If I'm honest I'm not sure where this came from. I was at work doing boring officey stuff when this idea snuck up on me like a ninja. Probably set early 2000's.
Please review, I've not written anything beyond end of month reports in a long time so any feedback, positive or negative would be GREATLY apperciated.
It's a pointless struggle to force yourself to go against the learned habit of a lifetime, trailing in the wake of something more than you. In school it was your friends, your family's academic hopes for you, whilst you dreamed of the wrestling ring and doodled your gear, you drifted on autopilot scarping a passing grade and dreaming of the bright lights and cheers of a wrestling crowd. Now, you trail behind something, someone, who in all honesty, is at times more force of nature than actual member of humanity. He's all fire and spit and vinegar, jagged and abrasive and scruffy. You, you're the clean cut, wholesome, bumbling fool that goes along behind, the loveable lackey, the naive henchmen to his super-villain.
At least that is the outside perception, that he charges forward without a glance behind and you, like the tail of a comet trailing behind, faithfully following in his wake, collecting the collateral, dodging the fallout and soothing the tempers he's frayed.
On the inside though, the inside is a little different. Inside your relationship, without implying more than there is, but friendship seems too trite, camaraderie maybe, alliance perhaps, words aren't your strongest point. The inside of this thing is different to how most people on the outside perceive it and you know that. On the inside, you know that he's a fraying, tangled, jumbled mess of chaos and half formed thoughts and ideas and manic energy that needs the outlet standing in front of a room half-full of people with a mic in his hand and a snarl on his lips or tangling in the violent ballet that you both love, gives. He needs a crowd and a performance and when he doesn't have it, when he's too tired, too hurt, too entrenched in the mire that his own thoughts conjure up, he has you. You're the balm to soothe his hurt and his temper. Not water to his fire, because that would suggest that somehow you are capable of smothering him, of putting him out. You're more like the control knob for gas on a stove, you can lower the flame, make it smaller for a while. Without you, you worry he'd burnout too quickly, that he'd somehow use himself up and be gone or set the kitchen on fire.
It starts in much the same way it always does, he's been snapping at people more often, his strikes connect a little more sharply, his comebacks at fans a little more cruel. In short, he is a more vicious version of himself and the scowls and glares sent at you by mutual friends clearly show that it is time for you to employ your skills as a Punk-whisperer.
So you go to him, carefully, if there's one thing you have learnt over the time you've spent with him, it's that he doesn't accept help without protest. If he had his way, he would keep going until his hand was forced, until it all gets so bad that he has to seek you out. It was like that in the beginning, when you weren't quite sure what he needed from you and it was all blind fumbling in the dark. The same feeling you get when the power is out and you try to feel your way to closet where you keep the flashlight, the familiar surroundings of your apartment rendered unrecognisable by shadows and unknown noises.
The first time, the brash out-spoken Punk that you were used to was nowhere to be seen and in his place was an almost meek because even when he's desperate, meek is not something he could ever conceivably be, nervous person. He showed up at your place and sat on the sofa, sat almost daintily rather than sprawled in his usual fashion. This timid creature sat and asked softly if he could stay the night. You assumed that he needed a place to crash because he was fighting with his girlfriend, an easy assumption, dating Punk is like trying to catch the wind, at least this is what you have observed because you are decidedly not dating. No, whatever this is, whatever you are doing, it's not a "relationship", you are certainly not his boyfriend and you have no intention of introducing him to your parents as anything other than your wrestling friend Punk.
So that first time, you assumed that the sofa would be his bed for the night. He slept, sleeps and will likely continue to sleep on your sofa on a semi-regular basis, claiming that your place is closer than any hotel he'd pay to stay in. However, that first time, he followed you to bed, slipped under the covers and lay perfectly still beside you in the darkness. At the time questioning him seemed pointless, you learnt early in your friendship that questioning his actions will 9 times out of 10 result in him ignoring you. So you let him be. You fell asleep to the sound of him breathing and the traffic on the street outside your apartment. You woke, some unknown time later, to a weight on your chest and a mouth full of peroxide blond hair. He woke up and looked at you from where his head rested on your chest, with a wary look in his eyes. You simply gathered his hair back and re-tied it in the band that had been holding it off his face, wrapped an arm around his waist and went back to sleep.
You didn't have sex that night, more often than not you don't. The majority of the time you just share a bed, his head tucked under your chin and your arms looped around him. In fact, you don't actually remember the first time you had sex. You think that it should be something you remember, the first time you fucked your best friend but really, you can't. You think it was in some random hotel and you think it was awkward, no, you know it was awkward but the details blur into the other times you've been inside him. Each occasion has melded into one rather pleasant memory for when you don't have a girl or him. The way he lies almost motionless beneath you, the way his eyes demand that you take care of him, that you pamper and protect him, take care of and for him. The way his legs, covered in long and slightly scratchy hair reassuringly obviously not female, wrap around your waist and pull you firmly to him. The way his hands scrabble at your back and clutch at your hair. The way his lips feel, the way they taste, the shape they make when he cries your name as his back arches in the throes of orgasm. The best memory though, the one thing you remember specifically from each occasion, is the smile he gives you once you've cum inside him. A smile you are certain no one but you has ever seen. His eyes hazy and mellow, the curve of his lips all kitten soft and gentle. That smile is probably the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You lay no claim to his body, his heart or his soul but that smile; you've mentally christened it yours. You're certain you would kill anyone else who ever sees that smile, it's yours and you are possessive of it.
