Story Title: 30 Times -Chicago Style
Story Type: Slash,
Characters: CM Punk, Colt Cabana, others
Pairings: Punk/Cabana
Rating: PG-13/NC-17
Series: None
Disclaimer: These guys aren't mine. If they were, not only would I be getting SCS themed shows every night, but I'd be having a good time trying to corrupt them *evil smirk* They belong to themselves and ROH/WWE.
Warnings: Slash, language, AU, others
A/N: So, here's another 30 prompt, this one with Punk and Colt. I just had one of my friends read off 30 random words from a book at me, and here we are. Hope you enjoy, peeps.
Impress
The need for attention, to show off was nothing new for Punk; it was one of the reasons he became a wrestler. But when he saw the new kid, Scott, talking to Danny while he was running through an arm bar with Ace, he suddenly wanted to impress him, and that was something new. It scared the shit out of him, but it didn't change the feeling.
Dance
As the The Fuck Shop started playing, Colt looked at Punk and laughed at the look of disgust on his face. "It's just a dance, Punkers," Colt assured him. "No one's telling you to fuck her." He just smirked when Punk stared at him in disbelief and then went into the ring.
Last Night
Punk rolled over and thudded into something. Cracking his eyes open, he peered at someone's back. He groaned as all the events from the night before came rushing back at him. Extreme exhaustion mixed with his usual fuck it attitude had resulted in him attacking Cabana when the younger man had come out of the bathroom in only a towel. Grumbling, Colt rolled over, opened one eye, said, "Fuck, it's early,", threw an arm around Punk's waist and promptly fell back asleep; leaving Punk grinning like an idiot.
Looking Down
As he gripped the WHC and looked down from the top of the ladder, the only thing he could think of was that he wished his boyfriend was here so he could share this moment with him, like he had every other important moment in his life.
Search
Colt crawled around on the locker room floor, trying to find where his boxers went. He never minded a quickie in between interviews and matches but if he didn't find them now, he was gonna hafta go commando and he hated that. "Looking for these?" He looked over at Punk, who was holding his underwear on his finger and smirking.
Cry
He never cried; at least not since Callie had died when he was fifteen. But when Colt pinned Pierce and the ref handed him the NWA Heavyweight Belt, Punk felt his eyes tear up even as he berated himself for being a pussy.
Storm
He watched in disbelief as Colt trudged through the snow storm, his eyes intent on Punk's. "What the fuck is so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?" Punk demanded as his friend finally made it to the front of his building. Colt didn't answer; not with words, at least. He reached out, grabbed Punk's face and pulled him forward for a long, rough kiss. "That." He said simply as Punk just stared at him in disbelief.
Secret
Normally, keeping his mouth shut wasn't a problem; despite appearances, when he wanted to, Colt could guard a secret with his life. But when Punk sat down next to him and quietly told him that he got offered a WWE contract and that he was going to take it, Colt knew that he couldn't keep quiet about what Punk meant to him any longer.
Gloves
Punk watched Colt struggle with the plastic gloves that came with the bleach kit and wondered if this was such a good idea. But when Cabana finally picked up the bleach and grinned at him, Punk was unable to stop the answering smile on his own face.
Cheap
They took a cab back from the airport; they were both exhausted and since it was a ten minute drive back to the apartment and it seemed ridiculous to Colt to rent a car for the night when they both had cars parked at the garage. The idea of saving money always appealed to both of them, Punk had long ago embraced his own cheapness; he joked with Colt that his Jewishness was rubbing off on him and making him even cheaper. Colt usually just smirked and told him he'd be rubbing something else off on him later. It always made Punk roll his eyes, but he knew he'd never change anything about Colt -even if he'd rather get shot then admit it.
Lost
They were lost. There was no way around it. Lost in the middle of a rain storm with a quarter tank of gas left. Punk glared at Colt; obviously this was his fault, Colt should have turned right instead of left when Punk told him to. Colt just grinned at him and put his hand on Punk's thigh. After five years, he took Punk's surliness and temper tantrums in stride. And not even five minutes later, they were pulling into a gas station on the outskirts of the city they were looking for. When Colt jogged back out and tossed a bottle of Pepsi at him before going to pump the gas, Punk reluctantly admitted that getting lost with Colt wasn't always a bad thing.
Tease
Punk just shrugged off Mike's teasing; the way the younger man rubbed against him in the ring, the way he would lick his lips when they were talking, the offers of dinner. Mike wasn't the first person to hit on him constantly, and Punk doubted he'd be the last. The teasing was nothing compared to what was waiting for him in Chicago on the rare times they both had a day off together. Mike could tease him as much as he wanted; Colt was better then any one night stand could ever hope to be.
