#cm punk / reader

[punkssavior]

tired of you.

| cm punk x fem!reader

my wwe fic tumblr debut. feeling chaotic.

title is a foo fighters song!

“regret, anger, and a pair of gym shorts.”

content warnings: post breakup. smut. angst. pet-names. choking. mentions of blood/semi-blood play. pain kink. pnv, riding.

i definitely went off the rails and lost the plot along the way.

** part two, part three <- linked here!

wordcount: 8.3k

There was something wrong with you.

Maybe, the problem was the pounding headache. The one that’s lasted three days so far and felt like a doldrum banging in your skull.

Maybe, it was the streaks of eyeliner that stained your lower lashes and wouldn’t wipe off no matter how hard you tried.

Or maybe, just maybe, the problem was the urge to reach for your phone and dial up the number of a man who you know wouldn’t right his wrongs.

Yeah, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

It was a Saturday night— alone in your one bedroom apartment. A quiet, dreary week that led right into a hellscape of a weekend. You were always told that breakups were hard, but never this hard.

The stubborn heart that beats inside you almost took hold of the reins when the thought of calling Punk crossed your mind. But the more logical part of your body, your brain, ultimately decided that— maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

The breakup was far from mutual. If anything, it was completely one sided. The last thing you remember from that night a few weeks ago was standing in your apartment door with angry tears in your eyes as Punk drove away from your duplex in a torn down Chevy Malibu.

Like nothing even happened.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stare at your TV in boredom, watching the same rerun of action movies that played every Saturday night around the same time.

It was getting late.

Maybe you should get some sleep.

But God knows your mind wouldn’t allow it.

As you stand up to gather the growing pile of blankets that collected in the midst of your ‘breakup-self-loathing’, you begin to fight that intrusive urge once more.

You couldn’t call. It was way too late. He was probably asleep, or out somewhere training like he’d do when he couldn’t.

You didn’t want to bother.

Because that’s the last thing you ever wanted to be.

Bang, bang.

Your head whips around; two loud knocks at your door almost rattled it right off its hinges.

Bang, bang.

With a cautious air, you walk to the door and rest your hand on the knob. Before you could even begin to twist it, there it was again.

Bang, bang.

Soon enough your heartbeat matched up with the rhythm of the pounding door— making you anxious enough to look through the peephole.

Low and behold, as if he could read your mind from the miles that separated your apartment from his, there Punk stood. Leaning on the bannister that held up your rickety old porch with his arms crossed tightly to his chest.

It was cold, about 30°, yet there he was in a t-shirt, long dark hair slicked back, like he’d just walked through the rain. You freeze in your tracks, hand shaky over the brass doorknob as you debate opening the door.

Would you let him inside? Would you banish him out to the cold and make him talk to you from behind the threshold? Would you finally stick up for yourself and act like you were asleep? Hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d fuck off and take a hint?

You didn’t want either of those things. You didn’t want him to stand out in the cold, or turn around and leave.

You’d been secretly waiting for the moment where he wouldn’t care about the consequences of his actions.

Nor did you want him to “take a hint”.

You swing the door open, acting completely on instinct. But your breath is caught somewhere in your larynx when you realize that he is actually standing there.

“Nice jammies, player.”

“What do you want?”

Your heart stops. The words you spoke were completely off rip, seeing him in person for the first time in weeks must’ve carried a lot more weight to it than you anticipated.

Punk’s straight face morphs into a smile, his eyes darting down your figure and back up again.

“Came here for the gym shorts you stole. I did my laundry this morning and realized they were pretty much all gone.”

“So— why didn’t you come this morning? Instead of trying to break my door down at midnight?”

You cross your arms over your chest, the black and pink heart pajama set that he had gifted you for Valentine’s Day this past year seemed to be the star of the show. The draft from the outside was cold enough to send chills up your spine, as Punk stood there and just looked at you.

Come to think about it, maybe it wasn’t the wind.

“I was busy. Surely you were too, no?”

“I‘ve been here all day. Maybe if you called and asked, you would’ve known that.”

As you stand slightly elevated before him in your bunny slippers, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps inching closer.

“Well, maybe if you’d answered my calls from last week, we wouldn’t be standing here in the cold. Face to face. At midnight.”

You freeze, as he rattles off, your hands moving to your hips.

He called you last week?

“You called me last week?”

“Mhm. Sure did.”

A puff of air leaves your chest, noticing the now rising goosebumps across his sleeves of tattoos, and feeling slightly guilty about keeping him out in the cold.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call me?”

Punk chuckles, brushing a lock of that slick dark hair behind his ear. He looked amused, to say the least— maybe he just wasn’t grasping onto the concept of breaking your heart and smashing it all to pieces. Maybe he thought that reaching out to you would be the good little ego boost he needed to carry on his week in the training gym.

“I called because I wanted to check in. Y’know— see how you were doing.”

Your brow furrows, in an attempt not to show him your hand of cards. Truthfully, your heart skipped about seven beats at the way his voice softened, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“You’re joking, right?”

“And why would I joke about that?”

Punk leans on the doorframe, his eyes darting behind your shoulder at the living room that the two of you used to cuddle up and watch movies in. Maybe the sight of it after the breakup was finally cracking that iron-clad cage around his heart.

You never understood Punk. Not fully, at least.

Despite a three year long relationship that ended abruptly on a random Wednesday night— there were so many layers to his character that you just begged and pleaded to understand. He was caring, but sarcastic. An open book, yet somehow there were pages stuck together by an immeasurable amount of glue.

You wanted to learn more, your only wish was to be able to speak in a language that the both of you understood.

You figured that maybe, three years just wasn’t enough time.

“Wanna come inside?” you ask softly, breaking the silence, your voice barely reaching the surface of the now whipping wind.

“Only if you’ll have me.”

As you step back and let him in, you just— watch.

You watch how he kicks his sneakers off in the same exact spot he always did whenever he’d get home from the gym. You watch him anchor himself onto the wall, as if he were about to dig into his pocket and hang up his car keys on the hook that’s remained vacant since he left.

Must’ve been a repeated habit, or muscle memory. But your chest tightened at the thought either way.

“Your shorts are in my dresser,” you hum, still fighting the feeling of heartburn as he moves fluidly through your living room, “I could go get ‘em if you want.”

“Like I don’t know where your bedroom is. You think I’ve got amnesia or somethin’?”

Looking at Punk felt like a slap in the face. A hard one, at that.

