Summary: "I'm working with training a new up and coming NXT star, but she's…" Hunter shakes his head, "she's a lot. She needs an attitude adjustment. Maybe literally and physically."
Part One
Punk being hurt sucks, it really fucking sucks. He had so many ideas, plans, and wants for his grand return — and he pulls a muscle the first night on tv. Way to go, Phil. He curses himself so much daily that he's started calling himself that in his own head. WaytogoPhil. His grumpy, annoyed face is a usual backstage, but it must have been especially downturned and grotesque because he finds Triple H being nice to him for once.
Punk runs into him while walking to catering to grab a light sandwich for protein before his workout.
"Punk, ya gotta lighten up. Your surgery went great, your rehab is going fantastic. You're gonna be back in no time…" Punk's bald headed boss pulls him to the side of the cafeteria, looking back and forth for any important staff. There's only two cafeteria workers in scrubs spraying trays in the back. Punk's hair on his neck bristles as Triple H wraps an arm around his shoulders. "I have a favor to ask of you, in fact, before you come back."
Punk raises a brow. "Don't Vince me with favors. I'm not wrestling."
Triple H smirks at his boldness, can't help but find him amusing. "No, no," he snorts, slapping Punk on the back. Punk has to physically make himself not recoil. He hates being touched by any of his bosses. "I'm working with training a new up and coming NXT star, but she's…" Hunter shakes his head, "she's a lot. She needs an attitude adjustment. Maybe literally and physically."
"What — you want me to beat her ass?"
Hunter looks deadpan and Punk is smirking snarkily.
"Talk to her. She reminds me of a certain someone. She's training in the gym in an hour. Can you do this for me?"
Punk feels like he doesn't really have a choice.
-
She doesn't use the private gym he gets to use of course, so he makes his way to the work out area they have set up backstage. His phone keeps dinging and he slides it out of his pocket.
Hunter: I appreciate this Punk. I think she just needs a talking to from someone with a bit of bite.
Punk scoffs. More like someone who can't be taken to HR.
The gym smells like disinfectant and cool air. Punk looks around and it's mostly empty, until he spots someone sitting on the weight bench, headphones on and staring down at their phone. Their back is to him, but it's obviously a chick. NXT is plastered in bold lettering against the back of her baggy t-shirt. Bingo.
Punk walks over easily, shoving his hands in his front pockets a bit awkwardly as he leans against the barbell rack.
She takes an earbud out, looks up at him, and he waits for it — the gasp, the squeal, the hug. It's sweet, it's touching and he doesn't ever really get tired of playing Papa Punk with young wrestlers who look up to him. He inhales a bit, catches her eyes as she looks up in disbelief. He lets a small smirk slip through, but it falters quickly as she rolls her eyes at him, right in his face.
"Oh, God…" she huffs, standing up, and wipes her sweaty hands on her front. "I told the Boss to chill, that I'm fine and he sends his newest Yes Man?"
She scoffs and pushes by him, making her way to her dressing room. Punk can't help but feel his temper begin to spark, like a lighter running out of juice but still close to igniting a flame. He breathes out, feels his nostrils flare as he takes off after her.
"What's the deal? What's this all about?" He pushes in front of her and she stops. He gets a good look at her, now face to face. She's really pretty, with her face blotched slightly red from her workout and her skin dewy with sweat. Her eyelashes are long and Punk has to pull himself from looking at them as she looks annoyed as fuck at him.
"Look. Maybe me and a girl backstage, who I won't name 'cause it isn't important, got into a little tiff — a mouthing match, a light verbal rumble and Hunter thinks I'm going to get violent. Oh please," she shoves her bag over her shoulder, "I appreciate him sending you though, Mr. Punk." She bats her eyelashes and lets a smirk tease at her lips now, and Punk feels like he's getting whiplash. Does she hate him or wanna fuck him? "It's nice to know I'm so highly thought of by the boss that he'd send his newly acquired Thrifted item…"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Punk feels himself bristle, and he looks back seeing the gym door is shut. He doesn't hear any kind of staff or anything. He huffs, stepping toward her closer. "Thrifted?"
"You know," she sneers, "tossed away and then purchased again. Thrifted."
Punk doesn't hit women, but he certainly can't deny he's thought about it. "Watch your fucking tone. You think you run something, Miss NXT? I could have you gone, tossed — fuckin' outta here."
"Oh I bet," she presses against him, chest to chest, and Punk has never felt so conflicted inside his own body before, "cause you're all chummy with corporate now, aren't you, Pipebomb?"
