Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to In Bloom
Being on a tour bus is a lonely existence, being so far away from home, so far away from him Sphinx bastard is not only lonely, it's boring, painfully, utterly boring. Long periods of time with nothing to do but sit on his ass, listening to everyone else talking bullshit, waiting for Punk's next text, and fiddling with the string around his neck.
"So... You and the woman? I'm kind of-"
"Fuck off." Jon has no desire to talk to this asshole, no desire to be chatty with this idiot gorilla motherfucker. What he wants is to sit in his seat, glaring at the back of the seat in front of him, and wait to get to where they're going, wait for Punk, wait to be back in the freezing hellhole of a city Jon supposes is now home.
"That's not nice... I mean, me and your woman are friends. She likes me more than most other people." Cena laughs, and Jon curses his fondness for window seats. If he's been sat in the aisle, he could have gotten up and sat somewhere else. If he'd sat in the aisle, there wouldn't have been space for this asshole to sit beside him in the first place.
"Shut the fuck up, and fuck off." Jon sneers, almost grateful when his cell rings.
"You did not confirm your safe arrival." Chicago bred bastard mother hen is something Jon can apparently add to the list of things he mentally calls Cabana. "I'm sure I specifically told Punkers to tell you to tell me, but you answered, so I guess you're not dead... Unless you're an EMT. Are you an EMT?" He sounds incredibly rambly, and Jon can't help but laugh.
"We were distracted." Jon laughs again at the pitiful groan Cabana gives.
"Number one on the list of things I don't need to know, Gerbil Cheeks." He mumbles, and Jon has to keep a growl in check. Gerbil Cheeks seems to be something Cabana is clinging to; it kind of makes Jon wonder if Punk had at first objected to being called Punkers, only conceding to it when Cabana and relentless cheerfulness had refused to let it die.
"Well... You know... Distractions are easy when you spend far too much time apart. He did tell my though, don't worry." Jon laughs again. He can feel Cena's eyes on him; can feel him staring at Jon.
"So, you got to Europe alright? I've not contacted the afterlife, right? If I did, is Sheol nice? I mean all the Rabies told me it was cold..." Jon glances at his watch, Cabana rambling about the Jewish afterlife isn't something he'd expected to ever hear, but he is being treated to just that. It seems that both the Saints ramble when they're bored, and the quick glance at the time shows that back in Chicago it's probably Punk's beddy-byes time. Jon can't help but wonder just where on the Colt Cabana list of people to call because I'm bored he places. He imagines it can't be very high.
"Yeah, yeah... I'm here safe, but if this is Sheol, I can confirm it's both cold and wet." Jon laughs, and this time Cabana joins in. Cena's still staring at Jon, and an idea comes to him. "Hey, Cena... It's for you." He passes the phone off, and Cena pales. Despite being so close, it's hard to make anything that Cabana's saying out, but Cena's skin keeps getting paler.
"No... No! Just talking... Jesus, man. Fine, no, of course not! Alright, alright! Yeah, I got it." Cena hands the phone back. "He hung up." Cena stands, and Jon smirks at him, watching Cena shuffle off down the bus to wherever he came from.
You're welcome, Gerbil Cheeks. Let me know if you need my services again. - Punkin 3.14's Mom
I want the story of why Cena is so fucking afraid of you, man! It's fucking impressive. - sent
Ha! It's not that interesting really. - Punkin 3.14's Mom
C'mon man, I'm bored. Entertain me. - sent
I just spoke to him... Might have threatened to castrate him... Which is my go to threat apparently... I need a new one. Any ideas? - Punkin 3.14's Mom
Ideas? I dunno... There isn't much a guy's more attached to than his balls. - sent
Well that's my reasoning! You know Hitler only had one ball... - Punkin 3.14's Mom
How the fuck do you know that? - sent
Punkers makes me watch weird shit... He's a strange man. Has he said anything to you? - Punkin 3.14's Mom
That's very true. He is an odd little thing. Nothing out of the ordinary, why? - sent
Just keeping an eye on you two... I worry. - Punkin 3.14's Mom
Yeah, I noticed. Thanks man, I'm not used to it, but it's nice. - sent
Yeah... I gotta go, catch you later, Gerbil Cheeks. - Punkin 3.14's Mom
The odd little conversation had carried Jon over to the hotel, and he wanders into his room, flopping down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The time difference isn't great, but it's enough for him to not want to bother Punk. It's early morning back home; he'll be sleeping, all safe, warm, and alone in their bed, or more accurately in LA, he left just after Jon did, so he should be there by now.