His tight, perfectly fitted t-shirt molded to his cut body, contrasted to the loose gym shorts that hung just above his knees made you want to scream at him for being so visually appealing. But instead, you just smiled warmly, and bit your tongue.

There’s a brooding cloud of silence looming over both of your heads. An unspoken tension thick enough to cut with a butcher knife. Punk was acting casual, a bit too casual for your liking. I guess he figured that those stupid, sea green eyes searing into your forehead were enough to let you forget about what happened in this very room.

“Look, maybe you hit your head on the way here because last I checked, you dumped me. And now— here you are, standing in my living room.”

A catty smile flashes across Punk’s face, his lip ring catching in the light above your kitchen island as he leaned on it with that familiar sense of cockiness.

The one you knew, the one that you unfortunately loved.

“Shit, okay— we’re taking a bit of a leap here, aren’t we?”

“Tell me the real reason why you’re here. And don’t fucking bullshit me.”

The jumble of hurt words you’d been pushing down your throat for weeks— finally had a target. Your voice betrays you at the end of your sentence, fleeting off into a much weaker tone than you anticipated.

“I already told you why. I’m here for my shorts.” His posture straightens as he speaks, putting up his guard as the tension rises.

“Bullshit. You know I fuckin�� hate when you lie, dude. What is this, a wellness check? Did you feel so inclined to check up on my sorry-ass to the point where it kept you up at night?”

Punks hands come up in defense as you move an inch closer, wagging a helpless, beaten down finger at him. Yet that smug smile painted on his cheeks remained, only making you more enraged.

“Wellness check? What the fuck is your problem?” his laughter is indignant, as if he were pitying you, “You really think I’d drive down here in the middle of the night to smile in your face and laugh at you?”

“Newsflash, dickhead. You’ve been doing that this whole time.”

In seconds, Punk’s face switches back to a blank slate. He seemed visibly taken aback by your words. His hand, still dawned in a piece of old wrist tape, clung to his chest.

“Wow. Well, I’m sorry— for trying to keep the mood light— and greet you at your door with a fuckin’ smile when I know damn well that I’m the last person you want to see right now… But have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not the only half of this mess suffering? Maybe you’re not the only one who stays up way later than they should, thinking about where everything went wrong?”

As he grows more animated, he nears closer, to the point where you could still smell the remnants of his cologne and see the drops of frustrated sweat beading on his forehead. You wanted to keep screaming, but your voice was caged behind gritted teeth. You guarded yourself with your arms, mimicking his posture as you crossed them over your chest.

“Well maybe you should cut some slack for the girl you left crying in the doorway, Punk.”

His stage name shoots off your tongue like poison, now in a heated face-off with the man you once loved.

And maybe still did, beneath the scratched up, broken down surface. That was the reason why this all seemed so complicated.

“Do you want your fucking shorts, or not?—”

“—Keep the damn’ shorts, Y/N!” He cuts you off before you could even dream of continuing.

Another silence falls over the room after all the shouting, only the TV in the background filling only half of the void that was your brain right now. Despite getting those harsh words off of your chest, a part of you felt inclined to say no more. You figured you’d done enough irreparable damage to both yourself and Punk. It was in your best interest to leave it be.

“Sorry for yelling,” you mumble, a bit sheepishly.

Punk still stood against your kitchen island, his hand now rubbing his temples between middle finger and thumb.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Awkward. That was the word to describe it. After airing out grievances, finding out that you weren’t the only party in this sick and twisted dance with a lingering feeling that tugged on your heartstrings, everything else surrounding you was just awkward.

You stare at Punk intently, letting him shake his head and mutter curse words under his breath.

“I’m sorry for coming here unannounced. But what I said was true.”

“Hm?” you hum, worried that if you said too much, his vulnerability would be guised as a momentary lapse of judgement.

“I still think about what happened.”

A deep breath catches in your throat the moment his eyes meet yours. It was hard to look at him in general after all that you’d been through, but it was even more difficult to pull yourself away from the defeated, sorrowful expression on his face.

Being so openly honest and true to his inner monologue was a rarity for Punk. You could tell how much he hated the fact that he was admitting this to you, let alone standing once again in your living room after already breaking your heart.

“Seriously,” you begin to say, bridging the gap between your bodies with a sharp tug on his wrist, “Tell me why you came here. If it wasn’t for those two pairs of stupid shorts that you haven’t asked me about in two and a half years, then what was it?”

Punk grimaces, still beaten down by his own honesty, “You just don’t let up, do you?”

“Answer me, asshole.”

You were still aggravated, and the quickly tightening hold you had on his arm was proof of that.

“I came here because I missed you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” A wave of something much more dreadful than relief washes over you— it seemed more existential and off putting than anything. “I missed your face. Your voice. The scent of your perfume. The way you bitch me out to get off and have a good time fuckin’ doing it.”

“I— I genuinely do not believe you,” you mutter, tripping over your words, slightly twisting the skin on his arm in pure, unbridled frustration, “There’s gotta’ be some other excuse.”

Punk’s face comes to a pinch, mulling over your words while simultaneously experiencing the burn from your untamed grip on him.

“There’s no other excuse,” he blurts, bordering a whine, “What? You want me to admit that I’ve been up for days? Unable to sleep, to eat, to wrestle, to fuckin’ unwind and jerk off without the thought of you crossing my mind? Is that what you want?”

Your jaw clenches at the rise you’re getting out of him, wanting nothing more than to smack him across the face.

“Maybe you should’ve said this all to me, what, a month ago? Instead of trying to pop by on a Saturday night like I’m one of your idiot friends?”

It was getting to a point where your nails were surely leaving marks, his arm fully surrendered to you as you took out your pent up anger on one of his innocent limbs.

Punk’s face tightens, the gap in his teeth visible as he writhes in discomfort, “Jesus fuck, you’re hurting me—”

“Touché.”

Having almost completely given up on trying to fight your cat-like grip on his arm, Punk does the unthinkable. With a crooked, masochistic smile, he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you straight into his chest.

“You wanna fight dirty?” he asks, his voice a low, rigid grumble.

Rather than replying, due to the sheer shock running through your spine, you just nod your head meekly.

“We can fight dirty,” a wry chuckle leaves his lips as he leans into your angry face, “Baby, those eyes of yours are quite telling.”

“I’m sick of your shit, Punk,” you spit, still tangled in his sultry words, “it’s too hot and cold with you.”

“Really? Tell me more. I saw how you froze up when I said that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Tell me that my words didn’t leave a mark in that pretty head of yours.”

