A/N: Hey all! This bad boy has been hovering in my head forever, but I finally finished it. I actually began writing this way back at the time of Money in the Bank, but stupid real life caught up with me and this ended up getting shelved for a long time. I almost abandoned it all together, but mountains of relentless feelz!bullying from the lovely MxJoyride and Glitterdune kept this alive, and I got my stride back and finished it.
It's not required that you read the precursors, but I would suggest it if you're into that kind of thing. It's MxJoyride's "Ice Cold" (the wonderful piece that started all of the Punkbrose), and my Punkbrose/Ambrolleigns follow up "Helter Skelter"
You all know what to expect from me, right? Mountains of verbose, self-indulgent smut. You all know I'm a long-winded motherfucker by now, yes? :-D
And you should also know I'm not going to leave you without suggesting a delicious, feelzy soundtrack to read this in conjunction with:
My Jerusalem: "Born in the Belly," "Shatter Together," "Preachers"
Afghan Whigs: "Citi Soleil," "Debonair," "Somethin' Hot," "Crazy," "Gentlemen"
PJ Harvey: "Rub It 'Til It Bleeds"
Depeche Mode: "I Feel You"
Mikky Ekko: "We Must Be Killers"
Radiohead: "There, There"
Garbage: "Push It"
TV on the Radio: "DLZ"
Screaming Trees: "Shadow of the Season," "For Celebrations Past," "Troubled Times," "Julie Paradise"
I know real life has gotten hectic for all of us, but I hope the painfully talented Sisterhood of Shield Slash is still around and enjoys this piece of selfish catharsis I've spewed out. I can't thank everyone enough for all the personal and creative support they've offered to me the entire time I've been in this fandom. Some lines in this may look a touch familiar; I had to pay tribute and homage to some of the brilliant works in this fandom. Please accept my humble offering.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield or CM Punk or anything WWE. I'm not claiming any of this true; this is simply my perverted fantasy, and I hope that someone else out there derives as much joy from this as I do. Also, I do not make any money off these perverted fantasies.
Okay, I know; I know. Shut up, ICT; you're a rambling fool. On to the fic!
…...
There are always doubts.
Always questions. Guilt. Shame. Denial.
Not tonight.
Punk just doesn't have it in him. Not tonight.
Punk's walk is steady and purposeful, though the rest of him is not.
The AC hits his sweaty skin and makes him shiver. He hasn't bothered to shower. He hasn't even bothered to put on pants. Earlier, he had thrown a hoodie over his head and called it quits there.
So he stalks through the back quickly, a sweaty, haphazardly comprised image in his sweater and trunks and boots.
But he hasn't ended up like this due to happenstance. He's been through this; he's not in denial. It may not be an entirely planned phenomenon, but it's certainly not due to simple chance.
This is bait. His resolve and bravado is worn to dust, and he's pacing through the bustling arena next to naked. The implications are clear. This is Dean's domain: it will take him all of a second to smell blood. And tonight, Punk needs. Needs Dean hungry and kneeling in front of him. So he lays the scent close to Dean's path and waits for the inevitable.
Rather, he prompts the inevitable.
He spots Dean, back against the wall, leaning with a foot propped. He's fiddling with the tape around his wrist. He's surprisingly sans Rollins and Reigns. Punk doesn't care to contemplate.
Dean's shirt is tight against his chest and stomach. His hair is a sweaty and disheveled mop about his head, tousled strands veils over his eyes. There's a grace to Dean's presence, one that Punk finds disconcerting. Punk is unnerved at how easily Dean finds poise and beauty in such disarray, how he lives in that space so comfortably.
Punk continues to approach. Dean's ears perk up; his shoulders tense in recognition, but he does not look up.
Punk's jaw clenches. He's in no mood for Dean's games. Punk digs through the pockets of his hoodie, hands growing less steady by the second. He finds what he's looking for, clasps it between his fingers.
