Warnings: 3rd person POV, Slash (Jeff/Punk), Smut, Profanity, as this is side story to Chicxulub Crater so background Colt/Punk but it's not important really.
The first and only time Jeff wrestled for Ring of Honor, at Death before Dishonor, has a strange and painful place in his memory. It was far from his finest hour, the smarks in the audience were far from kind, his performance far from his best, all in all, it was a mess. It was also the first time he meet CM Punk. His thoughts on the man hadn't been overly deep; someone obviously important to this promotion and sure there was something of a big fish in a small pond with him but Punk was not someone Jeff could see ever making it in the big leagues, too small, too scruffy, too much not what they look for. He doesn't remember if there was any conversation between them beyond the standard locker room pleasantries, so when he collected his paycheque that night, he put CM Punk and ROH out of his mind and he was gone from there.
The next time Jeff found himself in close proximity to Punk; it was with anger burning in his gut. He screwed up, Jeff knew this, he'd fucked up his push through a bad decision but everyone makes those. He's certain the only reason they gave his Money in the Bank win to the scruffy bastard was to prove a point. It's a curious obsession Jeff has found himself with, the tattoos across Punk's knuckles, DRUG FREE, branded with something Jeff could never, would never, claim to be, lest he seemed a hypocrite. There's a time and place for hypocrisy and whilst often the WWE locker room is it, right now all that Jeff wants to do is punch the smug looking asshole in the mouth, hypocrisy be damned. By rights, the Heavyweight title should be his, it's a bitter thought and Jeff knows that it's his own poor choices that have led to this but couldn't they have waited until he'd moved rosters to let the smug little shit cash in.
The invitation to come out celebrating comes as little surprise to Jeff, the presence of Punk does, isn't he drug free, alcohol free and better than you? Why would the man be willing to spend his time in the company of a bunch of drunks when he could be busy doing whatever it is he does. Despite the confusion over Punk's being there, Jeff has a good time, drinks shots with the boys, dances with ring rats, flirts with waiting staff. Punk seems to be enjoying himself, has cornered someone, between distance and alcohol, Jeff can't tell who and seems to be engrossed in conversation with them but checking his phone obsessively, like he's waiting for something or someone. The anger from before hasn't abated if anything alcohol has fuelled the fire and Jeff burns with the urge to smack the grin off of Punk's face. It's a futile rage, Jeff knows this but that doesn't stop it from being there.
It wasn't really a conscious idea to invite the bastard into his hotel room but as Punk sets him down on the bed, Jeff is grateful that he invited himself in, the alcohol burning through Jeff's veins clouds his recollection of how they even got the hotel. There's a brief memory of his brother and some other people he can't quite place, then a solid body, long hair he kept breathing in and the scent of lemons.
"I remember you from ROH." The problem with alcohol is it makes Jeff's mouth and his brain unable to communicate with each other, one or the other gets away from him; in this case, it's both. There is a part of him that wants Punk to remember him from that one night; it's been ticking over in the back of his mind. Punk glances at him and another part of him that remembers Amy talking about Punk. His eyes, those are the first thing you notice, all exhausted but so very pretty and he looks at you like you're the only person he's interested in, only he doesn't look at Jeff that way, his phone on the other hand, he seems to be incapable of not checking it every five minutes.
"Sorry, I don't remember." Punk mutters, slipping the phone back in his pocket and standing.
"You wrestled Raven." A strange look flits over Punk's face and his hand goes back to his pocket, his intention of checking the thing again clear. Jeff lurches to his feet and grabs Punk's collar, pulling his face close. Punk sighs and takes a hold of Jeff's wrist, distractedly calm, as though used to dealing with random drunken outbursts and threats of violence.
"I don't remember you being there, I was." Punk trails off, searching for the right word but seems to give up with a shrug and prises Jeff's fingers from his shirt.
"I was booed out of the building." Jeff wishes he would just let this go, the man doesn't remember, it's not important but this is also the bastard who stole Jeff's spot, capitalised on his poor choices and damn it, Jeff wants some kind of acknowledgement from him.