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck

This was getting to be too much.

You wanted to pull away; but the thought of tasting his lips again after you were forced away from them for so long just seemed intoxicating.

“I don’t have to answer you,” you mumble, trying your hand at defending yourself whilst simultaneously breaking your neck to ignore your desires.

“But I bet you really want to.”

You swallow hard at the feeling of his blistered palm trailing across your side. And your nails continued etching marks into his flesh; the closer he got, the harder you tugged .

“We’re not together anymore. I have nothing to fucking say to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking your mind though, right? That’s what you used to tell me…”

That burning feeling in your chest was back again— like hot lava rising up your throat. You wanted to retort, but couldn’t help but notice how he was completely ignoring the small pooling of blood from the gashes on his forearm.

“…Remember what you used to say to me, Bunny? ‘Don’t be afraid to show a little bit of that heart, Punker. Acting like you care won’t kill you.’ Man, if only you could see yourself right now. Being a damn hypocrite…”

“Stop it.”

The nickname he’d revived from the dead felt like a karate chop to the throat, all while he was still holding you tightly to his chest. His body language read passion, but his words oozed anguish.

He glanced down to your lips, eyeing them with a crooked smile.

“What? Stop what? Stop trying to get you to break down those stubborn walls of yours and be honest with me? I know I hurt you baby, but you can’t keep it all bottled up forever.”

You grabbed him tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Until his face came to a pinch and he was yanking his arm from between your bodies.

He hisses at the sight of trickling blood running down his colorful tattoos, eyeing you shamefully like you were a dog that just crapped in the house.

But rather than letting that anger carry over into another screaming match, he takes the hand that you’d held hostage, and runs it through your hair.

“Bet you needed to let that out, didn’t you?” Punk coos, a complete 180 switch in his demeanor, that same hand trailing down your cheek towards your neck.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ditto, player.”

SMACK.

Your palm lays flat across the side of his cheek, his head whips to the side. A surge of searing anger seemed to free itself the moment your hand connected with his skin, a small splatter of his blood from your fingertips painting across his jawbone.

He shakes his head, and looks at you, that grip he had on your hip tightening as his eyes narrow, and bore into yours.

“You asked if I wanted to fight dirty, didn’t you?” your voice is weakened by the sheer force of that smack. But Punk just nods like a pompous asshole, a slow and desperate smile sliding across his face with the corners of his mouth coming to a Cheshire-cat-like point.

In moments like these, you had to remind yourself of a few things. Punk knew you better than anyone else— your friends, most of your immediate family, even the people you’ve met in passing and spilled your guts to on a whim. You and Punk would spend hours just talking. About anything. About nothing. There was something about his demeanor that drew out the most vulnerable, tucked away parts of your person.

He also had the ability to use what he knew against you. And from the facial expression he made, and from what you could tell from knowing him, he knew that smack held a lot more weight than just pure anger.

He was into it. You were into it.

With a low, practically inaudible growl, Punks hand slides up the front of your body. You could feel the roughness of his palms and the cool touch of his fingertips lingering from standing out in the cold, as he makes his way past the little plastic buttons of your pajama top.

“I love it when we fight, Bunny,” he grumbles, that hand making its way to your throat, “You wanna show me how angry I make you? How much of an asshole I am for breaking your heart?”

Your breath sputters when he clamps his hand down, gently squeezing the sides of your throat. You could only imagine how you looked to him right now— still a bit ticked off, but now a whole lot more desperate.

“I want— an apology.”

“Really? That’s all you want from me right now?”

As you open your mouth to squeeze out an answer, he presses the pads of his fingers into your neck, hitting that blissful pressure point and instantly relieving your three-day-long headache.

“Yes. That’s it,” you breathe, finding it hard to concentrate on only one feature of his face.

The hand of his that stayed stagnant on your hip began to travel downwards, following the curve of your ass all the way down to where it met your thigh. You swallowed, feeling the pressure from his hand fighting the building, anxious saliva from going down.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t seem very confident—”

“—Yes. Yes. For the love of God, please just—”

Your sentence becomes more and more incoherent as Punk slowly spins you around. Your body replaces his, leaned against the kitchen island, still feeling cowardly beneath his over 6-foot stature.

“Just what? Wanna hit me again?” his eyes narrow with challenge, the grip on your throat still in charge of this dance, “Do it. Hit me again. Show me that you’re not afraid to show me what’s on your mind.”

SMACK.

The sheer power from the second slap loosened Punk’s grip on your throat— you breathed out shakily at the loss of the contact, feeling the delayed sting that shot through your palm the moment your knuckle cracked his jaw.

He eventually frees your neck from his hold to aid his wounded cheek, rubbing it softly as those viridian eyes ask you for a favor that his words had yet to reach.

“Jesus Christ baby. You sure know how to lay a good one don’t ya?”

“Fuck you.”

Your palm began to throb in time with the beating of your heart, the surface skin now tender from two measly slaps to a man who gets hurt for a living.

“Fuck me? Alright. If that’s all you have to say then—”

SMACK.

“I hate you! God, I fucking hate you!”

That dry, fervid rage suddenly morphed into a mess of soggy tears— your words biting violently as they fanned across his now helpless face.

You couldn’t help yourself from crying. As if you hadn’t done enough. But now, in the same vein of feelings you felt the moment you saw his silhouette through the peephole, crying was really the only thing you could do.

“I—I am so fucking sick of you! Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming to my apartment, standing there with that stupid, shit-eating smile. Acting like you didn’t have any part whatsoever in ruining my goddamn life!”

“Y/N, I—”

As much as you wanted this to be a civil conversation, there was no turning back as the tears rolled down your face and onto the floor.

“I’ve been crying over you for weeks. Weeks. You left me. After telling me our relationship was practically meaningless. After dumping me with zero fucking explanation! I’m tired of you, Punk. So. Fucking. Tired.”

Silence.

The tears just kept on coming, there was nothing you could do to stop them from searing hot streaks down your face.

Nothing you could do to stop you from yelling now, either.

“Fuck you! Fuck your stupid hair. That stupid shit box car you drive. Your stupid piercings— and stupid tattoos that you refuse to get touched up because I said I liked them the way they were!”

Punk’s face was a blank slate. All it took was for you to start barking out your qualms with him, and suddenly he was at ease like a soldier.

In the heat of your tirade, you slither out of his arms, angrily marching over to the couch and picking up a throw pillow.