Without turning his head to regard Dean, Punk whips out the spare keycard and presses it harshly to Dean's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean's head snap up, but Punk isn't willing to get caught by the sharp blue of Dean's eyes… not yet. He'll get more than his share of that to come, so he keeps walking, without a look and without a word.
…...
Punk is barely out of the shower-has barely had time to throw shorts over his still wet form-when he hears the lock on his door hum.
The soft release of the latch sounds like a gunshot.
Punk pads over to the door quickly, whips it open before Dean has a chance to fully withdraw his keycard. Dean's eyes regard him from underneath the shadow of his eyebrows, looking far less taken aback than he has any right to.
Punk grabs Dean's shirt by the handful, yanks him into the room roughly, inhales a quick and ragged breath, perceiving the combination of sweat, cigarettes, and some musky shampoo. He's intoxicated for a moment, clumsily shoves Dean backwards, uses him to slam the door shut.
Punk wretches Dean forward again, drags him heavily to his knees. Punk is surprised to find himself already panting, strangely unable to draw a full breath, desire snaking hotly around his spine and through his veins. It settles, burning in the center of his chest, scalding his lungs.
His fingers grip Dean's chin before he has time to think, tilt his face upward. The fingers of his other hand shove the sweaty hair back from Dean's forehead. Dean leisurely looks up at Punk, jaw relaxed and mouth open.
Blue eyes, pink mouth, wet tongue.
"Suck me," Punk grunts out, voice gruff in his own ears. His lips feel dry. His entire mouth feels dry. He licks his lips and clears his throat. "Suck it. Blow me. I need it."
Punk pushes his hips closer, less steady as Dean's eyes glitter crystal up at him, as his irises go big then small.
Dean grins, teeth white and sharp, sharp as his eyes.
Dean stares up at Punk for a few seconds, and then his eyelids flutter downward-softly; a small move that makes Punk's cock harden, makes his stomach tighten in apprehension.
Dean's hands find Punk's hips, stroke up his sides gently, glide up easily with the slickness on Punk's hips. He presses open mouth kisses to Punk's stomach sweetly, breathes hot gusts against his skin. Punk shudders, some leaden darkness promised in Dean's soft ministrations… something in the air too quiet.
Punk doesn't realize that he's still touching Dean-hands in Dean's hair-until Dean rears up against him, comes to his full height in a blur. He pushes Punk into a distant wall with his entire body. Punk's back hits the wall, makes the TV next to them shake.
Dean's mouth comes down on his, hot and hard and wet, and Punk's entire being panics and resists before his brain can catch up.
Dean's mouth is gone. It's gone so quickly that Punk's not sure it was ever there in the first place. But adrenaline is shooting up straight from his toes to his finger tips, his sight is red, and he's swinging his arms against Dean regardless.
"Hey, fuck you-" Punk grits between blind hits.
Dean knocks Punk's arms away and wraps his hands around Punk's throat, pushes him back against the wall with another thud. Dean's hands constrict around his throat, a firm and unmovable thing. "Fuck me? Fuck me?" Dean raises his voice the second time.
Dean pushes in for another kiss, stays there for a second longer, resolute. His mouth is hot. Punk's lips burn when Dean pulls away. Blood rushes in a million different directions when Dean squeezes his throat just a little harder. Sweat forms on his skin.
"Fuck me?" Dean repeats, a growl around the edge of his voice. Dean shakes his head. His hair flies wildly in turn. "No. Fuck you." Dean's eyes are venom, softened only by the seemingly constant amusement that's always lurking in their depths. "You're really fucking adorable, you know that? You still don't get it, do you? You don't get how this works." Dean shakes his head again, eyes scorned and despondent. Punk's stomach drops at the look. "We're not playing by your fucking rules tonight. I'm so sick of your fucking rules."
Dean's arms extend as he pulls back, turns his face away in frustration. Punk breathes the closest thing to a sigh that Dean's grip will allow. Dean's fingers begin to loosen, and Punk's relieved.
And he's disappointed.
