Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity.
You're certain that you've never been shouted at by Ace in a not fucking up something wresting related way more in your life but then again this kind of is wrestling related. The Second City Saints, his and Punk's stable, they're pushing you to join. Well Ace is pushing you to join, Punk isn't or maybe he is. You couldn't say really, you've barely spoken to him since Christmas, since he gave you those socks and you spent the day trying very hard to not wind him up and make his headache worse. You think you succeeded in that goal, he fell asleep, head on your thighs, your fingers moving carefully through his hair and your mind running a thousand miles an hour. You'd tried thinking of a thousand ways to bring up what happened in the dungeon room, a thousand ways to apologise, to find out exactly how much he remembers, how much enough is.
It was decided, by Ace, that you and Punk should talk so you find yourself in his place, feeling desperately uncomfortable and wanting nothing more than to leave. He's gone, out for a run or to pick something up to eat, you don't know, you weren't listening, you were just grateful when he said he was leaving. You've been there, maybe, an hour and it's horrible. You can't think of anything to say to him, he's your best friend and you can't talk to him. You remember thinking back in December that you weren't going to go anywhere, that no matter how awkward, you weren't going to be another person to betray and leave him but, really, it's looking more and more tempting.
"Okay fucker?" He storms into the apartment and goes to the kitchen, a bag of groceries in his hands.
"You want some help, Punk?" You call to him, standing nervously, feeling more and more out of your depth
"We can do this one of two ways; your way or my way." His voice is sharp as he comes back into the room, his eyes burning into yours. He seems like he might be gearing up for a fight, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Punk, I." You sigh, look away and he shoves you back down onto his sofa.
"You? You what, Cabana." He sounds so very irritated. "Look at me!" You let your eyes flit over him; tension seems to roll off of him in waves, then return to staring at the pattern on his carpet. "Look at me!" He demands, you half expect him to stomp his foot, at least judging by the tone he used. You raise your eyes from the floor and look at him. He stares straight back at you, the look is strange, unfamiliar, something oddly soft.
"What?" You ask him, you can't get a read on him, his eyes are full of something but you can't work out what it is. He sighs and then suddenly you find yourself with a lapful of Punk. His hands pulling at your hair and his mouth moving over your own, it reminds you briefly of standing under mistletoe with him. Your hands flail uselessly at his back; he sighs again and pulls away from you, catching your hands and setting them at his waist. He leans forward and kisses you again. Slower, licking at your lips, with but a moment's hesitation you part your own and taste him. You think you make an embarrassingly, needy noise and pull him closer, one hand moving from his waist to the back of his head.
"Jerk me off." He mutters against your lips and you almost choke. He pulls back, grinning but then that grin melts away, replaced with something you don't recognise, something strange, though if you're honest everything feels rather strange right now. "Jerk me off, Colt." He gets off your lap with more grace than you thought him capable of. "Unless you wanna run like a pussy." That is painfully tempting if you're honest.
"Really Punk? How old are?" You mutter, eyes falling to the carpet again.
"Old enough. Fucking look at me!" He snaps, your eyes lock with his. He reaches his hand out to you. "C'mon, come with me or fuck off. Your choice." It feels like he's just issued you an ultimatum, stay or go, keep your best friend or lose him. You take his hand. It's not a decision, not really, there's no choice to make. He's your best friend and you're his, you're not losing him. He leads you to his bedroom and pulls his shirt over his head, reaches for yours and pulls at it. You let him draw it over your head and pull you in for another kiss, his stubble and beard scratchy and strange. Your hands hover near his waist, feeling the heat of his bare skin. "Touch me." He mutters softly, moving one hand from your head, using it to press one of yours to his waist. He runs his hand up your arm, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You stroke his skin with the one hand he placed on him, the other still uselessly hovering. "Cabana." He pulls back to look at you, you shake your head and pull him closer, his chest pressed against your own, the useless hand finds its way into his hair, tugging on it slightly. "Don't pull my hair." Mild ire is a good look on him but you find yourself pulling a sheepish smile at him anyway, kissing him, closed mouth and soft.
