Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing when it comes to the WWE. If I did, Punk would wear those tiny, pink trucks every wrestling event he has. I love pink. Like, a lot
It was hot. So hot he felt like he was burning alive. Had he finally died and now he was living in hell? Punk felt like this wasn't fair because he felt he hadn't done enough bad things to warrant being sent to hell. Sure, there was that one time he was arrested, but that's not enough to go to hell, right?
He couldn't even think straight it was so hot here in this darkness. Sweat was pouring off of him in rivers and he almost felt like he was melting into the floor. Thirst, along with all the heat, was starting to make him so insane. What he wouldn't do to a tall glass of ice, cold water!
Punk took in his surroundings to distract himself from the oppressive heat. Darkness surrounded him like a thick blanket. He couldn't see much further than his face it was so dark. This place was horrible and he wanted to leave.
Punk's attention was caught when he heard his name called through the darkness. He didn't know the direction it came from, so his listened hard until he heard it again. When it came again, it was barely a whisper. It sounded so far away, but he started walking in toward it. He hoped it would lead him out of this place.
While walking and listening for his name, Punk made the realization that the voice calling to him sounded a little like Cena's. He hoped that he wasn't walking toward another embarrassing sexual encounter. Punk kept walking, though.
John called Punk's name in his ear one last time, hoping that he would finally wake up. He waited for a few seconds before he let his hopes drop.
Having been asleep for three days, Punk should be waking up soon. His wound was looking like the infection was going away and John noticed that he fever had broken sometime during the night.
John saw Punk's eyes flutter out of the corner of his eye so he whipped his head to see if he was going to wake up. Unfortunately, his eyes remained closed and didn't flutter again. Studying Punk's face, he noted how the fever had changed his appearance.
Punk's face was flushed but it wasn't as red as it had been during the peak of his fever. His mouth was gently parted so his rapid breaths could pass between his lips. The thing that John noticed the most was how much he was sweating.
His hair was wet with it and beads of sweat were rolling from his face and neck into the pillow below him. John had taken the blanket off of Punk so the heat of his cooling body wasn't being insulated around him. This allowed John to see the pool of sweat that ran the midline of Punk's chest and abdomen.
John knew that Punk sweat a lot during matches; he had seen the smears he left on the black pads around the ring whenever he landed on them, but he had never seen him sweat this much.
John hoped that Punk woke up soon so he could replace the fluids that he was losing. He didn't know what he would do if Punk didn't wake up soon.
Liz Cena was beginning to worry. She had a bit of a problem. Okay, a really big problem and she didn't know how she was going to fix it.
Her hit man was demanding that she pay him or he was going "to make her regret it", whatever that meant, but she didn't want to mess with this guy too much. He had, after all, killed two men for money.
The problem was that she didn't have enough money left to pay him and John was technically still alive, at least in the eyes of the law.
This whole situation was really her hit man's fault. If he had killed John in an accident where people would actually see his dead body instead of having the thing float around in the ocean for fish food, there wouldn't be a problem. She needed evidence that he was dead, damn it!
Wasn't a plane crash on the Pacific Ocean enough evidence to prove that someone was dead? Who the hell could survive that? John probably would just to piss her off, but, honestly, no one could survive that.
Making up her mind, Liz decided that she would try to get the law to declare John dead without his body as proof. Only someone stupid would think he was still alive after that.
Liz grabbed her purse and then hopped in the car that John had bought her for Christmas last year. She drove to her lawyer's office and sat down in the waiting room. So she didn't have an appointment. She was Elizabeth fucking Cena! He was going to see her today and that was that.
After waiting half an hour, Liz was starting to get pissed. After an hour, she was about ready to rip someone's head off, but finally, she was called into her lawyer's office and offered a seat in front of his ornate wooden desk.
Her lawyer sat down in his own chair and intertwined his fingers. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Liz paused for a moment, thinking it over before she replied, "I'd like to declare my husband legally dead."
In a moment, Punk's world had gone from complete darkness to bright, red light. It took him a moment to realize that light was filtering through his eye lids, making it appear red. Cautiously cracking on eye open, Punk tried to get used to the bright light that was streaming through the open door of the cabin.
After a few minutes, Punk was able to open his eyes fully without squinting in pain. He sat up on his cot with only a little bit of twinge in his hip. Looking around the room, Punk noticed that John was not in the cabin, which relieved him. He didn't know how he would be able to face him after having that dream about him. John would have no idea what he had dreamed, but Punk knew.
Punk suddenly realized how hungry and thirsty he was. He eyed that cabinet that he knew held the water and munches that John had retrieved from the plane. Feeling weak, Punk wondered if he would be able to make it over to the cabinet, grab what he wanted and make it back to his cot or at least one of the chairs before his strength gave out.
Realizing he had nothing to lose, Punk stood up on his shaking legs. It honestly surprised him how weak he was and he didn't understand why. He had only been asleep for a few hours, right?
Punk made it as far as the table before he had to sit down. Even just those few steps to the table made him feel like he had just run the Chicago marathon. He was breathing hard and felt a little dizzy. What the hell was wrong with him?
After recovering a few minutes, Punk stood back up and set his mind to making it over to the cabinet. He made it with a lot of effort, but he quickly grabbed two waters and a few bags of trail mix before going back to sit down before his legs gave out from under him.