Popcorn
Punk reached for the popcorn that was on the table next to the and grimaced at the feel of all the melted butter sticking to his fingers. Without thinking twice about it, he wiped his hand on Cabana's face. Colt glared at him before wrestling him onto the floor and rubbing his face all over Punk's shirt once he had him pinned. There weren't very many people he could be silly with, Punk reflected as he tackled Colt from behind when the other man got up to wash his face. But out of the two, Colt was always his favorite.
Devastated
Punk sat in the clearing, staring at the gravestone. That was all that was left of the most important part of him; just rock and writing that could never sum up what Colt had meant to him, what they had been to each other. They had been bonded since they were five; first as friends and then when they had been fifteen, as mates. For almost his whole life he had felt Colt there; in his mind, his soul. And now there was nothing but an aching loneliness that would always be there, that would be the only companion he had until the day he died. Standing up, he Changed and rubbing against the gravestone one last time, he turned and left the safety of pack and the only home he had known, determined to never come back to the place where he had lost his other half.
Sober
Staying sober had never been hard for him; seeing his dad constantly drunk and usually pissing on himself had cured Punk of ever even thinking about taking a drink. He watched the waitress lean over Colt and run her hand over his shoulder before she pointed out something on the menu. He gritted his teeth and turned away when Cabana blushed and haltingly asked for her number. For the first time in his life, he could almost understand his father's compulsive need to drink until he couldn't remember the reason he started.
Beach
He had bitched the whole ride there, but even Punk wasn't heartless enough to deny that Cabana looked cute wading into the water to poke at a pile of driftwood and leaves with a stick. And when Colt plopped down next to him and threw an arm around his shoulders, Punk decided that maybe Colt did have a decent idea once in a while. But when Cabana asked if he was having fun all he said was that it wasn't a complete waste of time. Colt just laughed and wrestled him down to the sand to steal a kiss before going back to watching the waves.
Worst
This had to be the worst day of his life. He had just spent forty five minutes arguing with the doctor about whether or not he could give Punk painkillers while he was unconscious and now he was sitting in a hospital room with his best friend hooked up to a bunch of machines. He collapsed into the chair next to the bed and grabbed Punk's hand. "Fuck, Punkers. You hafta be OK; I can't lose you." "Stop being a pussy, Cabana. I knew you were the bitch in this relationship," Punk managed to croak out, his eyes opening. His hand gripped Colt's briefly before he shoved it away from him and tried to unhook himself, bitching out his best friend in a horse voice the whole time. And just like that, it went from the worst day of his life to the best.
Lucky
His whole life, Colt took what he had for granted. He knew that there people who had it worse then him, but it had been obscure, distant and he never even thought twice about bitching to his friends how his parents wouldn't let him drive to Michigan to see WWF when they were touring or that he didn't get an allowance. But once he had started training, and became friends with Punk, he started to realize how lucky he really was. And when he meant Punk's family for the first time -which was also the only time- he swore to never bitch about anything for the rest of his life.
Funeral
As they sat next to each other, listening to the minister give his eulogy, Punk couldn't help but think of what a work it all was. There was no heaven, no better place that Ace had gone to. Further more, he knew for a fact Ace had never believed in any of this shit; it had to be his wife's idea to give her self some false sense of comfort. As if the fact that Ace was gone could ever be made more bearable by the ridiculous idea that he had gone to some supposed peaceful place. The fact that Ace would never be able to answer the phone at three in the morning when him and Colt were bickering over something and needed a separate opinion or that he would never just randomly show up at the apartment, rolling his eyes and telling them to get clothes on was not made better by him being "happier" now. Colt reached over and gripped his hand, making Punk look at him. He was crying, not sobbing like some of the other people there, but a steady shed of tears that for some reason made it all the more real to Punk. Colt squeezed his hand again and Punk closed his eyes, crying for the man who had been more of a father to him then his biological one had been.
Find
He had been psyched to find it; the first published copy of Punk's favorite comic had been on Punk's wish list for fucken years. The price of it was enough to make Colt wince and his wallet want to cry. But when it came to Punk, there was almost nothing he wouldn't do and not even his innate cheapness stood a chance against it.
Blood
Punk could barely see Colt through the blood stinging his eyes. He shoved Daniels away from him, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get to his partner. He dropped to his knees, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand impatiently and looked over Cabana anxiously. He shook his shoulder gently, trying to wake him but all he got was a small groan. The ref had already called the medics out and they gently shoved Punk out of the way to put a neck brace on Colt. He stood up and turned to Daniels and Raven, his hands fisted at his sides, and started toward them. And with blood on his face and murder in his eyes, Punk intended to pay them back ten times what they had done to his best friend.
Weapon
He swung the Kendo stick easily as he walked towards the ring, eager for the fight ahead. Orton had a lot to answer for as far as Punk was concerned, and he was ecstatic that he was the one who got to teach him a lesson.