“I can’t fucking believe you. You would think three years meant something, right?! But noooo. Not for Mr. CM Punk. You got to carry on life as usual after you left my house that night. You got to parade around your ring, hearing a crowd of people chant your name like you’re the second coming of Christ! All while I was at home sobbing over gym shorts! Fucking gym shorts!”

The pillow you’d been smacking against your hand was perfect ammo to toss at his head; you grunt as you throw it, listening to the pitiful thud as it slams against the wall behind him.

“You want the shorts? I’ll give you the fucking shorts. The same way I gave you the hours it took me to sew your fucking name onto the tags like you asked me to!”

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your heart racing at 90mph and fluttering with every honest truth you spoke.

“I bet a selfish part of you missed having me around, didn’t you? Because without me, who makes you breakfast in the morning? Who else sits through your God-awful, mean jokes when nobody else is around to hear them?”

It was getting harder to stay away from him now, the adrenaline rush that came with smacking him across the face was the last little push you needed for your penultimate sentence.

“Who else is there, Punk?” the volume of your voice lowers when you take a hurried step closer to him.

SMACK.

“Who else fucks you like I do?”

For a split second, you see the glass in Punk’s eyes shatter. You see all of his rugged features soften and he searches your face for something, anything to say.

But just when you think he’s about to pull away, and curse you out for berating him with your spiteful tongue, his lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss.

You melt into him instantly, all of the pieces of your scrambled up puzzle falling back into place the moment his hands hold you against his body.

His cheek was tender, hot to the touch, and your hand was still lingering from that one final smack, yet he encouraged you to cup his face as it hovered in the aftermath.

The initial kiss grows more primal, a twisted dance of heavy breathing and knocking teeth brings Punk’s hands to travel.

Suddenly your mind is back where it started, an unshakable feeling of wavering uncertainty as he lifts your leg to rest on his hip.

“You— you don’t get to do this,” you stammer, not making any attempt to regain your composure, “you don’t get to just— walk in here and destroy everything I’ve been working so hard to rebuild.”

Your noses knock against each other as your breathing becomes one, Punk pulls away with a tug at your bottom lip.

“Then tell me to leave. Push me away. Kick me out.”

As you open your mouth to retort, his body rolls against yours, leaving your head to spin and freeze up like it always did whenever he turns you on.

“Go on, Bunny,” he continues his torturous drawl, bending down to nip at the sensitive skin behind your ear as he whispers, “Tell me to leave.”

A quiet whimper takes over whatever else you’d planned on saying. Any and all remnants of anger from your rant had suddenly disappeared.

“You—”

Your sentence is cut short by your other leg being picked up off the ground. You gasp, clinging yourself to his hips as he spins you, holding you between the wall and the rising warmth of his body.

“You know I can’t do that, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Another searing kiss, one that made stars pass behind your eyelids as his hands held you tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Surely the pads of his fingers would leave bruises in only the places he could see— he loved to know that he was the only one to touch you in the places that get hidden beneath layers of cotton and lace.

He always did. He always will.

A gasp flies past your lips, and his, as he adjusts his grip on you, nailing you higher to the wall with the sheer weight and force of his lips. His own twisted form of crucifixion.

“God, you’re addicting,” he mumbles into your cheek, his line of kisses getting sloppier as he can’t decide where to pay attention to, “You slapped me ‘till my face went raw… You scratched me ‘till I bled…”

A groan of his own interrupts his string of lustful sweet nothings, only for you to take it as your opportunity to grab his chin in your hand.

You look him in the eye, still feeling the burning sensation in your chest— but this time, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was fighting that feeling that you could never quit.

As you look at him, you take your thumb, still stained with blood from before, and trail it across his bottom lip. His lips and chin are defiled with that perfect shade of scarlet — his eyes glittering as you paint him red.

“…And you cursed me out like a fuckin’ bitch,” he chuckles wryly, his tongue flicking out to catch the blood you’d left.

“And yet—” You cock your head to the side, your features fully softening for the first time since he arrived at your door, “—you’re still here with me.”

Before you could even think, Punk is grabbing at the buttons on your pajama shirt and anchoring you to the wall with his hips. His actions are frenzied, popping open the first, second, and third button.

“Fuck this,” he grumbles in frustration, fully surrendering, tugging at the bottom hem and lifting that black and pink heart printed pajama top over your head in one full swoop. You can’t help but chuckle as he tosses it behind his head, and gets straight to work on worshipping the valley of your breasts with open-mouthed kisses.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, Bunny,” he breathes out between each time his lips press against you, “I wanna slap my damn’ self for breaking your heart.”

As he caters to you, you find your hands lacing through his hair, pushing it back to reveal a slit in his eyebrow. The same one he refused to shave back in no matter how many times you asked.

Maybe he thought that you seeing it tonight would help him get lucky.

And judging by the position you were in right now, it clearly worked its magic.

“All these sweet nothings aren’t gonna change the fact that you’re an asshole,” you state plainly, but finding it harder to speak due to him pinning you against the wall.

“You can call me— whatever the hell you want,” says Punk, tucking a strand of your frizzed up hair behind your ear.

The heated encounter had blindly begun to move towards the couch. You found yourself going limp in his arms the moment there wasn’t a sheet of drywall holding you up like a puppet on strings. Punk had you completely at his mercy— although fast-paced, steamy, extremely desperate sex was a staple in your repertoire.

“Is this how you planned on apologizing to me?” you ask, tailing off your sentence with a squeak as he tips you back to lay on the couch.

Punk crawls his way up your topless body, licking a stripe from your belly button all the way to the start of your jaw.

“Wasn’t planned, no. But I suppose that fucking it out to the point of forgiveness is better than a healthy conversation, right?”

Although forgiveness wasn’t a thing that crossed your mind until now, the events that had unfolded within the past thirty minutes had your head in knots. How could a man who you’d sworn off ‘till death come back into your life, simply with a bat of his pretty eyelashes and a flash of the gap in his teeth?

Maybe Punk’s visit was the universe telling you that you’d met your match. You simply couldn’t stay away.

After any and all clothes that barred access to the places he needed you most were removed, you found yourself swimming in a pool of dizzy, love-drunk thoughts. Punk took his time with you, yet still seemed as though he was rushing to get to where you needed him most.

“Fuckin’ Christ, I missed you. I missed you so much,”

Punk groans, taking a moment to stare into your soul before dipping down to bite at your bottom lip with his teeth.