After the publicity, the show, and he's showered, Jon considers calling Punk. He doesn't want to go too long without getting in touch with Punk, but he's not sure what Punk's up to in LA, he doesn't believe for one minute it's only for Hardwick and the Gracies, so sending a text seems like a good idea. His text goes unanswered for maybe twenty minutes. When the text alert sounds, Jon dives for his phone, embarrassingly quickly, and opens the picture message with confusion. He'd been expecting an okay, or something that signified it was fine to call, not a picture, but the picture is more eloquent than a thousand words. It shows Punk, naked and hard, lying on a bed Jon doesn't recognise, his hand around his cock, a lazy little smile on his face as he stares into the camera. It's incriminating, and he should delete it, but that seems almost sacrilegious. Something this beautiful should be kept, and Jon knows he's going to. The face time call he makes is answered quickly, and he supposes Punk has got his phone sitting in some kind of stand, because once he answers he flops back on the bed and grins at Jon.
"I miss you." He doesn't say hello, doesn't wait for Jon to speak, instead Punk goes straight to the heart of the matter.
"Yeah, I can see that, Punkin." Jon laughs, and pulls his shirt over his head. It seems rude sitting around fully clothed whilst Punk is naked, rude and counter-productive. "You miss me so much you're making porn?"
"Hmm... Yeah, I guess. Make sure that doesn't get saved to your cloud. I don't want naked pictures of me on the Internet." Punk's grin fades to a soft little smile, and he starts slowly stroking his cock, watching as Jon sheds the rest of his clothes and sits on the bed at an awkward angle facing his propped up cell.
"I'm thinking you're in the minority there, Punkin... Plenty of people would like to see that picture." Jon laughs, and Punk snorts, his thumb rubbing over the head of his cock. "Plenty of people wouldn't mind this phone call either." At this Punk does laugh, and Jon smirks at him.
"Yeah well, plenty of people aren't getting it." He grins, and shifts, planting his feet on the bed. "You wanna talk or you wanna get me off first?"
"Selfish! Don't I get off in all of this?" Jon's smirk doesn't move, and Punk laughs again.
"Implicit." He says softly, a finger from his other hand teasing his little hole. "I wasn't kidding when I said I missed you."
"I know... I miss you too, so fucking much." Jon licks his palm, taking his cock in hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes never leaving the little image of Punk. That one finger teasing Punk's hole is pressing softly against it, the tight muscles unrelenting against the outside force. "You're so tight..." Jon mutters, watching that finger press once more, and then moving away.
"Uh-huh..." Punk sounds distracted, but it's understandable, he's trying to open a bottle of lube one-handed, Jon knows that's tricky at best.
"You have something... I wanna watch you fuck something." Jon tries to make his voice sound firm, but unlike his cock, it's soft. He wants to see a substitute inside the tight heat of Punk's body though. He wants to see Punk stretched around something that isn't Jon's cock for a change.
"Hmm... I've got something, not what I want, but it's something." Punk abandons his cock to open the lube, and moans softly when a slicked finger breaches him.
"What is it you want?" Jon's voice is almost a whisper. He's seen this in person, but somehow seeing it on a screen is different. It's somehow naughty, something that he shouldn't be doing, and it excites him far more than he'd been expecting.
"You know what I want, Cabbage Patch... You know." Punk mutters, still distracted but this time it's by his fingers in his ass, his hips rocking as they move inside of him.
"I wish I was there to give it to you..." Jon watches as Punk pulls his fingers from himself, with a little moan. He grabs a dildo, coating it in lube before pushing it against his hole. "You're too tight, Punkin. Stretch yourself more." Jon watches Punk glance up at him, giving him a tiny little nod.
"I know... But I wanna feel it..." Punk grits his teeth and pushes again, forcing the head of the toy inside of himself. He lies still, panting quietly. "Want to know that this is nothing like you... I don't want a pale imitation, I want what's mine. I want your cock in me, not some fucking fake one."
"I know... But I don't want you hurting yourself... Go easy with what's mine." Jon smirks at the look of shock on Punk's face. Apparently, despite laying claim to Jon, Punk hadn't been expecting Jon to return the favour, but it works both ways. Jon is Punk's, just as surely as Punk belongs to Jon.
"Hmm... Yeah... Sorry." Punk seems to actually mean that, and he withdraws the dildo from himself, returning to stretching his hole. The only sounds for a long time from Jon's cell are Punk's soft pants, and moans.