He's suddenly cold- cold without all of Dean's heat seeping into him, forcing its way through his pores and his blood.
Dean shakes the hair out of his eyes.
And then he's shoving back into Punk with a vengeance. The heat is back in full force, and so is the pressure, compressing his lungs. Dean clenches his fists, and this time Punk really can't breathe. If he could, he would have forgotten to, because Dean's mouth is against his ear, breathing hot, heavy, moist breath against him. "You little fuck. You selfish fucking fuck." Punk's vibrating with the gravel in Dean's voice. "You're not the only one who needs something tonight."
Punk doesn't have time to panic at the implication. Dean presses in further and thrusts his hips up against Punk, forcefully enough that it lifts Punk off his feet for just a moment. Punk groans out loudly as the thick, firm heat of Dean's cock rubs against his own. He's surprised to hear the sound of his own voice-blearily confused at how he could make the sound with no air.
Dean pulls his hands away suddenly, and the sudden intake of air makes Punk dizzy. Dean presses in closer-how the fuck does he press in closer? How is it even possible to get fucking closer?-holds Punk against the wall with his body. Punk's stomach tightens as he feels Dean's shoulders shake against him-feels his low, knowing laughter before he hears it. Dean's hand maneuvers through the tight space between the wall and Punk's head, his fingers tangling deeply into Punk's hair and pulling--and it stings so sweetly that Punk turns into putty. Dean's laugh rumbles against him; Punk's heart pounds in time with the sound and his body melts into the wall.
Dean's other hand is a firm, immobilizing grip on Punk's chin. He licks a wet, possessive line up the side of Punk's face, and Punk almost jumps out of his skin, even as his own cock pulses against his stomach. Fucking weirdo. Punk pushes Dean away with wobbly limbs, and he's only aware of how uncommitted the movement is once he attempts it.
Dean uses the rough grip on Punk's chin to tilt his head up, forces Punk to meet his eyes, and Dean's cerulean gaze is almost as immobilizing as the grip on his chin. Punk realizes hazily that Dean is using his few extra inches in height as leverage, towering over him, beckoning Punk's submission.
Dean covers Punk's mouth with his own, and it's just on the verge of too wet. Dean, again, pulls back before Punk has a chance to push him away.
"Stop," Dean demands smoothly, somehow extends the word into one lingering, condescending drawl. The sound infuriates Punk; makes him buck against Dean rebelliously.
"Stop," Dean murmurs again, although he's humming the remnants of the sound against Punk's lips. Dean's tongue parts his lips this time, delves in slowly and decisively. Gently. Invasively. Punk is perturbed at the pleasure of it. He pushes against Dean's chest stubbornly-and he feels some sort of sleepy, dreamy horror that he's not pushing against Dean harder, that he's not exerting any real opposing force.
Dean pulls away with a sigh, no real frustration in the sound. He brushes his nose against Punk's, and there's hardly any additional distance between them at all. Dean's so close that he may as well be fucking kissing him again. There's some laughable poetry here, between the violence of Dean's grip and the tenderness of Dean's kisses. Dean breathes against him, and for one of very few instances tonight, Punk breathes too. He catches the faint scent of mint and something distinctively Dean. Punk's lips are still wet from Dean's kisses, his brain flooded with Dean's scent, his skin burning from Dean's touch… and goddamn it- this motherfucker is everywhere on everything all at once, like some deliciously smothering blanket.
Punk's drowning; he wants to find the surface… doesn't want to get anywhere near the surface. But… it can't end like this, can't end with him wanting this… needing this. It can't; all of his resisting and beliefs can't lead him nowhere… to right where Dean wants him. To wanting Dean. To wanting all of Dean.
"Fucking stop," Dean snarls, and the sound is genuinely angry, nothing like the cat-like persuasions he's been uttering all night. Dean speaks it like he's snapping directly at the doubts inside Punk's head, preemptively dissuading Punk's next resistance.