You sigh in bliss, having not felt the touch of him, or anyone else for that matter, since the last time you saw him. As fucked up as it was, you missed this feeling.

You really missed him, too.

“Can I?” you begin to say, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt after another pick up of that steamy makeout session.

“Of course. Anything you want. Have me topless, have me naked, fully clothed, I don’t fuckin’ care.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, he helps you in taking off his tee, and your mind freezes up when you notice the beginning of a tattoo on his chest.

“Is this new?”

You trace the outline of ink with your manicured finger, following its shape all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Been thinkin’ about a chest piece for a while.”

“Mmmh, yeah?” you hum, a fluttering feeling rumbling through your stomach the moment you realize that his hand had travelled to the waistband of your panties. “Chest tattoos are fucking sexy.”

Punk smirks, inching that wandering hand down past the waistband of your underwear towards your throbbing core. He bites his lip, that silver lip ring getting caught in the crossfire.

“Glad you think so, Bunny.”

An immediate wave of pleasure crashes over your senses the moment you feel his finger tease at your dripping slit. He always took the time to make sure you were fully ready— but you were afraid that your screaming match from earlier had you more hot and bothered than you’d like to admit.

“Punk, c’mon—” you whine indignantly, writhing beneath him as he slowly starts to spread your own wetness across your folds, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Impatient now, are we?” he bites back, making it a point to slowly, tauntingly dip in and out of your entrance with his slender finger.

You can’t help but moan out in purse frustration— impatience, as he called it.

“If you don’t hurry this along and fuck me already, I’ll send you home with blue balls and no gym shorts.”

As he opens his mouth to retort, you shoot your hand down to catch his wrist, shaking your head at him disapprovingly.

“Don’t remember you ever being this desperate to get fucked, Bunny,” he chuckles lowly, keeping you and your stamina on its toes as he flips your position to have you straddling his lap, “And here I was thinking you were a fan of the slow, sappy shit.”

“People change, y’know,” you shrug, finding a comfortable position to grind your hips down onto his bulge as you slide your hands up his chest towards his throat, “I think you may have ruined me for good.”

Punk was an athlete. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker to get into the minds of anyone he deemed a worthy opponent. When it came to you, the most worthy of them all, he read you like a book. Cover to cover.

“Ruined you?” he asks, watching your hands climb his chest towards his throat, “Is that why you felt so inclined to almost kill me earlier?”

You clasp your hands around his throat, pushing out a shaky sigh from his chest. A smile spreads across your face like wildfire, your hips now wielding a mind of their own against the hard-on in his shorts.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic— Are you going soft on me, Punker? I thought you liked it a little— rough.”

When you looked back down at his face, what you didn’t expect to see was an airy grin. Punk must’ve done a lot of thinking in the time you were apart— because the Punk you knew a month ago wouldn’t stand for a second of this role reversal. But now, it seemed as though he was basking in the art of submission.

Safe to say, you had him whipped once again.

Fucking finally.

A low rumble from Punk floats to your ears, the first sign of his bleeding impatience. His eyebrows furrowed, the tip of his nose twitched, all while your hands were still wrapped around his neck and gently squeezing the pressure points on either side.

“I really meant it when I said you ruined my life, y’know,” you coo to him quietly, rolling your hips down past his crotch in order for your mouth to be level with the new ink traced on his chest, “Because now, I can’t think of anyone else who makes me feel the way you do.”

“Bunny…” Your nickname sounds like prayer in his gravelly voice, as you take your time and nip at the sensitive skin above his peck. Your teeth leave bruises in their traces, but you knew he didn’t mind.

“I really did try to forget about you. It’s true— but I just couldn’t help myself… Thinking about those big, sad, green eyes every time I slid my hand between my thighs t’ try and get myself off.”

A trail of bruises adds on to the weight of your words— all of which were true. You thought you’d had it all under control the moment your relationship with Punk ended. But the harder you tried to forget about those aforementioned eyes or the spiteful, sarcastic bite of his tongue, the more you really fucking missed it.

“You’re fucking evil, you know that?” Punk gasps, a broad hand flying to brush rogue hair from your forehead.

“What about me is so evil? The fact that you loved me so good and fucked me so hard that you stained my conscience?”

In a lingering spike of anger, you dig your nails into his abdomen, watching his muscles flex beneath the grapple you held. Punk winces, returning the favor with a tug at your hair.

“I don’t think it’s evil. I’d say you left your mark,” you add onto the torture, dragging your nails past the tattoo on his stomach towards the waistband of his shorts, “And now, I think it’s only fair that I leave mine.”

The speed in which your lips reattached to his should've been a worthy competitor to the speed of sound; moans catching between heaving, desperate breaths as Punk held you like you were the last thing he’d ever touch.

“Take your fuckin’ shorts off—” you demand, a lightning bolt of confidence shocking through your spine as he follows your orders without question. All while your lips were still entwined.

You blindly reach down past where the hem of his shorts were, a sloppy frenzy of movement as you feel his cock free itself and spring up from the confines of his briefs.

A moan is caught in your larynx as your hand finds his thick shaft, locking eyes with him the second that skin touches skin.

“I— I bet you’ve been dreaming of this shit. Beatin’ the hell outta’ me, bossing me around—”

“—Oh please. I could do this in my sleep. I was always just worried about bruising that big, dumb ego of yours.”

You bite your lip, and Punk just sighs, his head hitting the throw pillow that you didn’t choose to launch at him while he stood against the wall.

“The biggest and dumbest. Yet you loved me more than anything. Isn’t that strange?”

Your eyes narrow at his smug expression. Despite being on the short end of the stick, he sure did have a mouth for the ages.

“But I’m not the one that came here all mopey, trying to put on a fuckin’ show because I missed incredible sex and the smell of vanilla perfume.”

“You didn’t deny that you love me.”

Your lip twitches at his smug expression. You’re almost tempted to rear that same hand back and slap him once more.

“Bite me.”

In a haze of rough, needy kisses and enough love bites to kill a man, you’d finally felt that your teasing quota was met. One final peck to the tip of his nose had Punk gasping for air, as you slithered your hand between your bodies and palmed his cock. You lift your hips, his pupils blown like he’d just seen the center of the universe.

“Missed seeing you on top of me—” Punk blurts out, looking shocked at the delicacy of his own words.

You flash him a wicked smile, not wasting any time in pushing your panties to the side and teasing his tip at your entrance.

“Bet you missed this pussy too, hm?”