"Sorry, Punkers." As you part from his lips, they curve into a smile, indulgently big and smug. You sigh and kiss him again, let your tongue brush over his thin lips, they part and his tongue brushes over your own, you feel the little barbell piercing it. You've never kissed someone with a piercing before, the little bar of metal is strange, you keep having to resist the urge to poke at it, you don't think he'd appreciate you tugging on it, even if he's always playing with the damn thing. You find it surprisingly easy to kiss him; you'd expected the strange feeling to last longer but the more you do this, the easier it's becoming, the more it feels normal. His hands move down your body, his fingers opening your fly and start shoving your pants down your legs. You step away from him, out of your pants and start untying his, he wriggles slightly and the too big fabric slips down his legs, he's steps from the pooled fabric and plasters himself to you once more. Only the fabric of your boxers keeping your cocks separated, he rocks his hips towards yours, makes a soft little noise, the same little noise he made when you first started jacking him off in the dungeon room. You feel the beginnings of a smirk on your face. You run one hand down his back, slipping it under the fabric and drawing it round to the front of his body, cradling his cock and balls gently. He steps away from you, eyes slightly hazy.
"Bed." You nod and watch as he pulls his boxers down and off, before sitting on the bed to yank off his socks. You follow his lead and remove the rest of your clothing, then stand there, not entirely sure what to do. "Oh, for fuck sake, Cabana, c'mere." He rolls his eyes at you and holds his hand out again, you let him pull you to him, the momentum knocking him onto his back, you braced over him, between his spread legs.
"I, uh." You stare at him dumbly, mouth hanging open and he laughs.
"Shut up." You snap your mouth shut. "Kiss me." You do as he asks, kiss him deeply, you're getting fond of his taste, he tastes almost exactly how you'd expected, of gum and arrogance. He moves beneath you slowly, rocking his hips against your own, rubbing his cock against yours, the feeling surprisingly good. You twist, rolling on to your back, pulling him over you, stroking his hair back from his face as he props himself over you on his forearms. You buck up against him and he moans softly. He opens his mouth like he's going to ask you something but for now, this is good you think so you pull him down, kiss him firmly. It's strange how easily he's reduced to putty in your hands, how cocky Punkers seems to melt at the first hint of gentle treatment. It's very strange, makes you wonder what his reasoning for it is. He's got a girlfriend, it's not like he's starved for affection but that's a conversation for another time you think as his hips roll against your own, you can feel your cock firming up, can feel his getting harder alongside your own.
"How we gonna do this, Punkers?" You ask him and he pulls back from you, you find it almost impossible to keep a grin off of your face, he's straddling your legs, looking mildly dazed and more than a little rumpled, like in the dungeon room, you can't help but think he looks so pretty when aroused.
"Uh, sit up." You do as he asks and he makes an odd gesture with his hand. It takes sometime but you finally work out what he means. You move closer to him, almost but not quite touching him, sitting between his spread legs, your own stretched out in front of you, under his. You take his half-hard cock in your hand, as his wraps his fingers around your own, his eyes focussed on it, his expression odd.
"What?" You ask him softly. His eyes flicker up and he turns his face away, you catch his chin, forcing him to look at you. "You change your mind?"
"No! Just, I, I dunno." He sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I've never touched another dude's junk before."
"And you think I have?" You laugh at him, his eyebrows raise.
"You have!" He has you there, the fact you touched his junk is kind of the catalyst for this whole thing.
"Yeah but it was yours, hardly counts." You laugh at him, he looks briefly furious and he jerks his hand quickly up and down, wrist twisting at the head. "Fuck." He's got good technique if nothing else.
"My junk is fucking awesome, Cabana." He hisses. You nod vaguely as he keeps stroking you, your head flops to rest against his shoulder. "Bet I can get you off first." He grins, his hand moving quickly, his other hand moving to cup your balls.