Dean tugs authoritatively at Punk's hair. Punk winces; he'd become accustomed to Dean's grip on his hair until just now. Dean uses his grip on Punk's hair to push their faces closer. Dean's lips brush against Punk's as he speaks, "Just fucking stop it and let me give you what you need."
Dean shoves their mouths together, and this time it's clear that Dean isn't going anywhere. He holds Punk's head still as he kisses him more deeply, slips his tongue between lips. He sweeps his tongue through Punk's mouth sweetly, purposefully. Punk's hands dip to Dean's waist; he's contemplating pushing him away again, but Dean's shirt has ridden up his torso slightly, and instead of Punk's fingers meeting the tight spandex of Dean's tactical shirt, they meet skin. Hot, smooth skin.
Punk groans and melts, pulls Dean in instead of pushing him away. And fuck-he kisses Dean back. Runs his hands from Dean's hips, up his stomach and to his chest, kneads him there greedily, growls a pleased noise from low in his throat. He laces his arms through Dean's somehow, wraps both hands around the back of Dean's neck, tries to pull him closer. And-Punk really wants Dean to let go of his fucking head so he can kiss him harder, can kiss Dean like he wants.
"Let go of my fucking head," is what Punk tries to say, but it's hard to tell because Dean's mouth is relentless, smearing Punk's words into a jumble of sounds.
But Dean must have gotten the gist of it, because he rumbles something that sounds like a laugh and releases his iron clad grip on Punk's head. He runs his hands down Punk's sore ribs, drifts lower and squeezes the softness at Punk's waist with a satisfied growl. Punk whimpers a low sound.
Punk responds eagerly, embarrassingly eagerly…uses his new found mobility to press his mouth to Dean's hard, thrusts his tongue into his mouth… and at this point Punk really doesn't care if it's pleasurable for either of them, just knows he needs more, needs something to quell this gnawing yearning that's spreading in his chest.
Dean's body vibrates with laughter, and he begins to pull away, a question hanging in the air, "What-"
But Punk's not ready to let go yet, and he certainly doesn't give a fuck about what Dean's going to say. Punk pushes in and kisses him with determined hunger. Dean utters a surprised sound and Punk can't help but feel smugness swirl in with the rest of the tide. Dean emits a pleased hum, kisses Punk back, matches his voracity. He cups Punk's face tenderly… like it's some kind of reward.
Dean's palm presses against Punk's throat before he pulls away again, urging Punk's head against the wall. There's no real force holding Punk there this time, just warm, persuasive pressure. There's lust fogging Dean's eyes, but it's rapidly clearing as Dean's focus narrows.
"What I was going to ask-" Punk is distracted by Dean's mouth, pink and kiss-swollen. Punk licks his lips, wants to dive back in.
Dean presses his palm in harder, just hard enough to regain Punk's attention. Punk's eyes snap back up to Dean's, catching the smirk on his face and the devil in his eye. Dean ducks slightly-to kiss him again, Punk thinks, but instead, Dean tilts just so and licks along the lower edge of Punk's bottom lip, where his lip ring used to be. Punk flinches… goddamn it, strange motherfucker. Twice.
The fingers of Dean's other hand go to Punk's chin, gentle and tender this time, nothing like the mercurial glint in his eyes. "-is whatever happened to that slutty lip ring of yours that I liked so much?"
Punk's body flares up with anger. Dean's eyes light up with recognition, glitter with satisfaction, and then he's kissing Punk sweetly-so sweetly that the anger blossoming in Punk's gut dies instantly.
"Hmm?" Dean hums and pulls away again. Dean looks Punk's face over lazily. "Bet'd it'd feel amazing once those lips are wrapped around my cock."
Punk's eyes go wide. He flushes and immediately averts his gaze. There's an uncomfortable swirl as Punk's body goes cold and stiff with panic… as his cock jumps excitedly in his shorts at the thought of it, very aware of Dean's heavy cock against his hip. He swallows and he can feel himself turning red.