"Try now." Jon says softly, and Punk takes the dildo back up, recoating it in lube, and sliding it smoothly inside him. "Slow... I wanna watch you fucking it slowly." Punk nods, his hand guiding the toy in and out of himself slowly. The contrast between the black toy, and Punk's softly golden skin is beautiful, the way his hole is stretched by the rubber has Jon aching to replace it with his own cock. He strokes his cock slowly, matching the pace Punk's set for himself.
"Fuck, I miss you." Punk moans, taking his cock in his hand, stroking himself quickly, speeding up with the dildo briefly before his focus is on his dick.
"Yeah... I know... I miss you too. Come for me? I wanna see you come before I do." Punk doesn't answer Jon verbally; he instead moves his hand over his cock faster, chasing his orgasm. He comes quietly, his back arching, his hand milking his cock, his body shuddering slightly. Jon follows shortly after. He lies on his bed panting, staring at the screen of his cell, watching Punk's chest rise and fall, watching his sweat clinging to the hair that's grown back there, watching the lazy look of contentment fade.
"So... You miss me?" Punk sounds smug, and Jon laughs. Missing doesn't even begin to cover it. It's more like mourning again, only this time its mourning domesticity, something Jon never thought he'd mourn.
"I miss you... I miss you so fucking much, Punkin." Jon mutters, propping his cell up on the nightstand and laying down, his head on the pillow.
"Yeah... I get that." A sad little smile flits over Punk's lips, and Jon wants to kiss that sorrow away, wants to make a smile blossom over Punk's lips in its place. "How's Europe?"
"Wet... Cold... And lonely." Jon mutters, a finger tracing over the image on Punk on his cell, his other hand holding the little ring around his neck.
"You've got road buddies though? I mean, I know it was probably more fun when you had Seth and Roman, but it can't all be doom and gloom." Punk laughs, and Jon sighs, forcing a smile to his face.
"I've got road buddies, I don't have you... You wanna make Cabana worry by getting on a plane?" Jon laughs, and Punk snorts, shaking his head.
"I don't think he'd appreciate that... He's got enough worries, real and imagined." There's something devious in Punk's eyes, something bright and mischievous that Jon doesn't recognise.
"Hmm... Why do I get the feeling you two are up to something?" Jon laughs, stretching and grabbing his shirt pulling it on. If he sits around naked with an equally naked Punk on screen, Jon's going to be more than a little tempted to try for round two.
"Me and Bana? Us? We're as sweet and innocent as spring lambs." Punk laughs, pulling the dildo from out of himself, gasping as it leaves. "You, sir, are just suspicious." Jon shakes his head, and pulls his boxers back on, before wriggling under the covers of the bed.
"Suspicious and tired. I should sleep, Punkin." He yawns, and Punk nods, the grin on his face fading to a soft smile.
"You're still wearing it?" He nods, and Jon glances down, seeing his hand playing with the ring.
"Never taken it off." He shrugs, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
"I love you. No matter what, I want you to know that." Punk smiles again, and Jon holds back a sigh. The Saints are up to something, something Chicago bred bastard strange, and secret. Something that Punk isn't sure about because that was a strange way to phrase his I love you.
"Punkin... What are you up to?" Jon frowns, and Punk laughs again, that childish little grin on his face. "I love you, I know you love me. Now tell me what are you planning, cause you look like a kid that's got a prank all laid out and ready to go." Jon has to keep his laugh back, Punk looks mildly put out, and Jon thinks he should have perhaps not called Punk on this so quickly. That grin had made him look beautiful, grinning, sweaty, sprawled on his back, his cum on his stomach, it had been a good image, a far better one than what the screen is showing now, Punk pulling his clothes on, not looking at his phone.
"I'm getting dressed." Punk laughs, and Jon frowns. There's something going on, something between the Saints. Although to be fair that's an assumption, but if Punk's looking so very mischievous, there's little doubt in Jon's mind that the Chicago bred bastard best friend is involved somehow.
"And I resent the clothes terribly. You keep your secrets... I'll find out soon enough, no doubt." Jon smiles at the lazy grin Punk turns to him.
"I guess... Now, to sleep with you. I love you, good night." Jon laughs at Punk, getting a headshake and an indulgent smile for his amusement. "What?"
"The longer you hang round with your Cabana, the more Jewish you sound." Jon smiles, and Punk shrugs, a fond little smile on his lips.
"Well, I'm half-way there... I just need the Bar Mitzvah and the guilt." He laughs, and Jon settles back against his pillows with a yawn. "See! You need to go to sleep, Cabbage Patch. Go on, beddy-byes. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can go wrestle more, and the sooner you can come home, to me, and my glorious pampering of you. I've not forgotten about that, just so you know. I've been thinking, long and hard, on how best to pamper the best boyfriend in the World..." Punk stops with whatever he was fussing with just off camera, and focuses on Jon with that look that makes Jon feel like he's Punk's entire World, a look Jon would be happy to see every day for the rest of his life. "You gotta stop being fucking gorgeous... I have shit I need to do, and alls I'm gonna be thinking about is how you're in the wrong fucking country."