She doesn't touch him, backs down and deflates. She cuts Punk off before he can argue. "I'm done with this. I'll take Paul's warning if he'll promise to get you off my back."
She genuinely puts her hand in his face and walks off. Punk scoffs, rubs his face in disbelief. What the fuck?
~
Punk assumes she told Triple H some lie about how he talked some sense into her. He hasn't had a follow up call, email or text about the conversation at all. She hasn't spoken to him again either, not that he expected her to. She obviously hated him for no reason, just like a lot of folks. He liked a lot of the other girls who worked in the women's division of NXT, and they liked him, too.
She was a heel, though. Punk thought maybe that's the reason she's cunt-ish — she's playing into her part too much.
He couldn't help but start watching her matches. He told himself it was to see her slip up, to see how amateur she really is. Or maybe to see why Triple H was having him talk to her instead of just axing her contract and nabbing someone else from the WWE training classes.
She's a big time heel. She's got people booing in her face, not letting her speak on the mic, and screaming angrily when she wins or comes close to it. She works the crowd hard, telling them that they're idiotic, stupid, ignorant, etc. Seeing that was enough for Punk. He knew he had to watch her wrestle in person, but he had to be secretive. She hates him, and he doesn't particularly like her all that much. Except he kind of does, well, at least the way she wrestles.
The next Tuesday he's at the show.
"You're here for who?" Shawn Michaels pulls his headphones down with a smirk. They're in the gorilla position, and the crowd is loud. Punk had simply popped his head into the area and asked where she was. He feels he has free reign that way.
Nobody seems to mind, in fact everyone one of the camera staff is grinning at him like he's just precious. Shawn gives a couple directions to the gentleman sitting beside him, and pulls Punk into the much quieter backstage hallway.
"Punker, you're here, you're here. That's lovely," Punk loves how Shawn has started to sound like someone doing an imitation of Shawn Michaels in his old age, "You said you're here for who?"
When he says her name, Michaels guffaws. "No, no, I know you. That's what you like — that crazy stuff — but no, you better wise up." Punk almost laughs at Michaels' cadence. What crazy stuff does he like?
"I just wanna watch her match from gorilla," Punk grins, "for research purposes."
"She's gonna walk through there to get to that entrance ramp and whoop your vegan ass, that's what's gonna happen."
"Shawn," Punk rubs his eyebrows, "I'm not…straight edge doesn't mean…" Literally, whatever. "Whatever," Punk laughs, "listen, I'm gonna just wait til she's out and I'll slip in. Deal?"
Shawn nods, shakes Punk's hand. "Deal. But if she catches ya, just know I allow my wrestlers to fight backstage. We call it therapy."
-
Her entrance is fun and she eats up the boos. But once Punk is in the production seat and can see her clearly from different camera angles he feels like he's in heaven. So far, his favorite thing is how she sells moves.
The wrestler she's facing is larger than her in width, a heavyset jobber with her hair braided into two blonde pigtails. Punk can't help but grin as the blonde lifts her in the air and slams her hard on her back.
She winces — mouth dropping open in pain as she rolls around, kicking her legs. Punk can see her mouth "fuck, fuck, fuck."
Punk watches as she's tossed around, taking moves and sweating and crying like she's in pain. She's put into a submission by the blondie, who's yelling at her to tap, tap, tap. "No," she's moaning, and Punk is on the edge of the steel chair he's sitting on.
"Tap, it's over!"
"No, nooo…" She's struggling so much, and as she tries to pull out of the submission her body is red,
blotched and slick with sweat. She grabs the bottom rope. Punk breathes out in relief.
She finally gets a chance to fight back, fighting through the pain and tears. Her stomp from the top rope to finish off blonde pigtails is enough.
He leaves once she pins her — one, two, three — he can't bear to see her walk backstage. He may burst.
He escapes before even Shawn can catch up with him.
~
Before long, Wrestlmania is close. Punk doesn't have time to sit around and watch YouTube compilations of her matches while his arm heals. He doesn't have any more Tuesdays where NXT is filming nearby either. He's still not cleared to fight, but he's still involved with commentary during Drew's match. He has his feud to worry about, not somebody else. He doesn't even expect to see her. Sure, when he's putting on his suit to go to the Hall of Fame the Friday before Wrestlmania, maybe he does put a little extra time into how he looks. But he's gonna be on TV. He's gotta look good.
He now sits behind Cody in his dressing room as his stylist finishes touching him up in front of a brightly lit vanity. Jey is texting on his phone in the other corner, waiting to have his hair to get one last spritz. All of them jump as the door is pushed open slightly.
