mr-punkers-blog - Tumblr blog

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My fucking knee... Fuck!

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OOC HI HI

Well, look who's back! The beautiful, perfect, amazing (and totally modest) admin, Amanda! I'm sorry I've been away; this account has been bugged due to an email problem and I've also been super busy!

First off, Sky, please inbox me ON HERE. I need the login info for the admin page.

This group is getting a MAJOR revamp. I am going to start kicking inactive characters and upholding the rules for here. Advertising and the look of the main group page will all be changing, and everything will be cleaner, neat, and BETTER! Change is the best medicine for anything, besides laughter.

Thank you!

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Punk hears Dean stir as he covers the soup and puts it in the fridge for Dean later. Punk walks over to the bed, sitting lightly on it behind Dean. "Hey." Punk whispers to announce himself, pushing some of the hair off of Dean's neck to rub it slowly. Whenever he's feeling sick, Punk loves it when someone rubs his neck. It cools him down, relaxes him. He knows Dean doesn't like his personal space invaded, but maybe this'll let Punk inside of his barrier; inside of the wall that he hides behind for protection. Punk pulls the covers tight around Dean before sitting on them again, making sure Dean is cozy. Punk doesn't want to bother the man who he's pretty sure already hates him. He continues to rub his neck, occasionally running a hand through the messy curls. Hey, Dean isn't objecting, so he's not stopping. Punk likes this; giving affection to and caring for someone. He doesn't get to do it often.

Peace Will Arise and Tear Us Apart. || Dean & Punk.

Shortly after Punk goes back to the kitchen, Dean starts to wake up. With a light, frustrated groan, he turns in bed a bit, pulling the covers and blankets up and holding them tight against himself, closing his eyes again and hoping for more sleep. He felt horrible, and the only cure was sleep. Sleep made everything better, it always had, even when he wasn’t sick. It made things get quiet, and even with a raging fever, all he wanted was for his mind to get quiet. It doesn’t strike him odd that someone is in the kitchen, as the thought of Punk being there doesn’t even cross his mind in his determined need for sleep at the moment.

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After being released from the hospital after his transfusions and then getting sick, in there, Punk is free. He feels free, light, almost in euphoria. But those ticks are still on his arms, making him itch whenever he thinks about them, when he thinks about that night. The cleaning bill was a ridiculous sum, but it had to be done. After hopping online for the first time in weeks, Punk knows he needs to visit Dean. Throwing his Straight-Edge hoodie over his ROH shirt to hide the cuts and sliding into a pair of jeans and sneakers, Punk makes his way two floors down to Dean's room. He finds the door unlocked and enters slowly, seeing Dean asleep on his bed in the middle of the small room. Closing the door behind him quietly, Punk quickly makes his way to the small kitchen, quietly making some homemade soup (unlike the canned soup Dean has been trying to eat) as he watches Dean sleep. It's almost angelic, almost beautiful. Even though Dean is pale and sickly looking, he finally looks at peace for once. As the soup summers on the stove, Punk walks over to Dean, pushing the curls off of his forehead gently to take his temperature. Once he feels the heat radiating off of Dean's head, Punk strokes his cheek gently, thanking whoever is up there that Dean is a heavy sleeper. Making his way back to the kitchen with a smile, the Straight-Edge Savior continues to make the soup, the heat from Dean still a memory on his hand.

Peace Will Arise and Tear Us Apart. || Dean & Punk.

After being sick and in bed for two or three days now, Dean finally came to the conclusion he must have the flu. Great. At least Madison was gone, right? That way she wouldn’t get sick, and she wouldn’t have to stay to herself while he slept all day. Today, actually, he tried getting up and actually acting okay, trying to eat at least something. All he could get to stay down seemed to be water and the occasional couple spoonfuls of soup. Other than that, eating was a failure. He eventually gave up and just got back into bed, not caring that Punk was on his way over. He left the hotel room door unlocked in case he fell asleep, which he knew would probably happen once he got back in bed. 

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I got sick in the hospital, I won't catch it again.

Doubt it’ll help any. Everything I’ve tried to eat today hasn’t faired too well. 

You don’t need to bring me anything, I’m good now, I think. You can come by if you want…but I don’t know if you want to get sick.

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Should I come over? Maybe bring some food for you or something?