You eventually find the room in the cheap motel that everyone agreed was okay for the night that has been designated as the one you'll share with him. It's a good distance from everyone else's and you aren't certain if this is because no one wants to have to deal with Punk or because no one wants to know exactly what you are going to do to calm him down. You open the door to an empty room, the sound of the shower and the pile of dirty clothes leaves you in no doubt as to his location. You debate with yourself about going in there and fucking him in the shower stall but you know that when it comes to sex between you two, he always pushes for a bed. It's a strange quirk, one of a myriad he has; you know that with the women he sleeps with, location is far from important. So instead, you strip down to boxers and sit on the bed. You flick through the channels on the TV and wait for him to get out of the bathroom so you can judge his mood.
The bathroom door closes quietly and you can tell straightaway that it'll be a night when you'll get that smile. He glances at you, then at the TV and raises an eyebrow. His expression eloquently stating switch it off and pay attention to me. You press the off button and throw the remote in the general direction of the bedside table. You stretch your arms out to him and mutter a soft "Punkers". He concedes to your request and comes to you easily. The kiss he presses to your lips is soft and barely there. He straddles your legs, sitting on your lap as you stroke his damp hair back from his face and study him for a few moments, overlaying his current almost non-expression with the smile you're hoping to receive later. His expression doesn't change but the look in his eyes clearly states what are you waiting for. So you kiss him, hands in his hair tangling as your tongue tangles with his. You nibble at his lips, careful of the ring there; it's new enough that he'll complain if you aren't. He makes a soft noise as you move from his lips to his throat, nipping gentle kisses along it, sucking behind his ear because he likes it, knowing it'll force that soft moan from him again. You move back along the bed, taking him with you and gently manoeuvre him to his back. He looks up at you and gestures with his chin towards the table by the bed, where the half-used bottle of lubricant sits. You grab it and then promptly ignore it in favour of placing more kisses along his throat, down his chest to his nipples, tugging at the rings in them with fingers and teeth. His back arching towards you and that soft moan of approval sounds in your ears. For a man so loud and vocal in every other aspect of his life, when it comes to sex with you, he is quiet and soft. You don't think of this as a negative review of your endeavours, rather an indication that this is something else to him, that alone with only you as his audience he doesn't feel the need to be on, with you he can be quiet and soft and fragile.
You pour a little of the lube into your hand and take a hold of his cock, slowly stroking it to from the semi-aroused state it had been in to full hardness. Teasing the slit with a fingernail and rubbing the head with slow firm strokes. His hips cant upwards and your name tumbles from his lips on a breath. His eyes are slits gazing at you, the message is clearly hurry up and briefly you consider ignoring him and bringing him off like this, only slow gentle strokes building his orgasm like assembling a ship in a bottle, painstakingly slow but rewarding all the same. However, he has other ideas and in a fit of unusual participation wraps one long, lean and deceptively strong leg around you, pulling you closer to him, bringing your boxer clad groin into contact with his. You take the hint and shed your underwear swiftly, pouring more lube into your hand and gently easing a finger inside him. You work it back and forth, letting him get comfortable with one, before sliding another in. Preparing him to take you is something you honestly enjoy a lot more than you should, he's never not suffocatingly tight around that first finger and it reassures you that no other man has ever been given the privilege of seeing CM Punk on his back with his legs spread waiting to be taken. It's a strangely gratifying thought, that he considers you to be worthy of this.
You enter him slowly, offering him reassuring caresses along his thighs, up to his chest and finally his cheek, cupping it gently as you press a kiss to his lips. Once your thighs are pressed against his, you wait. At this moment your patience feels infinite, you are certain that you would be happy to wait like this forever, waiting for him to give you the look that says hurry up and fuck me. You start slowly, withdrawing slightly only to press forwards once more. You gather speed at a steady pace. You never seem to be able to fully pound into him, it's never a porno quality fuck between you, there is always that undercurrent of gentleness. This isn't about getting off after all, at least you think it isn't, it's difficult to tell what he thinks about the whole thing because you never ask and he never volunteers information. Your orgasm almost sneaks up on you; you've felt it tingling in your balls for a while, as you watch his eyes trying to gauge how close he is. The answer comes as swiftly as he does. His back curving towards you and the warm fluid of his release covers the hand you had wrapped around him. His body tightens and flutters around your shaft and you manage two or three more strokes before you cum in him, cradling his body close to you as you bury your face in his shoulder. As your breathing returns to normal, he smiles at you. That kitten fluff soft smile that makes you want this more often than you get it. That smile that makes the mild confusion this situation brings and the shit you have to wade through to get into it worthwhile. You use your discarded boxers to make a half-assed attempt at cleaning up, knowing that in the morning you'll just have a shower and flop onto your back. As soon as your spine hits the sheets, his head is tucked beneath your chin, his hands clasped under his own. You settle one arm around his waist and the other moves through his hair. You have no idea if he likes to have his hair stroked but you enjoy it and he's never objected. You press a kiss to his forehead and close your eyes, muttering Goodnight Punkers. The returned G'night Colt, is half-slurred with the onset of sleep. You smile knowing that tomorrow everything will return to normal, that you will be the Bebop or Rocksteady to his Shredder, the Smee to his Captain Hook. Tomorrow you will be the tail and he will be the comet and it will be fine, until the next time you find yourself in the position of his pillow.