This appears to have decided to become a series, very much without my consent, a series with a formula too. Back to 2nd person Colt for this part. Updates will likely come fast, as this appears to be much more fun to write than a report for my boss.
The light in the lounge is on when you drag yourself home. Travelling alone is always more exhausting than it should be and all you want to do is sleep. The thrifty part of you worries that you left that light on for the last 4 days. Between gas, food and motels you're not sure you'll have enough to cover an unexpectedly high electricity bill. You hear the sound of what appears to be a Spanish soap opera and relax slightly. There's someone in your apartment; based on who has a key to your place, your mother and Punk, you have a fair idea of who's there.
He's sprawled across your sofa, head on the armrest, feet hanging over the other end, the remote on his stomach. "How was Mexico?" He doesn't look up from the TV as he mumbles. It's then you notice that he seems to be sucking on an ice-cube. "Hot. What happened to you?" You think this is a question which is reasonably likely to get an answer, the others floating around your head, why are you here, why aren't you wearing a shirt, why is there 2 days worth of dirty cups on my table, will likely garner nothing but a blank look. What happened, though, that might just get a response.
"I didn't duck." The answer is as ambiguous as you had expected but you've had practice at deciphering what he says and interpreting it against what he means to piece together the truth. You conclude that he likely fought with his girlfriend, she threw something, a fist, a vase, a brick and he, as he said, didn't duck. The ice, you're guessing is for his lip-ring, which seems to not yet be used to being in the line of fire, it swells more often than he's happy about.
"Sit down." He curls his legs up to give you a spot on the sofa. You flop down wearily, you're tired, exhausted really, alls you want to do is sleep but he seems to be pretty awake, he seems downright chirpy, for Punk at least, meaning sleep may be a long time coming. Before long, his feet find their way to your lap and you find yourself absentmindedly stroking his ankle, staring at the chipped pink polish on his toenails. The urge to ask him why they're pink comes but you let it go, inane questioning at this point will only rile him up and you're in no mood for a scene. You're honestly not sure you're in the mood for him at all but you won't ask him to leave, if only for the reason that you're not sure where he'd go. The thought of a free-range Punk, especially a Punk who sought sanctuary in your home, even though you weren't there, scares you a little. If you threw him out now, who knows what he'd think of it. It would, you're certain, revoke your status as Punk-whisperer; a task you take great pleasure in so you say nothing and keep your thumb moving over the bones of his ankle.
"You falling asleep on me?" His voice jolts you out of the stupor you'd fallen into and you realise that more time has passed than you thought. The TV is playing a documentary about serial killers and the streetlights have come on. Glancing at the clock, you realise that you've been sat there for just over an hour. "I'm just tired." You mutter, turning to look at him. The bags under his eyes seem darker than usual, his bottom lip looks puffy, the skin around his piercing red and slightly dry. He nods at your words and moves his feet. "Go to bed." he turns back to the TV and you suppose you're being dismissed. You have two options. You could do as you're told and go sleep in your bed, which at this moment that sounds wonderful but you think that for all his appearing to be cheerful, there's something wrong. So you take option two, slouch a little more on the sofa and catch his legs and bring them back to their spot on your lap. "It's too early for bed." You try to sound more awake than you feel and you think it works when all he does is scoff at you and still watching the TV.
You wake sometime later to the feeling of his fingers stroking your hair, your head in his lap, your face almost pressed against his stomach, your vision filled with pale flesh and his straight edge tattoo. "Told you, you were falling asleep on me." He sounds smug and you know that if you looked up, he'd have that irritating little smirk on his face, the one that says I'm never wrong. You make an indistinct noise and consider going back to sleep. His thighs are comfortable, his fingers soothing and the movement his breathing causes strangely relaxing. You wonder if this is why he falls asleep on you so easily, if he feels this calm when your arms are wrapped around him.
"You hungry?" His voice sounds from above and you're about to say no when your stomach grumbles. He chuckles and prods at you until you sit up. "Pizza?" He already has his cell in hand when he asks; you manage a vague nod and flop over. Conversation feels like it would be too much effort for you right now, all you want is food and to fall back asleep. His smirk softens to a familiar smile, the one that says you're an idiot, you get it a lot, but then so do the rest of your friends; Punk is as easily amused by other people's stupidity as he is annoyed by it. With pizza ordered, he settles Indian style on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. His head is close to your hand and you think about stroking his hair but the thought of the effort involved in actually moving your hand puts the idea out of your head. Instead, you focus on the TV and are drawn in by the soothing voice of the narrator.
You only realise you fell back asleep when you smell pizza and find him sitting on the table beside the box, an odd wry look on his face. You see steam rising off of the food inside so at least it's still warm. He smiles at you and hands you a slice. You consider staying on your back to eat but in your head, your mother's voice is already outraged by you not using a plate, so you sit straight, propping your legs up on the table on the other side of him. After the first bite, you manage to consume your half rapidly, he even manages to convince you to take a few extra slices, claiming to have eaten earlier in the day, you're doubtful of the statement but the thought of arguing with him keeps your mouth shut. Arguing with Punk is a lot like dating him, catching the wind seems much easier.