Your condescension only adds to the fire raging in those evergreen eyes. Punk can only nod into submission as you lower yourself onto him, stretching out your walls around his cock and reinstating your title as the perfect fit.

Collective sighs fill the air, but there was still a small amount of unspoken tension that lingered above your heads like a storm cloud. There was only one way to release that tension— and it was the best way that you knew how.

Before you know it, the pace of your rocking hips picks up in speed, and the trembling breaths leaving Punk’s parted lips sounded like church bells ringing in your ears.

“Oh my God, fuck— Bunny—” he grunts, his hands grabbing tightly onto to your waist like clothespins as he guides you up and down his cock.

“Say my name. My— real name.”

Now that demand was something you knew he hated to do.

Although never showing any distaste for your real name, he had an aversion to using it. Only allowing himself to use it was of the utmost importance.

For himself, he preferred you just call him Punk, simply because ‘Phil’ just felt too mundane for his eclectic, brooding tastes.

The same went for you. The phenomenon of a ring name was something that got him more hot than bothered— and since you weren’t a wrestler, nor were you planning to be, he was left to his own devices to give you one. That was when ‘Bunny’ came about.

He may have chosen ‘Bunny’ for a multitude of reasons—it could have been for the fuzzy boots you wore on the winter night you’d met him outside of an indie show, or the way your nose crinkled up every time he said something that made you wince. For a while, you’d assumed that he’d forgotten your real name.

But you never really questioned his logic. Hell, you rarely questioned any of his idiosyncrasies at all.

If Bunny was what he liked to call you, then Bunny it was.

“Say my name, Phil. Fucking— say it.”

An impetuous moan breaks you out of your reminiscing, feeling that rage inside of you bubble back up into the desire to cause him more than just emotional pain. You take your hand and cup his jaw, fiercely pulling his spaced out eyes back into yours.

“Ah, fuck— fuckin’ Christ, you’re a lunatic.”

Your grip on his jaw grows tighter, watching him fight a smile with the ruminating thought of his masochistic ways in the back of your mind.

“You love this shit,” you pant, still rocking your hips with an utmost force that eventually brought the coffee table beside you to rattle, “Admit it. Tell me you love it and say my fucking name.”

An array of sloppy sounds fills the room once again, you can see, and feel, Punk’s shoddy attempts to fight back your ruthless aggression with his hips.

He slams into you upwards, a ping-pong of changing power dynamics, your entire body somehow feels like it weighs a ton.

“Kiss me. Bite me. Do it— do it ‘till it hurts.”

Suddenly, you’re crying out, loosening your hold on his jaw to run your nails down the front of his chest. He winces in pure, unbridled lust at the feeling of that brief sharp pain, and snaps his hips up even faster.

“Say my name first,” you barely squeeze out the words.

“Shit— Y/N— I fucking love you.”

Your wish was his command.

As you continue to bounce on his cock with enough force to drive you off the rails, you duck down, and slam your lips against his.

It was almost as if that final kiss was what he needed to send him to the brink of climax— his rhythm suddenly sloppy and his hands now crawling across your back to keep you pinned to his chest. You almost go weak in his arms when he bites at your neck, running his hand through the back of your hair and holding you closer— as if closer than you were right now was even humanly possible.

“Punk, oh my God— just like that, yeah. Right— right fuckin’ there—”

The rhythm of his hips was hitting every single mark— your walls tensing around his thick shaft with each snap of his hips and every glance into his needy eyes. He groaned for you, that poor, beaten up face of his looking as though you had him under a spell.

“Nobody fucks me like you do,” you breathe out, hoping your words were everything he needed and more to push him to the edge, “I love you. I still love you— so fucking much.”

A symphony of moans breaks you out of your bouts of praise, his hips snapping upwards with utmost force and bringing your entire body to tremble above him.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Y/N!”

And suddenly, as if you were whipped through space and time, stars and fireworks fluttering towards the pit of your stomach— his cock twitches inside of you with an unspeakable amount of desperation and desire, reaching his climax in tandem with yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, sinking down to lay your cheek atop the fresh ink on his chest.

Punk lets out a low whistle, one that sounds familiar, and oddly comforting to you. It is reminiscent of a sigh of relief, as if having you wholly again was the one thing that kept his sarcastic quips and shitty ego afloat. All of that tension that lingered in the doorway of your apartment disappeared in an instant, his hands wrapping around you tightly as you attempted to level your breathing.

“You really know how to wear a man out, don’t ya?” Punk comments, tracing hearts and stars across your shoulder blades.

“I feed off souls, it's how I stay young.”

A simultaneous, hearty chuckle shakes both of your bodies. There was a feeling brewing around in your head that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. Maybe it was regret, but it was far too early to tell.

Especially with him still being inside of you.

“A succubus of sorts, hm?” says Punk, picking up your chin.

“Maybe. Maybe my mystifying, witchy-woman powers are what brought you here.”

“Or maybe I’m the one who can sense sadness. Don’t think I didn’t see those kicked-puppy-dog eyes when you opened the door...”

There it was again. The Punk you knew and loved. Defensive, yet somehow still able to make you swoon.

“...Gotta admit, there is a bit of magic between us.”

After laying in Punk’s arms for a long while after, that overwhelming sense of impending doom had dissolved completely.

You watched Punk scramble up and down the stairs of your lofted apartment to grab you everything you needed. A warmed washcloth and a glass of water; the two staples in your aftercare routine.

“Need anythin’ else?” You hear his disembodied voice from the kitchen above the running water.

“Actually, I do,” you comment, sitting up fully on the couch after he’d re-dressed you in your pajamas, “I need you to admit that coming here at midnight to bother me about a pair of gym shorts was a stupid fuckin’ plan.”

Punk freezes in his tracks, a sly smile sneaking onto his lips as he reaches over to dramatically turn the faucet off, “Guess I didn’t really think it through. I was more focused on seeing you. I needed an excuse to cover my own ass— the shorts were the best I could do.”

“Do better,” you snarl, “Still want ‘em back?”

Before replying, Punk slides beside you on the couch, his arm ready to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. He presses his lips against the side of your head, keeping there as his breathing slows.

“You can keep the shorts, Bunny. Just as long as you take me with ‘em.”