"I was wrestling the Boss, I don't remember you." He moves away from Jeff, heads towards the door, checking his phone again. Without further thought, Jeff grabs his shoulder and spins him around, presses Punk firmly against the door. "You going to try and hit me, Hardy? I'd advise against it. I got you to your room like I said I would, now alls I wanna do is sleep so lemme go." The fist not clutching Punk's shirt balls and the urge to throw a punch at him is strong but for the first time since Jeff has met CM Punk, he is the full focus of his gaze, what Amy meant becomes quite apparent. He lets go of the shirt and with hands fisted in Punk's hair, Jeff kisses him fiercely, this isn't a romantic encounter, he isn't sure what it's about, it feels like it should be about proving a point, showing this scruffy bastard that he isn't better than him. No matter how Jeff fucks up, no matter how badly he screws up his, admittedly numerous, chances, there will always be something he is better at. The real World isn't the CM Punk obsessed baying crowds that congregated in armouries and high school gyms to watch a Ring of Honor show, the real World loves Jeff Hardy. The real World knows that the Heavy weight title belt that Punk is holding is Jeff's, knows that the scruffy man is kidding himself if he thinks that he' anything more than a mere paper champion, easily disposed of and easily sent back to his proper place in the lower card. Jeff knows the struggle of coming up the hard way, knows how driven and dedicated you have to be but he knows WWE, knows what management will push. No matter how much a guy like Heyman saw in Punk, he's not in the WWE mould, he might be a good talker but he's not built right, he doesn't fit into one of the right categories, there no way for him to be slotted into the WWE. Jeff, he's a high flyer, the high flyer, a daredevil, someone people will pay hundreds of dollars to watch leap of things and laugh in the face of death. Punk, he's a talker, a technical talker, not the sort of thing any normal mark is going to pay to see. Let the Internet bleat and complain that their darling isn't being used right, Jeff knows what Punk's chances of being anything other than in the mid-card are; zero.
Punk doesn't protest the kiss, just seems to let it happen, not really an active part of it but not fighting it either, merely accepting it as something that is happening to him. His phone makes a noise and Jeff breaks the kiss to stare at the other man, who fidgets under Jeff's gaze, before fishing his phone out of his pocket and looking at it, something changes in Punk's stance, his shoulders seem slumped, his eyes grimly distant. Without really thinking his actions through, Jeff strokes his cheek, tilts his head up from where it's bowed to look at the phone and kisses him again, softer this time, more gentle but now Punk reacts, grips Jeff's hair tightly and dominates the kiss, all teeth and tongue.
"Fuck, want you." Jeff groans against the other man's neck, it's not often he fucks men but there are occasions when he meets a man who seems to beg for a good hard fuck, the way Punk just kissed him, that was definitely begging. Punk strips quickly, not the usual drunken fumbling, pushing and pulling of clothing that Jeff is used to in these random drunken encounters. It takes less time than his brain is convinced it should have, for them to be on the bed, lube and a condom in tow. Punk lies on his back and seems to be less looking at Jeff and more through him but that isn't overly important to Jeff right now, not when the man's body is spread out like a feast before him. He takes one of Punk's pierced nipples into his mouth and sucks, tugging on the ring gently, flicking the ring in his other nipple.
"Don't." Punk pulls Jeff's head away from his chest. "Get on with it." He spreads his legs further, plants his feet on the bed, knees bent, his hole on display. Jeff slicks his fingers up and eases one into him. Punk's body is tight, incredibly tight but he seems tense, as though his mind isn't fully invested in what Jeff's doing to him, without warning, he slides another finger into the tight hole, scissoring them, stretching him open. Punk makes an odd sound but seems a little more focussed on him now, Jeff thinks with a vague smirk.