Want
Colt could admit that he was pretty single minded; he had only ever wanted one thing; to be a wrestler. No one had ever been able to talk him out of it, no matter what they said or did. He didn't want money -and that was something that still confused his parents- he didn't want prestige, he just wanted to be able to do what he loved for a living. And thirteen years later that hadn't changed -he still wanted to be a wrestler. But some where along the way, he had found he wanted something else as much as he wanted wrestling. And in typical Colt fashion, he had ignored everyone who had told him it would never happen and went after what he wanted. Now, he had wrestling -and Punk.
Me
For Punk it was a simple matter of us and them; or, really, me and them. He had learned early on that he couldn't depend on anyone but himself. Not for food or clothes; hell, not even for blankets in the winter. He got through high school the same way he got through elementary, by ignoring everything and everyone and concentrating on turning eighteen so he could leave. Even after school, he kept to himself; getting close to someone wasn't a good idea, the only thing you ever got that way was a kick to the teeth. But from the first second he had met Colt, he had found himself gravitating toward him. Before long, Punk had ended up with the first real friend he ever had. And thirteen years later, Colt was still the only person who never let him down.
Saw
People were always asking Colt how he could put up with Punk for as long as he had. He was an asshole -which was true, Colt had to admit; Punk had no patience for stupidity and he didn't care if it was a five year old or a forty year old who was annoying him. He hated public displays of affection; in fact, even when they were only around their friends, he still didn't like it. The words 'I love you' were usually met with an eye roll and a taunting, "Stop being a bitch, Cabana." Colt could admit that Punk had a lot of faults -but no one ever saw the Punk he did. They never saw the Punk who stayed up with him the weekend he got shit canned from WWE; or the Punk who shrugged off a $5000 fine like it was pocket change because it had helped Colt -when Colt knew that Punk was just as cheap as he himself was. They didn't know the Punk who liked to cuddle when they were going to bed; the Punk who would stay by you through anything. What they didn't see -or understand- was that the reason why Punk didn't like very many people was simple: Punk felt things too deeply and too permanently to just let everyone get close to him. When he cared about someone it was forever and that was why no one ever saw the Punk that Colt did.
Bitch
Colt hated Punk's girlfriends. Every last one of them annoyed the fuck out of him. They were good looking; he'd give Punk that much. And they were even nice to him -at first. But it wasn't long before they got fed up with how low they were on Punk's list of priorities. For some reason that Colt was never able to figure out, they inevitably blamed him for the fact that Punk loved wrestling more then he would ever love another person. It wasn't until he was complaining to Chris about what a bitch Punk's latest girlfriend was and Hero rolled his eyes, slapped him on the back of the head and said, "Cabana, you fucken moron, it's not wrestling he fucks them over for. Fuck, I'm tired of watching you two idiots dance around this. He's in love with you, retard. And you love him. We've all known it for fucken years." He walked off, muttering about finding Claudio and getting a drink, leaving Colt staring after him, his mouth open, dumb founded. It didn't take long for him to get to Punk's apartment and once he opened the door, Colt grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward for a kiss. He pulled back, looking at him, still half expecting a punch to the face. Punk grinned and opened the door the rest of the way. "Took you long enough."
Pillow
Punk bit his lip as Colt traced the tattoo on his stomach with his tongue, glancing over at the bed across the room where Ace and Danny were passed out, snoring. "Come on, Punk, you can do better then that," Colt smirked before making his way down Punk's body. Punk moaned, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over his face when Colt ran his tongue down Punk's dick.
Belt
Punk was asleep when he heard the muffled thud of a belt buckle hit the floor. He was awake instantly, his body tensing as he started hyperventilating. "It's just me, Punkers," Colt soothed, the bed dipping under his weight as he curled up behind him. Punk took a deep breath, relaxing back against Cabana. "Knew it was you," Punk muttered, the habit of not admitting to anything too ingrained to ignore when he was surprised by something. Colt rubbed his nose against Punk's neck before throwing his arm around Punk's waist. Punk was grateful that Colt never asked why such a simple thing could throw him into a panic attack; he hated talking about it -or even thinking about it- and he knew if it was anyone else, they'd questioned him non stop. It was one of the reasons why Colt was the first person that Punk had ever slept next to.
Home
Home never meant much to Punk; it was just a word, not a place that he loved or where he felt safe. There was no place where he belonged, no place that held good memories of his childhood. The fact that he had spent most of said childhood either dodging punches or hungry killed any hope of the concept of home as a place of refuge for him. No, to Punk home didn't exist; or if it did, it wasn't a place, a building where he happened to live until he was eighteen. For Punk, if anything meant what home was supposed to, it was a quiet phone call at two in the morning when he couldn't sleep, a laugh or a joke when he was feeling pissy; attention when he was ranting about something or the quiet support of someone who had always believed in him. More then any of that, home was brown eyes with a ridiculous haircut and a solid body curled up behind him. Home, for Punk, was Colt.