"I'll be home soon enough... I gotta get my pampering after all." Jon laughs, yawning again. "But first, I gotta sleep. G'night, Punkin."
"Nighty-night, love you." Jon smiles, and wonders just why Punk's said that so many times tonight. It's not that he's complaining, and it's not like Punk's stressing it, it's more like he's just saying it because he can, because he likes the way it sounds.
"I love you, I'm hanging up. Goodbye. Call you tomorrow?" Jon returns the soft little smile Punk gives him at the I love you.
"Yeah, g'night... Goodbye." Punk hangs up, and Jon closes his eyes, slightly bemused at the mild insanity of his other half, but mostly warmed and content that he can lay such a claim to someone like Punk.
After the show the next night, Jon found himself in the company of Roman's cousins, a surprise returning-ish Jericho, fried chicken, and alcohol that he found he didn't really want. Every sip he took reminded him of that night months ago in Chicago, the night before he'd told Punk he loved him. It'd been a strange night, one where Jon knew how he felt, but was too scared to tell Punk, a night he'd spent drinking because he wasn't sure how to proceed, a night he'd spent staring at a cigarette he's still never smoked. Cabana's cigarette is almost a lucky charm now, it moves from pack to pack, never seeing a flame. It's strange, and Jon's sure Punk wouldn't appreciate it, but it's almost a symbol for his relationship with Punk. There's a foolish part of Jon that thinks if he smokes that cigarette something will happen, something will ruin what is so very good between him and Punk. He's not superstitious, but he does like symbolism, and the more inappropriate the better really.
The night wears on, and everyone, but Jon, drinks more, and gets drunker. All Jon does is keep eating that fried chicken, absently wondering how much harder he's going to have to work to counter the excess saturated fat intake. It's getting late, and Jon wants to get back to his hotel, wants to call Punk, but there's still Punk's errand to run.
"Look, man... I..." Jon mutters, and a drunken Jericho turns to him, a weird lazy grin on his face.
"Hey... You talked to Punk?" He asks suddenly, and Jon nods vaguely. He supposes that if Jericho brings up Punk it makes telling him what Punk said easier. "You did? Man... The bastard doesn't return my texts... I mean, I thought we were friends." Jericho takes another swig from his bottle, offering it to Jon.
"Nah, man, I'm done for the night. He doesn't return too many texts." Jon mutters, feeling his cell vibrate with a text, and being almost certain it's from a Chicago bred bastard, hopefully his Punkin Pie, but with the way his mom has been fussing, it might be the Chicago bred bastard cupid.
"So I've heard... But he talked to you?" Jericho squints at Jon, and tries to sit up, ending up sliding down the seat to slump on the floor.
"He talked, he talks to me." Jon nods, taking another piece of chicken from the bucket.
"Lucky... I... I dunno if I miss him, I mean he was a grouchy bastard, but-"
"Good times, great memories?" Jon laughs, feeling another text vibrate on his phone, hoping that quoting Cabana hasn't summoned him, he'd like for these texts to be Punk.
"Yeah... Maybe. So how is he?" Jericho flaps a hand at the bucket, and Jon hands it down to him. "He say anything?"
"Hello... And that your album sucks." Jon laughs at the indignant face Jericho pulls, tearing into his chicken.
"The fuck is he listening to my album for?" The words are garbled by food, and Jon rolls his eyes, standing. The message he'd been trying to deliver has been given, and he really wants to check and see whose texting him.
"Cabana made him." Jon shrugs, fishing his phone out of his pocket. A message from each of the Chicago bred bastards in his life. His first inclination is open Punk's first, but he wants privacy to do that. If it's another one like he got last night, he definitely wants to make another face time call home.
"Ah... Colt Cabana... A man with fine musical taste... I should get him on my podcast." Jericho takes another drink, and Jon nods absently, moving to leave the bus. "You want a ride to the next spot?"
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks for the food, man. You should sleep that off though, you gotta be fresh for tomorrow." Jon hops off the bus to the sound of Jericho laughing, and he makes his way back to the hotel. He'd been unable to resist looking at Punk's text, and he has another call to make.
Back by popular demand... Wait does it count as demand if it's two people and it's causally mentioned in passing? We've also moved on from flowers and into ballroom dancing for the naming schedule, not that it really matter to anyone but me...
Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.