"Oy," Grayson Waller says. Punk doesn't know the kid well. Just knows he's young, and a heel. He's also speaking to Cody and Jey. "They're 'ere, the birds."
"That's great, Grayson," Cody says deadpan as he eyes his own reflection in the mirror.
"Naaaaur," Grayson groans, "you don't understand, man. Those NXT ladies are comin' 'ere. Triple H wants some of 'em. And I want some of 'em."
Jey laughs, "Chill out, uce."
Punk finds his throat dry when he hears girls' voices in the hallway as Grayson shuts the door he peeked into. Cody is shaking his head, rolling his eyes. Jey's back on his phone, but Punk is straining to hear because he's pretty sure he heard her voice. Why's he internally being such a fangirl? He's technically way higher than her in the company. But he feels like a big fan. At this point he knows her whole indie career, and has seen every shitty homemade YouTube Doc about her. And she hates him. Fuck.
Punk stands, straightening his shirt and buttoning the suit jacket as he stands. He gives Jey and Cody a swift nod that says "see you out there", and makes his way out of the dressing room.
Punk doesn't know anything about Austin Theory, but he does know what eye fucking looks like. And Punk can see why he's doing it, he supposes. She's here, dressed to the nines; a golden, shiny dress that goes down below her knees but hugs every single curve like a vacuum seal. Her hair is down and curled around her face, which is pursed in a nonplussed expression as Austin continues to talk about…what's he talking about? Punk hears something, something title, something, something tag team — whatever. He can't help but let his eyes scan up her legs, which are toned and sculpted in her heels. He knew she was curvy in her ring gear, but the dress makes her look — he can't deny — stunning.
He gets tired of Theory breathing her air. He walks over.
"Long time, no see, hot shot."
She flushes. He doesn't expect that reaction. He thought she'd curse him out.
"You know Punk?" Austin grins, not catching a hint to leave, "Heeey, Punk!" Austin waves.
"Hey…" Punk fakes a smile.
"I'll see you inside the arena, Austin," she says, in a sweet voice. Punk feels his heart twinge. He's heard her talk shit in the ring, and talk shit to him — so when she sounds flirty, he can't help but want her.
Theory's all smiles and right ons, then leaves. She finally faces him, embarrassed.
"What are you doing here?"
Punk can't help but smile. She has the fuckin' gall, the balls. "I work here. If I remember right, you don't."
"For your information, I've recently got," she presses her fingertip to his chest, "a promotion. I'll be on Smackdown after Mania." She smiles big, petty.
Punk scoffs. "So I'm still correct, I work here right now and as of currently — you don't. So, don't ask me why I'm here."
"Oh, but — you don't work at NXT do you?"
Punk scoffs, again. "No."
"So why were you there? Hmm? If we're going to talk about being at places we don't work."
Punk feels himself lose color, looks over his shoulder, steps closer to her. He's so close he can smell her perfume very strongly from where it's been sprayed across her chest. He can see the slight sheen of wetness where it was applied. "Who told you? I was just there to —"
"To watch me?" she looks up at him through her eyelashes and Punk is pissed off at the way she makes his cock twitch. She rolls her eyes, lets her hands reach out and brush over the collar of his suit jacket. She eyes his body, running her hands over the front of his suit. He hopes she goes no lower while they're out there. "I never thought I'd see CM Punk in a suit. What is this — Corporate Punk? A bit of an oxymoron…"
Her manicured hands pat his chest twice and let go of his jacket. "I tell you I don't like you and ask you to leave me alone and you start secretly coming to my matches. What message is that supposed to send to me?"
Punk blinks and it's his turn to blush. She smiles at him devilishly, leans in right beside his ear. Her hands press against his front again and her touch is hot even through a dress shirt. "You're a fan."
"Fuck you," he grumbles, lets his hands graze the soft fabric of her dress that's covering her hip bones. She's so warm. He knows her skin is hot under that dress. In a moment they're going to be under the hot ring lights for the Hall of Fame, and her dress is probably going to stick to her skin. She'll have to peel it off. Punk lets his hands fall awkwardly at his sides because if he grabs her, he's going to rut against her. He'll show her what a bad attitude gets you.
But he doesn't. She instead pulls back and clacks away, swaying her hips in a way that makes Punk watch her go.
-
The quietness of his own dressing room is loud after hearing the crowd during the show. There's almost a ring in his ears, and he rubs them gently with his two index fingers. He eyes himself in the bright light of the vanity, poking and pulling on his crow's feet. He can't stop thinking about her. About how Theory was looking at her, about how she probably would rather have him talk her up than some old man. He kept looking at her during the show, trying to sneak glances during the times the hard camera was off of him. She wouldn't even begin to look his way. She did sit with Theory and Waller, which pissed him off even more.