"Can you hell, I'll have you screaming my name, Punkers." You stroking him slowly, teasingly slow, based on the way he's stroking you, he usually goes hard and fast, efficient perhaps but there is something to be said for drawing out certain parts of this, you're certain you'll have more self-control. You keep your strokes light, teasingly slow until his hand stills and he makes a frustrated noise, pressing his forehead against your shoulder.
"Faster." His breath is soft and warm as it washes over your skin.
"Nope." You lift your head from his shoulder and press a kiss to his hair. "Slow and steady wins the race, Punkers." His hand redoubles its efforts, he's abandoned your balls though, the other hand is clamped on your wrist, trying to force you to go faster. You finally speed up a little and he makes that soft noise again, the sound making the hairs on your arms stand up. His hand slows as yours speeds up. It's a very odd sensation, your body telling you that it should be feeling the faster strokes, not his slow deliberate ones and yet those slower strokes are bringing your own orgasm distressingly close, you try to think about how he was handling you, the way he twisted his wrist to rub at the head of your cock. You know you've found the right method when he moans in your ear.
"Uncle, uncle, I give, Colt, I'm gonna come if you keep this up." His voice is soft, panting almost.
"Isn't that the point, Punkers?" You lift his head from your shoulder and kiss him; twisting your wrist and feeling his orgasm run through his body, his hand stilling on your cock. Once he's come, he pants and lets his forehead rest against yours. You surreptitiously wipe his cum off your hand on his comforter.
"Lie back." He shoves at your shoulders and you flop backwards. He kneels beside you and takes your cock in his hand. You watch him handling you, stroking you so very differently to how you touch yourself; it feels strange but good, indescribably fucking good. When you come, it's to the sight of his lazily satisfied smirk and his softly content eyes. He wipes his hand on your stomach and rests his head against your chest with a quietly pleased sigh. You can feel his hair sticking in the sweat on your chest and his breath on your skin. It's strange, not unpleasant but strange. You find it surprisingly easy to start absently stroking his damp hair. He makes an odd little snuffle of a noise and squirms to look up at you.
"Hi." You say softly, he grins and squirms some more, one leg moved to rest over yours.
"Hey." He smiles up at you, looking oddly like he does when he wins at some game or he manages to make a dreidel spin for more than ten seconds.
"So." You sigh and try to look away from him; he bites your chest, drawing your attention back to him. You cuff the back of his head in retaliation. "Oww." You move the hand from his hair, to rub at the sore spot on your chest.
"Don't so me." He snaps. "You regret it?" Interesting question, jerking him off with him coherent was certainly less nerve-wracking than with him half-dead and vague but do you regret jerking him off in the first place.
"Do you?" You shrug vaguely; when in doubt have him go first. He laughs softly and shakes his head.
"You know, I thought it was a weird-ass broken head dream." You tentatively start stroking his hair again. "Then you weren't you."
"I'm sor-"
"So, I got you the socks." He rolls to lie over you, propped up on his forearms, grinning down at you. Christmas presents as a test to see if you're ready to discuss jerking off your best friend, this man is very odd, a good kisser but so very odd, you think as he kisses you again, all soft and sweet. Do you regret this? You don't think so, not when it doesn't feel any different to how it was, not when it feels curiously normal to hold him, kiss him, touch him.
"Hmm, you're fucking weird, Punkers." You tell him, stroking a thumb over his eyebrow, the situation might feel normal but the man you're in it with, is far from it.
"Normal." He disputes and kisses you softly, a little peck on one cheek. "Ordinary." Another peck on the other cheek. "Completely and utterly reasonable." You drag him down for another kiss, tasting him again, your best friend tastes rather good after all.
"Fucking weird, man, seriously fucking weird."
So anyone else write smut in their office after work when they're depressed or is that just me? Just me then? Well okay...
Reviews are always good so you know, leave on in the box! Thankssssssss ;)