Dean laughs again in Punk's ear. The sound flushes Punk's skin hotter, rushes straight past his stomach and into his cock. Dean brushes his lips against Punk's cheek absent-mindedly. Some cool amusement dances in his eyes as he looks at Punk.
"Calm down, sweetheart," he husks patronizingly. Punk bristles immediately. "I'm just fucking with you. No one's getting forced to do nothing here."
Punk swallows again, becoming more and more humiliatingly aware that force would not be a factor in this at all.
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, in that goddamn way of his.. that way that makes Punk want to both punch and kiss him. Fuck it, maybe he'll do both. Wouldn't be the first time.
"Didn't you used to have nipple rings too?" Dean twists both of Punk's nipples with a lacksidasical swivel of his wrists.
Punk yelps-and fuck, that changes things fast.
Dean smiles knowingly, like there's some joke and he's the only one in on it.
Dean bites his lip before resuming, and Punk feels something in himself go weak as more blood flows into his cock. "Yeah, I figured that must mean they're sensitive." He slaps Punk's nipples succinctly before pinching them again. Hard. Punk jerks and groans, rubs his body against Dean's wantonly before he can stop himself.
He expects another condescending laugh from Dean, braces himself as the flush creeps into his cheeks.
Instead, a shaky, rough groan from Dean as he leans in, bites the spot where Punk's lip ring should be. "Fuck, I like that," Dean rasps. Dean looks at him pointedly, lust raw in his eyes, and for once Dean isn't one step ahead of him.
"Think about putting them back in, yeah?"
And it's Dean purring these words against his mouth; it's hardly a question at all.
"Please?"
Even when Dean is begging, it sounds like a demand.
"For me?"
For me. Dean says this as if it's supposed to mean something to Punk.
Dean sinks to his knees in one fluid movement, catches the waist of Punk's shorts on his way down. Punk's shorts are around his ankles and his cock is down Dean's throat in the space of one smooth, hot swallow. Punk slumps against the wall and bundles Dean's hair in both of his fists. Dean uses an indulgent, wet glide over his length: all the way up, all the way down. Dean's tongue is a flushed, insistent pressure the whole time, and it's almost too much pleasure to bear. Punk squeezes his eyes shut, sees flashes of endless colors dance behind his eyelids.
Dean swallows him down again and Punk has to hold his head to him, can't let that relentless, torturous pleasure release him just yet. Punk opens his eyes-and fuck, he shouldn't have, because Dean's eyes are pure bliss as he stares up, his mouth stretched languorously around Punk's cock, and it's too much. His breath hitches and he grips Dean's hair at the roots. Punk can feel his balls tighten as euphoria spirals up his spine.
Dean grips the base of Punk's cock, squeezes just that much too firmly, drives off his orgasm just as quickly as he beckoned it. Punk releases a devastated groan.
Dean pulls off and raises an eyebrow at Punk, exasperatedly untangles the fingers fisted in his hair.
"And you all wonder why I'm losing my fucking hair," Dean grumbles. Dean makes his way back up to his feet easily, pulls Punk in at the waist.
Dean kisses him lazily, slides his tongue into Punk's mouth, murmurs against his lips, "Not so bad, hmm?"
Punk chooses to ignore Dean instead of panicking. He's not functioning well enough to be that agitated. Punk picks at the tight fabric of Dean's shirt. He's overwhelmingly aware of Dean's fully clothed state, and it only serves to make Punk feel more naked in comparison. Dean swats at Punk's wrists lethargically, nips at Punk's bottom lip sharply. Distractingly, Punk realizes too late as Dean spins them both around, pushes Punk stomach-down on the bed.
Dean's movements don't seem hurried or aggressive, which strikes Punk as odd because Dean is hovering over him faster than he can blink, too fast to give Punk a chance to feel uneasy. Dean re-arranges Punk on the bed with a strangely effortless grace, and Punk is face down on the bed, back arched and ass up in the air. And surely this is a panic-enducing position, but Dean's tongue laps an impossibly wet warmth over Punk's balls with the flat of his tongue, trails delicately to his entrance, and all Punk can do is moan and shiver.