"Go shower." He says once you throw the final crust back in the box. Now that you've napped and eaten, you do feel dirty. Travelling always leaves an uncomfortable feeling on your skin and now that he's suggested it, you think a shower and then bed is a good plan. You glance at the box sitting by the dirty cups he's left there. "Don't worry, I'll clean up." He rolls his eyes and shoos you out of the room.
You stand under the shower, turned as hot as you could bear and wonder at his behaviour. It's uncharacteristic for him to be this considerate of other people, even of you. He's, not quite selfish or even uncaring but usually so focussed on his goals, his plans, that other people seem to be a hassle he neither wants nor needs. For him to be catering to your needs without complaint, without it even being obvious that that's what he's doing, is unusual to say the least. You're not sure what's brought this on; you think that it's probably something more than fighting with his girlfriend but what, you don't know.
When you get out of the shower, towel hanging on your hips, you find him sitting on your bed, a pensive look on his face. You sit beside him and open your mouth to speak, when in a flurry of action he settles in your lap. Your hands, without thought, go to his waist, his bare skin warm and soft under them. His eyes gaze into yours and the look they have is unfamiliar, you feel out of your depth here and aren't quite sure what he wants from you, if he even wants something from you at all. This isn't the way these sort of encounters, him in your lap with very little fabric acting as a barrier between you both, usually go, it's like that not remembered first time all over again. You've been staring at him entirely too long, you realise and start to talk, when he presses a finger to your lips.
"Shhh, lemme." He says softly, pressing your back against the bed, his lips hovering over your own, tantalisingly close. You could claim a kiss from them so very easily and start leaning up to do so when he pulls back. "Can't." He makes a vague gesture to his bottom lip. "Hurts." You want to tell him that you'll be gentle with him, you always are after all but it's rare that he readily confesses a weakness and you don't want to think about what it cost him. You rest back against the pillows and watch him carefully. He's never been this active in bed with you before and a large part of you is intrigued to see what he'll do, especially if he isn't going to use his mouth. You've often wondered what it would be like to have his lips wrapped around your cock but if he won't let you kiss him, you doubt he'd blow you. He brushes the tip of his nose against yours in a parody of a kiss that feels strangely intimate, smiles at you and hops off the bed to fetch the bottle of lube you keep in your dresser. Rather than returning immediately, he sheds his pants and boxers, dumping them in a small heap. He flashes you another unfamiliar expression and you don't quite know what you should be doing, you do take his nakedness as having set a precedent and untie the towel from around your waist, leaving it spread beneath your ass. He smiles brightly at you and straddles your thighs. Your cock is half-hard at having him naked and this close to you so it doesn't take much for him to get you fully erect. His hand feels good wrapped around you, his rhythm is different to your own, a little faster, a little harder, he uses his nails a little more but it feels fantastically good.
"You okay?" He asks softly, you almost feel incredulous that he could ask such a dumb question. Punk, a man who offers nothing but disdain for inane questions, asking you what is possibly the most ridiculous thing ever. You think that he probably has a reason for asking but you can't make your mind even begin to understand his thought process, his hand feels too good moving over your length, his breath in your ear feels wonderful. You find you even like the way he feels hovering over you, the weight of him, the heat of him, the press of his thighs straddling your own. Everything about this whole situation feels good, foreign and new but so very good.
The first familiar thing that happens is the soft moan he lets out and it's then you realise that his other hand is busy, stretching himself open. You groan at the thought and close your eyes trying to picture his long, slender, tattooed fingers moving in and out of his tight hole. "Punkers, lemme see." You say in a hurried whisper, he looks at you confused. "Lemme see you fingering yourself." You clarify and something you never thought you'd ever see happens; a blush spreads across his cheeks. He makes several aborted attempts at speech but in the end, he looks at you helplessly, his eyes seeking yours out and holding them. "Up." You tug him up on to his knees and scoot yourself further up the bed, tugging at his left leg and he gets the idea, planting his feet on the bed, leaning back leaving you with the view of him, a little open and only just beginning to look ready for you. "Go on, Punkers, lemme watch you." You say softly. He nods and pours more lube on to his hand. The first of his fingers sinks inside him easily enough, the angle appears to be a little awkward for him to reach inside with any depth so he quickly adds a second. This second finger is more difficult, he's always so tight after all, his breath is coming a little faster, as is your own. He looks incredible like this, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, two of his fingers buried inside himself, his long legs spread open, the metal of his nipple rings glinting in the light, his cock erect and firm against his stomach and the best part, that blush on his cheeks and the look in his eyes. He's clearly slightly uncomfortable with you watching this but is willing to go along with it because you asked; right then you wonder what else he would do because you asked. You find yourself wondering if he would, one day, let you fill his mouth with your cum, maybe even cover his face with it. That thought has your cock twitching against your own stomach, the idea of Punk on his knees, your cum dripping over his face, a splash of white against his thin lips as they curve in that soft smile that only you get to see. You're drawn from your thoughts by the noise he makes as he scissors his fingers, clearly trying to speed the whole process along and grazes his prostate. He mutters a harsh "Fuck." and throws you a look you can't quite interpret fast enough for him. He grabs your leg and pulls you flat, straddles your thighs once more and grips your cock in his hand.
