores it in favour of scooting down the bed and plastering himself to Punk's back.
"You know how to make me feel special." He laughs in Punk's ear, licking over the tattoo behind it. "Now I know why you always throw me out." He laughs again, feeling Punk relax in his arms. "You wanna cuddle up with Kofi... It's okay, baby." Punk growls, trying to pull away from Jon's arms. He does really object to being called baby, and Jon enjoys playing on his objection far too much. "I get it though. You want a bit of rough on the side." He starts trailing kisses over Punk's shoulders, feeling him settle back down, relaxing into Jon's arms, moaning softly as Jon carefully nips at his skin.
"I don't really have time for this, you know?" He mutters, twisting his head slightly, catching Jon's eye.
"I'll make it quick." Jon laughs, flopping backwards, wriggling out of his boxers, watching Punk stand to shed his own, then straddling his thighs, leaning down to kiss him, surprisingly soft, but that's probably a result of hoe tired he is more than anything else.
"So no change there then." He snorts, letting Jon move him to lie on his back. "Lube's in my bag." He tells Jon, his tone imperious and haughty. Jon rolls his eyes and fetches the little bottle, tossing it to Punk, letting him prep himself. He's more efficient than Jon when it comes to that. It takes him very little time to deem himself ready, and Jon settles between his thighs, spreading his legs wider, hands pressing on his thighs, as Jon smirks down at Punk.
"One day, I'm gonna tie you down... Fuck you when you're spread as far as you can." Jon coats his cock in lube quickly and rubs his cock head over Punk's hole. "Or maybe when you're warming up. You can twist into some fucking sexy positions Punk. All stretched out, this pretty ass on display." He trusts into Punk's body, groaning at the tightness. "Fuck, naked, next time you're stretching it should be naked, in a hotel room, with me watching." Punk rolls his eyes and his hips, irritation warring with enjoyment. Jon's fucks into him firmly setting the pace hard and fast. Punk manages to free his legs from Jon's grasp, and wraps them around his waist, squeezing Jon tightly.
"Harder." Punk moans, his head pressed down against the bed, his throat bared. "C'mon, harder." He groans when all Jon does is lick his neck, briefly nibbling at his Adam's apple.
"You need it harder, huh? You need this fat cock pounding your tight little ass. Want me to wreck you? Leave you limping round all the publicity you gotta do today?" Jon smirks down at Punk, watching ire rising in him. "How hard you want it, baby?" The moment Punk tries to buck Jon off, he fucks down into him harder, as hard as he can, Punk's struggling fading to vaguely need moans, his nails scratching up Jon's back, leaving little burning trails in their wake. "That's it, baby." Another struggle thwarted by another powerful thrust, and Punk yanks at his hair, pulling him into a battle of a kiss, teeth and tongues clashing. Punk's heels dig into Jon's back, one hand fisted in his hair, tugging and pulling in time with Jon brutal thrusts, the nails from Punk's other hand clawing up his back. For a brief moment he hopes tonight is going to be one of the nights he gets to keep his shirt on in the ring. "How close are you?" Jon pants down at Punk, he looks incredibly close, his eyes all hazy and unfocussed.
"You gonna?" Punk asks, already untangling his hand from Jon's hair, taking his cock in his hand, jacking himself off with quick, tight little strokes.
"Fuck, fuck... Punk... Hurry up and come." Jon groans, pounding into him, feeling his orgasm building, almost at his breaking point. Punk snorts, but his hand does speed up, his head pressing down further against the bed as he comes, his back arching, eyes firmly closed, mouth open slightly. His body tightens further, and Jon manages a few thrusts into his almost painfully tight hole, before spilling his cum inside of him. "Fuck." Jon collapses on top of Punk, catching his breath, enjoying the after-effects of a good fuck. The lazily sated feeling of contentment that fucking Punk gives him is something Jon should be perhaps less attached to. Punk stays where he is for a few moments, his hands absently moving over Jon's back, slowly, gently. It's nice, possibly not entirely in the parameters of fuck buddies but it's not something Jon's going to complain about. Eventually, he squirms beneath Jon, wriggling out from under him and going to shower. Jon regards the ceiling once more, not really thinking of anything but the mental image of Punk showering, listening to the splashes and running water coming from the bathroom, and picturing suds running over Punk's sleek, wet body. It doesn't take Punk long to emerge from the shower, a towel low on his hips, water glistening in on his chest, another towel over his head, being used to scrub vigorously at his hair.
"You gonna get cover-up done on that?" Jon asks, watching Punk pull his clothes on, then start stuffing things into his case, for all it looks random, Jon has no doubts, it's very systematic. The Indys breed good packers.
"Why?" He shrugs, not looking up, even as he throws yesterday's clothes at Jon. An odd feeling settles in Jon's stomach, the idea of Punk wearing a mark he put on him, even if it was by accident is strangely pleasing. "Look hurry up, I gotta get going." He looks pointedly at Jon, and he nods, getting dressed quickly.
"I'll see you tonight?" Jon asks, watching him with narrowed eyes, that odd feeling still there. Punk still looks so rundown, so much like he wants to be anywhere but where he is; it might be that he's getting sick of this ill-defined thing with Jon. Punk shrugs vaguely, and Jon scrubs his face. Punk might be getting tired of him, but Jon's pretty sure that he's nowhere done with Punk, there's a thousand little things he'd like to do to that pretty little body of Punk's, a thousand places and ways he wants to fuck him.
"I'm tired, Jon." He turns to glance at Jon; he looks terrible, so pale and tired, utterly rundown. "I don't think I'm in any shape for anything." He sighs, rubbing his eyes, and Jon steps closer to him, wraps his arms around him holding him tight. He's not sure why but holding Punk in this moment seems like the right thing to do, the way Punk melts against him, seemingly nuzzling at his throat, makes that something in the pit of his stomach flair up again.
"I'll bring you cheat food and a shitty movie, we can hang?" It feels like an incredibly stupid thing to ask, but the nice thing about ill defined and mutually beneficial things is that sex only has to be one facet of their relationship, the best facet but only one, hanging out with your fuck buddy isn't weird, and the squiggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that's trying to argue with him can just fuck off.
"Sure... Later." Punk mutters, ignoring Jon as he leaves, sneaking down the corridor, hoping no one catches him. This thing with his fuck buddy is, after all, ill defined, mutually beneficial, and secret.
A/N: What I wanted to do today was not what happened, this did.
littleone1389 You get your wish! Apparently my Dean muse likes trying to keep you happy. :3