He's startled as a small knock erupts at the door. Nobody knocks except for assistance and stylists and the show is over. Everyone's probably mostly filed out by now. Punk just has his hotel room to look forward to, so he doesn't rush.
He pulls the door open.
"Heeey," she smiles at him and Punk feels his heart drop into his belly. Last he saw her, she was taking a couple shots with Waller. He figured she was out with his crew partying and that he was alone. Again.
But he wasn't, actually.
"You're still here?"
"I was waiting to see you."
Punk tilts his head, almost laughs. "Me?"
She moves forward slightly, asking to come inside. Punk allows her, and closes the door behind her. She doesn't move from the entrance way, though. "Why have you been coming to my matches? I had to ask security if you were even coming. Nobody would tell me."
"How'd you suspect?" he's grinning, not answering her on purpose. He can't help but like when she flares up, when he can get a rise. It's how he met her, it's how he finds he likes her.
"You cocksucker, I saw your rental car," she shoves him, but with no real force. Punk can actually see she expected his chest to be softer, and sees her be slightly surprised at the lack of give. "And Shawn can try to lie to me, but he can't. Maybe the Heartbreak Kid could've, but he can't. He kept implying I had new eyes on me, and who would've thought that — it's you. Is this all for Triple H? This 'watching me' shit?"
"No, just that first time. When you said I was washed up and thrifted." Punk rolls his eyes.
"I said thrifted, not washed up. Thrifted and turned into a Suit Monkey obviously," she scans his suit again, "Paul making you dress and act nice and be on your p's and q's, Mr. Punk?"
Punk has a reputation of doing what his mother used to call "snatching someone up." A quick one, two motion and he's got her — both hands behind her back in his one big fist. His other hand is cupped behind her neck, holding her face up to his. He breathes hard in her face, like a bull.
"I think someone needs to make you act nice. What do you think?"
She lets out a shaky breath. Punk lets the hand on the back of her neck tangle into the hair on the back of her head. He grips her, tugs the hair wrapped around his fingers and she squeaks at the slight pain in her scalp.
"Why are you being so fucking hateful, huh?"
She's smirking now, cheeks red and she's also panting slightly. Punk can see this turns her on, and of course it does. "You are violent backstage."
He groans, finally presses his mouth to her in a hard kiss. He instantly pushes his tongue in her mouth, feels her moan throughout his entire body. She tastes so good, and he lets go of her hands and cups her face. She lets her hand slip between their bodies, and she's palming his half hard dick through his slacks.
"Okay," Punk says as he pulls from kissing her, breathless. He begins palming her ass through her dress while she throws her arms around his shoulders, "I like how you wrestle. That's why I came and watched you."
"It had nothing to do with the fact you want to kiss me?"
Punk stares her down. "I wanna do more than kiss you."
He makes her shiver and he smirks. He turns her around so her back is against his front, then spins her around so she's facing the seat of the armchair. He presses a big palm to the middle of her back and pushes her head down and her ass up. "This is how I want you," he growls, "you need a fucking lesson."
He swats her ass through her dress and she shrieks into the cushion of the chair, tossing her head to the side and blowing her messed hair out of her face. "Fuck, Puunnk.." she lets out a desperate sob.
"Shhh…" Punk drops to his knees behind her, hushes her by running his calloused fingers over the backs of her thighs. He pulls her dress up and up. When he pulls it up over her ass to reveal her lacy, skin colored thong he almost chokes. He's rubbing his own dick through his dress pants as he leans in and presses his mouth to her clothed cunt and her smell, her taste, the way she trembles under his mouth makes his cock swell even more.
She curses and twitches under his touch, her back arching with want. Punk can't help but lick a long stripe where her panties cover her core, making her soak them even more. She's moaning so breathy, and rocking her hips up and down. He spanks her, watches the skin turn red and slightly jiggle. She just hisses, uses her hand to reach between her legs and pulls her own underwear to the side to reveal her pink pussy for him.
Punk feels his breath catch, at the realization that — yeah, he's about to fuck her. She's giving herself to him like this. He presses his thumb slightly inside her, feeling how she's tight and warm inside. Shit, he's not twenty years old anymore. He needs to calm down, but she's sending him into fucking overdrive.
"You're goddamn gorgeous," Punk finds this spilling out of him as he's shuffling to undo his belt. He keeps teasing her with his fingers as he's getting his pants off, and she's backing up on him like a cat in heat.