[damiansgoodgirll]

cm punk x fem!reader enemies to lovers? in the mood for my fav trope lol

cm punk x reader

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

‼️enemies to lovers, some angst, unwanted attention, touch without consent‼️

NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL

cm punk was insufferable.

everything about him got under your skin. the way he walked around like he owned the place, the smug smirk that always seemed permanently glued to his face, the way he always had something to say, especially to you. he had this aura, this energy, that made you want to roll your eyes every time you saw him.

and it wasn’t just you. everyone knew you and punk couldn’t stand each other. as if everyone could stand him either.

it had started the second he returned to the company. you were backstage, lacing up your boots, when he waltzed in like he had never left. he barely spared you a glance before muttering something like “they’re really letting just anyone into this business now, huh?”

you had clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay calm “and they’re really giving second chances to people who can’t play well with others, huh?”

you were tired already.

his smirk had deepened, like he enjoyed getting a reaction out of you “careful, sweetheart. you might not like what happens when you start playing with the big kids.”

from that moment on, it was war.

every interaction was a battle of quick glances and snide remarks. every glance was a challenge. he never let you breathe, always finding a way to get under your skin.

he’d critique your matches and your way of fighting.

“not bad out there. a little sloppy, but you’ll get there” he would say.

he’d scoff whenever you walked into a room, like your presence was an inconvenience.

“oh great, you again.”

and you gave it right back.

“don’t sound so excited, punk. wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle”

it got to the point where people backstage started betting on how long it would take for one of you to finally snap.

a lot bet on you first. you were the emotive one. and they didn’t know how much you could handle before you started screaming back at him.

“just give in and fight already” seth rollins had joked once, laughing as he watched you and punk bicker over god-knows-what “or, you know, just make out and get it over with.”

you had almost choked.

“yeah bad idea…” seth said “just fight then…hurt his ego, for me” he made you smile a little.

punk heard everything of course. earning a bad look from rollins too.

“she couldn’t handle me” he said as he watched you.

you had shoved him hard enough on your way out that he actually stumbled “in your dreams, old man.”

but no matter how much you hated him, you could never quite shake the feeling that he enjoyed this. like he liked having someone challenge him, push back, refuse to bow down to his bullshit.

and maybe, deep down, a part of you liked it too.

but you’d rather die than admit that.

but then everything changed.

it was after a long show. you were sore, exhausted, just trying to get back to the locker room and call it a night. the arena was quiet, most people already gone or wrapping up interviews.

smackdown had been amazing that night but your tired ass couldn’t wait to lay down for the night.

walking backstage you had just rounded a corner when you heard footsteps behind you.

before you could react, a hand grabbed your arm.

your heart stopped.

the grip was too tight, the voice behind you too familiar.

“where you off to in such a hurry?”

you froze. you knew that voice. one of the guys working backstage who had always made you uncomfortable, who always crossed the line with his comments, his stares, the way he seemed to linger whenever you were around.

you yanked your arm, but his grip tightened.

“let go” you said trying not to sound too scared.

he laughed.

“relax, sweetheart. just wanted to talk” he smirked.

your stomach turned. your pulse spiked.

you were about to shove him away, maybe even scream, when suddenly - he was gone.

ripped away from you so fast you barely processed what happened.

your breath came out in sharp, shallow bursts as you took a step back, heart pounding, adrenaline surging through your veins.

and then you saw him.

phil. standing over the guy, fists clenched, chest heaving, eyes burning with a rage you had never seen before.

the guy on the floor groaned, clutching his jaw, but phil didn’t even look at him. his eyes were on you.

“you okay?” his voice was sharp, but underneath it, there was something else, something almost gentle.

your throat felt tight. you nodded, but your hands were still shaking.

phil exhaled through his nose, stepping closer, just enough that his presence felt protective instead of suffocating.

“what the hell were you thinking?” his voice was low, tense “walking around alone like that?”

you swallowed hard “what? this is my workplace too…i-i wasn’t thinking…”

“exactly. you didn’t think” he ran a hand through his hair, jaw still tight “jesus, y/n.”

his mind was racing thinking about the things that could have happened if he got there too late or if he didn’t find you at all.

you had never seen him like this before. this was real. this was anger wrapped in concern.

he cared.

and that realization hit you harder than anything else.

“come on,” he muttered, his hand finally brushing against your arm, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him “let’s get you out of here.”

and you let him.

because for the first time in forever, punk wasn’t the enemy. he was something else entirely. and you weren’t sure what to do with that.

and from that day on punk didn’t leave your side after that.

at first, you thought it was just because he felt responsible like he had to make sure you weren’t going to crumble or do something stupid. but it wasn’t just that.

it was in the way he lingered a little longer than necessary whenever you were around. the way he always made sure you weren’t walking alone, even if he never admitted he was doing it on purpose. the way his usual snarky comments had softened, losing some of their bite.

you tried to ignore it at first, but it was impossible. especially when he started looking at you differently.

it was after another show, a week after the incident. you were sitting in catering, picking at your food, when he sat across from you.

“you eat like a bird” he commented.

you shot him a glare “you watch me eat quite often, phil.”

he smirked, but it wasn’t his usual cocky one. this one was softer, almost fond.

you hated that it made your stomach flip.

“just making sure you don’t pass out in the ring” he shrugged.

“how sweet of you” you sarcastically remarked.

“i know” he said but then he hesitated, his fingers tapping against the table “seriously, though… you doing okay?”

your eyes met his, and for the first time, you saw it - real concern.

you swallowed, looking away, feeling shy “yeah… i’m okay.”

he didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. instead, he just nodded “good.”

you weren’t sure why that made your chest feel warm.

things kept shifting between you after that.

the tension was still there, but it was different now. it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t full of irritation or frustration. now it was something else entirely.

you caught him staring at you more often, his eyes lingering, his expression unreadable.

he found excuses to be around you, even when he had no reason to be.

and then one night, after a show, it all boiled over.

you had been walking back and forth in the locker room, the same as always, but this time, there was something charged in the air.

his presence was there. back with his remarks and sneaky comments but this time it felt right.

you shoved him lightly, rolling your eyes “god, you’re impossible.”

his smirk didn’t waver, but there was something dangerous in his eyes “you love it.”

yeah you did.

you scoffed “i tolerate it…i barely tolerate it.”

he stepped closer. too close.

“sure you do” he murmured.

your breath hitched. you should have stepped back. should have said something. but you didn’t.

because suddenly, it all made sense.

the tension, the arguing, the way you couldn’t stand him but also couldn’t stay away from him.

it wasn’t hate. it had never been hate. and when he leaned in, his lips hovering just over yours, he smirked.