Dean flicks his tongue against him over and over again, until all Punk can do is mewl and disintegrate into a heap on the bed. Punk distantly hears Dean's gratified growl vibrate against his sensitive skin, feels Dean squeeze his ass with both hands, the severity of his grip just demanding enough to gradually rouse Punk from his haze.
Dean licks a trail up to the base of Punk's spine, drags his teeth against the bone there. Punk shudders, arches his back, sinks lower as his knees slip further apart on the bed.
Then a very slippery finger slides inside him, one swift movement. Punk's first instinct is to gasp, but the sound sticks in his throat. His brain can't quite wrap around how it feels: not painful, not pleasurable, just foreign pressure.
"Shhhh, relax," Dean whispers into his hip, sucks at the softness there, gnaws briefly. "This is what you really need. I know it. I can feel it."
Dean begins pumping his finger slowly, lips trailing up Punk's spine, warm breath in the crook of his neck. Punk feels the pressure of Dean's heavy weight on his own bent over form. Dean's weight is deliciously crushing, surprisingly assuring in its constance. The fingers of Dean's other hand wrap around Punk's shaft. With the whirr of so many sensations, the hardness of Punk's cock had become a perpetual drone in the background. It's pure relief as Dean's fingers constrict around him.
Another finger slips in, and it's still more indeterminable pressure as his fingers bury into him at the hilt. Punk shudders, suddenly and keenly sensitive. His cock tingles and swells exquisitely in Dean's warm grip. Dean's breath against his neck makes his flesh prickle with goose bumps. He feels the rough cloth of Dean's pants against his ass, feels the heat of his cock straining against the fabric, nudging his thigh, and Punk shivers again, some anxious impatience gathering near the stem of his brain.
Dean pulls his fingers out slowly, and Punk feels something inside lament the loss, feels barometrically out of balance with the removal of that steadying pressure. Dean's weight lifts from him, and the cool air feels like a bite to Punk's skin.
And it's all sounds from there: the metallic release of Dean's zipper, the bunching of tearing plastic, some slick noise and wet movement, a shallow and unsteady breath.
A blunt nudge against Punk's entrance and he's no longer concerned with deciphering noise. Dean's entire length rubs against him, swollen and hot, and Punk feels some acute desperation inside him as it rubs against him teasingly, some sharp emptiness craving that heaviness pushing deep inside, longing for that filling pressure. Punk pushes back against him with a low grunt, fingers twitching around the sheets clutched in his fist.
The flushed head swipes against Punk's entrance one more time. A hand grips his hip and then there's a decisive push, fullness urging forward in one steady motion. Punk feels the weight of balls come to rest against his ass-and fuck it all, he doesn't know if this hurts or feels good-all he knows is the heavy pressure surging down on his cock and before he can comprehend the rush of sensation, he's hyperventilating and cumming all over Dean's fist.
Punk's not sure how long it takes to come to back to reality, but when he does, Dean's chest is pressed against his back, both arms wrapped around his waist like anacondas. He's folded over him tightly. Dean noses the hair at the base of Punk's neck tenderly, nuzzles his way over to Punk's ear.
Dean nips the flesh just below precisely, and Punk jolts. The haze, heavy before, parts rapidly. "Well, isn't that fucking something?" Dean breathes darkly against his ear. Fuck. "Fighting me… pushing me away all this time, giving me the mother of all fat lips…" Dean laughs incredulously, and Punk hears his heart begin to angrily thud against his ribs. Hot fury pushes sweat to his pores.
Punk can see Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean blinks slowly, "… And then I let you at my dick for all of two fucking seconds and you're cumming all over the place."
Punk blinks. He'd almost forgotten what a volatile motherfucker Ambrose can be, his once suffocating sweetness giving away to turbulence. Dean squeezes his vice grip around Punk's waist even harder, and Punk can't breathe.