Punk opened one of the water bottles and took a long drink. He couldn't help but sigh with pleasure and relief as soon as his lips left the bottle. His mouth and throat had been so dry. Punk opened a bag of trail mix and began to pick at it between sips of water.
About half way through his second bottle of water, John walked through the cabin door. Punk looked up at him and sneered. He thought that if he acted normal, John would never suspect that he was feeling a little awkward around him after his dream.
John was startled when he walked through the door and saw Punk eating and drinking at the table. He hadn't been expecting him to be awake yet, but it was good to see him up and alive. "How are you feeling?" John asked Punk pointedly.
Punk snorted and said, "I'm just fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
John rolled his eyes at Punk's tough act. He couldn't help but he annoyed. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you had an infection and were delirious with fever for four days. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up.
Punk's eyes widened in shock. He'd been asleep for four days with a fever? No wonder he had such odd dreams. "Well, I'm just fine now." Punk said testily. John's presence was setting him on edge. The air seemed to tingle whenever John was near him.
John sighed and shook his head at Punk's attitude. He had hoped that Punk would act nicer toward him after his dream, but he should have known better. Punk might not even remember what he dreamed or he just didn't want to acknowledge it. It was okay, though. John would make him remember and acknowledge his dream and what it meant. After all, Punk's subconscious had to be trying to tell him something and John was going to help it along.
Looking down at himself, John looked at what he was wearing. He had one of his bright t-shirts stretched over his chest and his signature jorts covered his lower half. An idea popped in his head and John had to turn around before he could let the evil smile spread over his face. Punk wasn't the only one who could be a manipulative deviant. John could play this game, too.
Stepping over to his cot, John slowly slipped off his t-shirt as sexily as he could while still appearing to be completely innocent and oblivious. He used his shirt to wipe the sweat off his body, starting at his chest and then slowly making his way down his abdomen before stopping at his jorts. Throwing his shirt on the bed, John turned to the side so he could look at Punk through his peripheral vision.
John had to keep himself from laughing when he saw Punk's hand wrapped around a bottle of water that was half-way to his open mouth. He could see Punk staring intently at his chest and abs. He should have felt a little guilty for manipulating a man that had been in the throes of a high fever just hours ago, but John would do anything to have Punk for himself.
Deciding to go in for the kill, John started to fiddle with the button on his jean shorts. He heard Punk's breath softly hitch and he saw that the he hadn't moved yet. His water bottle was still held in midair.
The cabin was filled with the rasp of a zipper going down slowly. John heard Punk's breaths come faster and heavier. John had to stop the smile that threatened to spread over his face at Punk's reaction. It was nice to know that he had this much of an effect on Punk.
Slipping his jorts slowly down his hips John took off the shorts and placed them on his cot. He was left in the black pair of sports boxer briefs that he always wore when he stepped in the ring. They were skin tight which kept him from being pantsed like Randy and the other guys had been on many occasions. The underwear also ended just below his generous ass, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
John turned around fully toward Punk and smiled brightly at him. Punk didn't seem to notice because his attention was drawn much further south than John's mouth. John laughed evilly in his mind. He had Punk just where he wanted him. Now for the ending.
John caressed his stomach, which drew Punk's attention and asked, "Is it me, or do you think it's hot in here?" His voice was low and sensual
Punk looked startled and raised his eyes to meet John's gaze. He looked ashamed and a little angry, like a child who had just gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Punk opened his mouth to reply but only an unintelligible squawk came out, so he stopped to clear his throat. "Umm, it's a little warm in here, but not enough that it's okay to run around in your underwear. Put some damn clothes on, Cena."
Ah, so he was trying to hide his attraction and arousal behind a tough and annoyed act. It was okay, though. John wasn't going to give up and Punk would cave and give into his feelings eventually.
John shrugged "I think it's cooler on the beach, so I'm going to go sit down there and watch for ships or planes. When you get done, you should come join me if you feel up to it." With that John shot Punk a heated look and then left the cabin.
Punk couldn't help checking out John's toned ass as he made his way out the door. He snapped out of it as soon as John was out of sight. What the hell was that?
Punk's groin felt tight and painful with arousal from watching John undress and prance around practically naked. What was wrong with him? He shouldn't feel this way about John fucking Cena. He had ruined his best friend's career for no reason. He was so ashamed of himself.
Why couldn't he want to fuck the brains out of anyone else on the roster? Had he just admitted that he wanted to fuck John Cena's brains out? Punk was shocked at his thoughts but he quickly calmed himself by saying that the first step to recovering is admitting you have a problem.
He had a problem, alright. A six foot, one inch tall, 250 pound temptation was running around on this island and he had no way to getting the hell off this island.
Standing up to go and sit down on his cot, Punk took in a deep, calming breath. He could get through this without giving in. It was like staring at a big piece of chocolate cake, but not allowing himself to eat it. He had done that all the time. John was just a big piece of chocolate cake that he couldn't eat.
The only issue with that was he only had to look at a piece of chocolate cake for a few minutes or hours. Punk had no idea if he was ever going to get off this island and away from John, the giant piece of chocolate cake.
"I can do this," Punk thought to himself, "and without even sticking my finger in the frosting."
Sorry this is out so late. I had no inspiration to write and if I did have some inspiration, I didn't have any time to write down what was floating around in my mind. I hope that you all enjoyed this, even though it was out super late. Please review because I love hearing feedback!
HeartDeNijs