"Please fuck me," she begs. He needs to be inside her now.
When he presses inside, he's rock hard and it makes her stiffen underneath him as he slides in. "So big," she breathes as he pulls her up flush against his own chest. Her back is against his body, and he can reach around and rub her clit while he fucks her. He finds himself wanting to please her so bad. Maybe it's where she's mean to him, doesn't like him — he wants her approval. He thinks he has it now.
"Feel good, angel?" the pet name is funny, considering she's bitchy. She's not bitching now, Punk thinks.
"Yes, yes," her tits shift up and down as he pounds into her, and he can't help but let both hands come around and cup them both. He massages them in his hands as he slows his thrusts, teasing her with easy strokes.
"Puuunnnk…"
She's so wet that when he fucks her, the sound fills the room. The smacks of their skin is loud and Punk realizes that if anyone is anywhere near this dressing room they surely know what's going on inside. Nobody's stopped them yet, though.
"Take it," Punk shoves himself in hard and slow, making her wince and let out little shaky sobs, "stop being a crybaby, and take it."
He grabs her hair, shoves inside harder. He hopes it hurts a little, on account of her attitude.
She just squeals into the cushions, and when she leans up she's sweaty, moaning and panting. "Punk, please." The hair on her forehead is sweaty now, too, to match his.
"You want me to stop?"
"No," she huffs, her head falling back against his shoulder, "don't ever stop, Punk, please."
He can't fucking take it anymore. He presses her hard into the couch and fucks her. He'd cum inside her if he wasn't a gentleman. Instead, after she cums shakily over his cock again and again, he lets himself cum on her ass. Some of it drips down over her red, used cunt and he has to snap a quick photo for the road.
"You jerk," she breathes, smiling as he slides his phone back into his pocket and begins cleaning her with kleenex.
"It's obviously just for me. I wish I could make it my wallpaper, though."
She scowls, pulls her dress down and adjusts herself. "I uh," she's bashful now, "I don't mean to like — dine and dash. But Wrestlemania is tomorrow and it's like…late." She moves around the armchair and wraps Punk in a hug underneath his arms. She presses her head to his chest, jokingly grabs his ass. He can't help but laugh in her grasp, hug her back almost crushingly.
"Is our feud over?" he asks.
"What, because we fucked? No chance. You're still Mr. Punk, the Stalker."
His mouth drops open and she pokes his nose adoringly. "I'll allow it though if you come please the Queen in her chambers, m'lord." She winks, moves to collect her phone and items. "Be good, Punk. I'm sure we'll meet again." She blows him a kiss and dips out the door. She gives him whiplash consistently.
It is his turn to adjust himself in the mirror. He straightens up, grabs his phone and slides it into his pocket as he makes his way to the Staff cars out back.
It's late in Philly, but the lights in the city are still bright and Punk is shocked to see Randy still chilling outside the arena. He stands leaned against his rental, typing away on his phone.
"Rando!" Punk calls, and he looks over, "still here?"
"Oh yeah, got a workout before bed. Helps me sleep. You know how it goes."
Punk says, "yeah," because he does. Wrestlemania nerves never go away until your match is over. And even then, they remain.
"Why are you still here?"
Punk realizes he can't really say why. "Uh, just caught up talking. Catching up. You know."
Randy says, "yeah." Randy's easy and agreeable to talk to, and doesn't pry either when he can see he's intruding. Whether that be because he's respectful or because he doesn't actually care about your life is to be determined.
"Well, I will see you tomorrow, buddy. Big day." Punk gives Randy a quick side hug, then the manly pats on the back and begins making his way toward his rental car.
"Uh," Randy says behind Punk, making him stop, "Punk, what's hangin' there, bud?"
The laugh is Randy's voice is palpable and Punk briskly stares down at himself. He pats his back pockets and finds the culprit — the skin colored thong. The item of clothing dangles from Punk's fingers between the two men for a couple seconds before Punk is shoving them embarrassingly back where they came from when he realizes that he's looking at.
Randy cackles, throwing his head back. "No waaaay, go Punk." He slaps his back, says nothing more as he loads himself into his own car. Punk thinks of when she grabbed his ass and slaps his own forehead.
Then, his phone dings. A text message.
you got something of mine?
He's gotta cut this addiction off as soon as possible.
His phone dings again. A video message. He feels his face flush before even tapping it. When it loads, her pretty tits are soapy in the shower of her hotel. She's lathering them, washing her smooth body. Punk locks his phone, lets out a shaky breath.
As soon as possible.