Dean pushes his hips in further, and now Punk really can't breathe. But Dean can, and he's right back in Punk's ear, "Fucking figure that-you're a natural at this."
Punk squirms-to get away? he doesn't fucking know-embarrassment and rage is rushing hotly through his body.
Dean's growl tickles his eardrum, "And just where the fuck do you think you're going?" Dean's arms pull Punk closer; he thrusts slowly against him a few times. Punk gasps at the movement, somehow-in the midst of the chaos-having lost that he's filled to the brim. "I guess I gotta be the one to break it to you, sweetheart. You're still fucking hard."
Punk is momentarily too confused to remain angry. One of Dean's hands drifts lower, grasps Punk's cock as if to prove his point, caresses it lovingly. Even as pleasure sings through his nerves at the touch, even as his cock throbs in Dean's grip, Punk has to look down to see for himself. Fucking Christ.
Dean strokes him slowly, licks a path wetly up to Punk's jaw. "That's right, motherfucker. This is what you need. I've known it. I've always known it. And you're gonna let me make you feel good. You're gonna shut the fuck up and let me give you what you need. " A sharp nip. "You're not gonna drift off on me." Another sharp nip. "You're gonna know it's me giving you what you need." Faster stroking. "I can be a dick to you all night if that's what it takes."
Dean begins thrusting rhythmically, and Punk has no words to offer. Dean briefly halts to let go of Punk and rearrange him hastily, prop him up so he's on his hands and knees. One of Dean's skillful hands returns to Punk's cock, stroking him in a slick grip. The other hand braces on Punk's hip, squeezes him there indulgently as he begins driving thrusts.
And it's not just some addictive pressure that Punk is chasing anymore. There's a burning stretch as Dean drives his girth into Punk over and over again, followed by some bone-bending pleasure as Dean's cock strokes at something deep inside of him. Punk quivers as Dean repeatedly brushes against that spot, squeezes Punk's cock just the way he likes each time he withdraws. The zipper of Dean's pants scratches his ass in some oddly steady cadence, rubs the skin raw with every deliciously overwhelming inward push.
Dean releases Punk's hip, presses a firm hand to the small of Punk's back. Punk groans out desperately, as Dean forces his back to arch even more, forces Punk to take his cock even deeper. Punk's elbows give, and he's face down in the mattress again as Ambrose drives the air out of his lungs with his thrusts, jabs at that bundle of nerves with some gorgeous savagery.
Dean's fingers wind in the hair at the back of his head, pull him up right with vicious force-and fuck if this guy doesn't know what he likes. Punk's legs go wobbly and slide apart on the bed again.
Dean pulls Punk's head so far back that Punk's head rests against his shoulder, that Punk's back is an arched bow as he stares up at Dean.
"That's right, baby… open up for me," Dean grits in his ear. And Dean has that funny way about him, of somehow being able to make Punk's skin crawl and make his cock throb excitedly against his own belly simultaneously.
The hand that isn't on Punk's cock moves to his throat, holds Punk against his shoulder as his hips move in short, impatient snaps against Punk's.
"Do you have any idea of how much trouble you're getting me in, anyways?"
Punk shoots Dean a confused look, but Dean jerks Punk's neck back further-and it fucking hurts--hurts so sweetly as Dean thrusts his tongue into Punk's mouth-it's more of an invasion than it is a kiss-continues drilling his hips against Punk's.
"Not with Seth, of course."
"Nghhh," is the yearning purr that leaves Punk's lips as Dean squeezes throat just that much harder.
Dean laughs lowly again, and Punk feels Dean's cock twitch inside him excitedly.
"No, Seth would have swallowed that sweet cock of yours down his pretty fucking throat a long time ago if it weren't for me and Rome giving him all the fucking dick he can handle."
And the thought of that throat closing around his desperately aching cock almost drives him over the edge, as Dean's cock and fist keep him at that agonizingly beautiful brink.