"Wait!" You tell him, you want to make sure he's ready yourself, you know him well enough to know that he rarely makes things easy on himself. He never quite warms up enough before a match, he never quite picks a sane, normal enough girl to date, he certainly didn't pick the sort of career a man who refuses even mild painkillers should of. You want this to feel good for him, every time you've been inside him so far, you've been in control, you've decided when it was time to ease your way into his body and you know it felt good, the way he comes beneath you leaves no doubt of that in your mind. Whilst you don't want to take control from him, this is the first time he's been so assertive and you're rather enjoying it, you've learnt when he's completely ready for you and you don't want to cause him pain due to his own eagerness and impatience.
You slide one hand down along the gentle swell of his ass and press one finger inside him; he makes a strangled little moan and presses his forehead to yours. He feels ready or at least ready enough and you brush a gentle kiss over his temple, meeting his eyes with a smile. "Go on." You tell him. He takes you back in hand and slowly lowers his body down your length. The feeling is so very different to when you are the one sinking down into to him; his tight clenching heat slowly lowering down your cock is exquisite and has you panting at the feeling. Once your balls are resting against his ass, he stills, his lungs don't seem to be able to get enough air quickly enough for him to breathe normally. You reach your hand up and stroke his hair from his eyes trying to calm him, causing him to look at you, another indecipherable look glistening there in his eyes. He moves slowly up, the drag of his body is perfection and it's all you can do to keep your hips from bucking up into him. He keeps a slow steady pace for a good while but he's not a patient man by nature and soon he is moving far faster than you would normally, his head thrown back, eyes clamped shut, hand moving over his cock quickly and whilst it looks and feels incredible, you know he'll suffer for it in the morning. "Hey," you start, dragging his attention back to you, his eyes slightly hazy, "Hey, easy Punkers, slow down." You smile at him and catch the back of his neck, pulling him down to you, the angle forcing him to move slower. You want to kiss him, you think this is the first time you've ever truly felt like you need to kiss him but you remember his lip and instead rub your nose against his, mimicking his earlier actions, this mock kiss suddenly feeling more important than it should, in that moment it feels like it has more significance than every time you've tasted his lips. You don't dwell on that, not when he's tight and moving slowly over you, his soft gasps sounding so close to your ear. You buck your hips up into him as he rocks down onto your length and he moans that soft little sound you know so well.
"Again." He pleads with you, his eyes still bearing that utterly unfamiliar look. You do as he asks, with every rock down he makes, you buck up into him. You release his neck and he rears up, giving himself more leverage. Your hands settle on hips and allowing you to thrust up into him better, able to reach further, more deeply inside of him. His hand on his cock matches the gentler pace you've dictated. "I'm close, Colt." He tells you, you already knew but somehow you appreciate him telling you.
"I know, I know, Punkers, me too." You gasp out, you're sure this is the most the two of you have ever said to one another during sex and part of you can't help but wonder what the hell this means. You'd like to think it probably means nothing but it's rare for Punk to do something without a purpose, even if he's the only person who actually knows what that purpose is, it will still be there. You'd think more on the topic but your orgasm is no longer something that you can ignore. He comes as unexpectedly as ever, his cum spilling over his hand as his body clamps around you, triggering your own release. As you come down from your high, you're greeted by the sight of Punk wearing your smile and licking his cum from his fingers, fingers that had previously been stretching his tight little hole open for you. You groan, committing the image to memory, knowing that this particular incarnation of your smile will stay with you for a long time. He flops over to lie beside you and tries to tug the towel out from underneath your ass. Now that you've come, your exhaustion has returned tenfold, raising your hips to let him free the towel and attempt to dislodge the blankets from beneath you is almost more than you can manage. He does succeed, however and he pulls the duvet up over you both. You expect him to settle on your chest but instead he pulls you to him. He forces your head to his own chest and rests his chin on top of your damp hair. His hand moves up and down your spine soothingly. "G'night Colt." He says softly. You find yourself unable to answer as sleep rapidly takes over your brain. Your last thought before drifting off is that you have no idea where you're following him to now but at this moment, you don't think you mind.
To the lovely Ms Bitter-Alisa: Thank you so much for your words and encouragement! Honestly, I know the only reason any of this even showed up in my mind is the glorious Deserving? I blame you entirely! As for the ending, I have a plan, it's open to changing though. This whole thing is kind of based on a situation I found myself in before I moved out to China a few years ago, my equivalent Cabana is still in the UK. I do intend to aim to put some romance in for you, (I am not a romantic at all, I have been dumped for my distinct lack of interest in being placated with flowers and surprise dinners, so it might be distinctly un-romantic romance but I'll try!) and I do intend to give them the much happier ending I ran away from.