Soup and tea can only be good for so long until it just makes you sick. :/

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Understandable. Switch it up on the soup.

Soup and tea can only be good for so long until it just makes you sick. :/

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here’s a fun fact get the fuck away from me

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Once the ambulance comes, they quickly take Punk on, letting Chris ride in the back. They get him into a room and quickly stitch up the cuts on his arms. They hook Punk up to a blood drip and a IV drip while taking an EKG of his heart after cleaning him up and putting him in a hospital gown. "He'll be fine." The doctor says to Chris, leaving the room after bringing the results back. The nurse pitted-patters around the room for a few more minutes before leaving them alone, dropping the blinds so the room is dim for Punk. After an hour or so, Punk's skin starts to gain it's color and warmth, and after about another hour he opens his dim hazel eyes slowly, looking around with a groan. He sees Chris and he can't help it when his chapped, crackled lips break into a smile. He came.

Forever and Always || Punkicho

“Damn it, Punk, wake up!” Chris says, holding Punk closely as he pulls out his phone, quickly dialing an ambulance. After he hangs up, he looks around at everything that had apparently happened. He didn’t want to ask about any of it, not right now. Now, all he wanted was for Punk to be okay. 

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Punk's limp body slides against Chris when he grabs him, the dried blood on his arms crackling when Chris moves him. His head limps forward, eyes closed and his breaths shallow. His skin is pale and cold, but warm around the wedding band on his finger. He hasn't taken it off since their split, because it's one of the few things he has that reminds him of him and Chris. As Chris holds him, Punk barely wakes up, coughing hard, a little of vomit-colored phlem leaving his mouth and landing on his stained shirt. He lets out a groan, trying to move; he's too weak to even take full breaths, moving inst an option. With another groan, he slips out of consciousness in Chris's arms, the dried tears making his dirty face shine.

Forever and Always || Punkicho

In truth, Chris hadn’t even thought of Punk in a few days. His mind was too focused on coming back and returning at the pay-per-view that he hadn’t even thought of Punk lately. With the few texts, that all changed. Punk obviously wasn’t in a good state of mind right now, and something obviously happened. Something bad, too. Chris rushed to Punk’s hotel room, glad the door was unlocked. He rushed inside and froze in his tracks as he saw the sight in front of him. He had seen this before once or twice, but this time seemed even worse than before. “Punk!” he nearly shouted, running over to the other man and trying to help him to sit up and wake up somehow. He noticed Punk still wearing the wedding ring from all those months ago, and that made him smile just a little bit. 

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Forever and Always || Punkicho

After Punk had replied with that final text message, his head spun and he passed out again. He had spent hours on the floor, wallowing in his own blood and vomit before he could get his phone to text Chris. He had spiraled downwards ever since losing the title, with things going from bad to worse, especially after trading words with Dolph. The rarely seen Phil Brooks has made his appearance on the stage of Punk's life; sensitive, afraid, suicidal and depressed. The first cut was an accident; the next twelve were not. Lucky thirteen. The red lines danced down his arms, dripping onto the light brown carpet of the hotel living room floor along with salty tear drops that he couldn't control that came from his dim hazel eyes. The thirteenth slash had hit a larger vein, turning the cherry red strands maroon. Relief. His head felt light, and he could feel blood coming out of his nose as he leaned his head forward to vomit from the couch. Finally, Phil passed out, falling into his mess. Accident. He woke up, those voices he hadn't heard for years taunting him. Failure, reject, pitiful, ugly, horrible, LOSER LOSER LOSER. the text was the only thing he could do, and it took his last bit of strength to reply before slipping away again, the blood drying on the floor. Sorry.

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(Text) Hurt... Blood notgoo d help.

Text to Chris

(Text) Hlep….

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Text to Chris

(Text) Hlep....

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ooc that Dean photo set makes me sad

because I am a new yorker

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ooc GOD DAMNIT JULIETTE ANSWER YOUR ASKS OR GET ON AIM WE NEED TO FINISH THE AU YOU PROMISED.

ooc @ Juliette (well at everybody but mostly juliette)

So y’know that friend I made?

We were talking

And then

this happened

see you should answer your asks sometimes or else this will happen

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ooc @ Juliette (well at everybody but mostly juliette)

So y'know that friend I made?

We were talking

And then

this happened

see you should answer your asks sometimes or else this will happen