"No, it's Rome. He's gotta bit of a jealous streak. But… he doesn't understand how sweet this ass of yours is. Fuck, if he could feel this ass of yours…"
Dean's hips begin to lose rhythm against his, the pummeling clap of skin against skin resounding in the room loudly. Dean grips Punk's chin, pulls their faces together, kisses him with an earnest desperation that makes Punk's knees go weak.
"Cum for me again, you beautiful fuck," Dean's growls against his mouth. His thrusts are inescapable, his kisses achingly sincere, chasing Punk over the edge. Punk swears he's going to hell as his cock throbs with the idea of being some point of contention between the three men, some relished and resented background threat.
Dean knocks his arms out from under him, quickly traps Punk's arms behind his back, pushes Punk flat on his belly. Dean thrusts against him with that irresistible force, grinds Punk's cock into the soft sheets deliciously.
Dean's frenzied breath against the back of his neck, the hundreds of pounds of crashing down into him, crushing the breath right from his body, the fucking friction of fucking everything is too much and Punk is shuddering and cumming again. Punk almost doesn't hear himself scream. Dean's cock is putting more beautiful pressure on him, pushing him through orgasm, pushing every ounce of tension out of his body.
There are a few more erratic thrusts from Dean before he stills stiffly on top of him, pinning Punk's wrists to the bed. Dean mutters a string of curse words against Punk's sweaty skin, slumps in an intoxicatingly warm heap on top of him.
Punk begins to think that Dean may never get off him. Dean just lies there, massages his arms and shoulders roughly.
Punk ponders drowsily: he must have a weird thing for asphyxiation, because he's in no hurry for the heavy motherfucker to stop crushing him and let him breathe again.
But at some point-and Punk's really not sure when this point occurs-Dean gingerly pulls out of him, lifts himself with more grumbled curses. Something about how he can't fucking leave looking like this…
Even with 220 pounds removed from his back, Punk can't even begin to think about moving. Punk folds his arm under his head and rests his cheek on it, letting his eyes fall closed.
He hears Dean pad back and forth unsurely, muttering a series of varying and incomplete complaints to himself, fucking ADHD head case.
Finally Dean ceases. Punk raises an eyebrow when Dean ruffles his hair. The sound of Dean's footsteps grow quieter and fade away. Then the sound of a squeaking faucet and the shower running. Punk raises his eyebrows and actually opens his eyes this time, incredulous at how comfortable Ambrose has made himself in his room.
Punk's limbs feel like a thousand pounds of lead, but as he notices the sheets grow uncomfortably sticky against him, he realizes he has to move. He sighs and stands up, pulls the sheets from the bed with exaggerated effort. He finally throws the sheets on the floor, flops back-first onto the bed. He looks down at the crumpled bedding, wonders how big of a tip he needs to leave the cleaning lady to make up for this. He looks down, takes his own state into account, even considers joining Dean in the shower. He shifts and feels a satisfied breed of soreness radiate through his body, and quickly decides he can't handle another round of what Dean has to offer tonight.
Punk dozes off to the quiet whirr of water running. He's not sure when Dean emerges from the bathroom, but when he does, he's dripping wet-naked as the day he was born. Dean tosses his own clothes carelessly at the pile on the floor.
Punk can sleepily appreciate Dean's form: smooth and lean, a brawler's body.
Dean towels himself off noncommittally as he strides over to Punk's dresser, rummages through the drawers until he finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.
Fucking presumptive-What the fuck does he think he's doing?
Dean quickly shimmies into Punk's sweats and his-hey, fucker!-his favorite Bad Religion shirt. It's too tight on Dean. He's gonna stretch it.
"What the fuck do you-"
And Dean practically glides over to the bed. He leans over Punk and kisses him, fucking charmingly. Dean smells like Punk as he hovers over him, and it's far too alluring; the protest dies right in Punk's throat.
"I'll give these back next time I see you." Dean stands up and points at the pile on the floor, "I'll pick those up too."
Dean scratches Punk's head affectionately, then spins on his heel and strolls barefoot to the door.