"How'd you wanna do this?" Jeff mutters, pressing kisses to the other man's collarbone, Punk squirms out from beneath him and rests on his hands and knees, ass high head low, presented like a good whore. "Good choice." Jeff mutters, tearing open the condom and rolling it over his cock, slicking it with more lube before placing it against Punk's hole. "You been fucked before?" He's so tight, it's easy to believe that he's never had another man inside of him but then he's oddly pretty, not the best word but close enough so someone must have at least taken a shot at his ass.
"Get on with it." Punk snaps and Jeff shrugs, slams inside of him with one forceful thrust, burying his cock deep in the tight yet yielding heat of Punk's body. Once he was fully sheathed in Punk's hole, Jeff rested his forehead against the shoulder blades of the man beneath him, feeling his body adjust with soft contractions and ripples, his skin warm and soft against Jeff's own. "Get on with it." Punk's harsh voice snaps again, he rocks his body back and forth a few times, Jeff's hand clutch at his hips, stilling his actions.
"Don't rush me; I know how to make you feel real good." Jeff chuckles softly, speaking against Punk's back, letting his lips brush the tanned skin. He moves in and out of the other man's body, groaning at the tightness, the way Punk's muscles wrap around and squeeze his cock, wringing noises from him that Jeff is certain he's never heard before. The man beneath him is clearly no virgin, a man doesn't get to be this good a fuck without practice. It doesn't take long for Jeff to speed his thrusts up, his hands clamped to Punk's hips, drawing him back into every pump of his own, the sounds in the room dominated by Jeff's moans and the noise of their bodies against one another, Punk is seemingly not the sort of man who makes a lot of noise in bed. "God, you feel so fucking good. Such a good fucking little whore you are, Punk." Jeff moans into the other man's ear, feels him tense up, his body tight and almost unyielding. Jeff places soft kisses over the man's back, tastes the light sheen of sweat on his shoulders.
His orgasm sneaks up on Jeff, he wasn't quite finished with the tight little ass around his cock but apparently, his body was. He comes with his forehead against the slightly sweaty back of Punk, groaning something inarticulate and not important, then pulls out of him, collapses face down on the bed, a brief thought spared for if the other man had gotten off or not is quickly forgotten in favour of rapidly encroaching sleep.
"You stayin?" Jeff manages to slur as the other man gets off the bed, picking his clothes up and redressing.
"No." He looks tense, already checking his phone again. The negative response barely registering as Jeff falls asleep, the vague prospect of fucking Punk's sweet little ass again at some stage in the future, playing through his still drunken, hazy mind.
Punk left Jeff's room in a hurry, seeking out refuge in his own, throwing open the door and showering, scrubbing his skin under a spray of too hot to be comfortable water, washing the smell of Jeff off of his skin with cheap lemon scented shower gel.
Hey! Im so the best at drinking beer here punkers! Youd be so disappointed in me! ;) - Cabanarama DingDong 00:58
The text message he'd been waiting on for days, the one he'd read in Hardy's room, it hadn't quite lived up to Punk's expectations, not when the one he'd sent had been so painfully honest and heartfelt. He can justify his actions to himself if he wants to; if he has to or he can put this to the back of his mind, can never think of Jeff Hardy and this dirty little hotel, nothing but a number and place to him, again. But the vicious little voice in his head, the one that was always so quick to point out his flaws and stupidity, the one that sounded so much like himself as he stood preaching on how he was better than the crowds that gathered at his matches back on the hustle, hasn't stopped since he left that room. It hasn't relented once, each phrase peppered with scorn and contempt, mocking him for his poor choices.
A little background for chapter six of Chicxulub Crater which is all finished, part the third in the Comet-verse will be out middle of February, for those of you who are interested in that.
As this is the first time I've tried my hand at writing in third person since I was in High School and the first time I've ever written Jeff Hardy, I'd really appreciate any comments and criticisms!
With that in mind here: Please review, everyone loves getting review but everyone hates writing them, I know! Believe me I know but no matter what you thought of it, I will value your opinion, only I can't value it if you don't give it to me. So, please review. :) Even if you thought it sucked, okay?