“tell me to stop” he whispered.

you didn’t because you didn’t want him to.

and when his lips finally met yours, when his hands found your waist, when he pulled you against him like he had been waiting for this all along you knew.

cm punk was insufferable but maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind anymore.

[eringobragh420]

✘✘ i want it. ✘✘

➔ Pairing — CM Punk ‪‪❤︎‬ f!Reader ➔ Summary — Punk and Paul Heyman’s daughter have a special relationship. ➔ Links — One. Two. ➔ Word Count — 4.1k ➔ Warnings — NSFW. Age gap (she's twenty-something, he’s forty-something), Daddy kink, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, toxic-ISH relationship, cum 18+ ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ MASTERLIST

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Punk feigned interest in whatever the hell Heyman was going on about, striding next to the older man across the tarmac, bound for Paul’s private jet. He was far more concerned with any other passengers who might be accompanying them to the next city, specifically Paul’s twenty-something-year-old daughter. Punk could almost feel her soft, supple, pliable body under his coarse, tattooed hands, could almost smell her sweet, hardly ridden (compared to him, and most of the women he’d slept with) pussy, almost taste that honeyed flavor on the tip of his tongue. Licking his lips, unconsciously searching for that flavor, he glanced at Paul and nodded, despite still having no idea what the man was talking about. Paul, the kind, thoughtful father had no idea the filthy things Punk had done to his only daughter and the even dirtier things he still planned on doing.

Punk allowed Paul to climb the stairs into the jet first so he could adjust the growing lump in his thin, black joggers, which would be rather noticeable very soon if he didn’t do something about it now. After modifying the position of his hardening cock, he placed his duffel bag in front of his hips just in case, and boarded the plane. He smelled her signature perfume immediately, sucking it through his nose, the sexy scent going straight to his dick, causing a twitch, and a slight shiver throughout his spine. He’d suspected she’d be here, given her tendency to travel everywhere with her father, but actually laying eyes on her still promoted a thrill surging in his veins. Especially with close proximity to the young woman’s father, who also happened to be one of his closest confidants. 

Fighting a smirk, Punk plopped into one of about half a dozen empty seats, sighing, combing his fingers through his longish hair. He glanced sideways at the heir to the Heyman empire, gaze landing on her Nike sneakers, climbing to her toned legs and spandex shorts, bare stomach, sports bra that matched the shorts, and a large button-up, long sleeve shirt covering her arms. Punk really didn’t understand the fashion choices of the current times, but he owed the person who invented leggings and their matching shorts and bras a sincere thank you. Her legs were bent, calves to her thighs, shoes on the seat, and she held her phone between her legs and her breasts, thumbs tapping away as she texted. She felt his gaze on her, however, and she turned to look at him, rolling her eyes after catching him staring, sinking further down in her seat. Punk chuckled, shaking his head, and as his eyes passed over Paul, who glanced at the girl before sitting in a chair that faced the opposite direction of Punk’s, Paul whispered an apology for his bratty daughter. Punk’s nostrils flared as he battled a full blown grin, swatting his hand一no big deal, sir. I promise I’ll teach her some manners.

The jet took off without a hitch, and the three of them settled into their typical plane activities, which mostly consisted of scrolling on their phones or, in Paul’s case, going through physical paperwork concerning this contract or that, this client or that. It didn’t matter what he was reading, just that he was. Heyman was famous for napping following the completion of one or two pages, and with the addition of the blandness of a nearly two hour flight? It was only a matter of time before Paul was snoring away.

Punk could be a patient man, but when his eyes flickered up from his phone to check on Paul’s status, finding him still awake, though his eyes were definitely becoming heavier, he switched his gaze to the girl seated in the back of the jet. Her feet were on the floor now, one shining leg crossed over the other, and Punk watched as she sat up, removing the button-up shirt. Her manicured nails crept along her full, gravity-defying breasts, slipping under the elastic band of the sports bra, and she smirked, winking, just before lifting the garment. Punk placed an elbow on the armrest, hand covering his smirking mouth, but if anyone who knew him looked closely enough, they’d realize his eyes were no longer an approachable green but a murky, predatory grey. Her tits were perfect, Punk had never seen a more picturesque set, and he was back to having to adjust himself, this time simply pulling the bottom of the hoodie he wore over his burgeoning bulge. She replaced the bra, giggling softly, tip of her finger between her teeth, and Punk’s chest ached. 

He’d never expected to feel anything more for her than a need to fuck her in every position possible, but he’d be damned if he didn’t miss the girl when she wasn’t around. That snicker, when she really got going, was akin to a symphony, while her sultry voice ripped a moan from him every time she whispered words he thought she shouldn’t know directly into his ear before nibbling on the lobe and licking the shell. She fit flawlessly under his arm on the off-chance they spent their time cuddling instead of fucking, because somehow, this girl had him wanting to snuggle. And when he inevitably woke up alone in the morning, he swapped his pillow for the one she’d been using一that goddamn scent of hers smoothly lulling him back to sleep before he had a chance to wallow in self pity or wonder if she was headed to some other man’s house after she left him and whether or not he wanted to strangle that man with his bare hands.

Paul was finally asleep, laid back in his seat, headphones on at this point. Punk stood, headed toward the back of the jet as if bound for the bathroom. He made a beeline for the pretty young thing who’d just flashed him, standing tall behind her seat while his unrefined hands slid across her shoulders. He leaned forward, his nose following the aroma of her familiar shampoo, hands gliding further south until he was clutching her breasts. Just like her body fit into his side like a universe-made puzzle piece, her tits did the same in his hands as if they, too, had been made for each other, and as he squeezed and groped, lifted and bounced, he pressed a stubbled kiss to her forehead when she leaned back to gaze adoringly up at him. Her teeth clamped on her soft bottom lip, and he grinned when her back arched off the seat. He didn’t ever remember experiencing a woman so damn responsive to him一the patience he had now had been a learned process一her hands gentle but insistent on his as he continued entertaining himself with her breasts. 

His hand slid out from under hers, scraping across a firm nipple, fingers trailing up the side of her throat until his thumb brushed her lips. Her tongue slithered along the digit, a barely audible mewl escaping her parted lips, but he sought something different. He watched her bright, glittering eyes open as he applied pressure on her bottom row of teeth, reveling in the incredible amount of trust she had in him, and she allowed him to lower her jaw. He nodded, and he had no idea how or when they’d achieved the same level of depravity, but she needed no further instruction or encouragement to stick her pretty pink tongue out, those sparkling eyes round and clearly feigning innocence. Punk leaned closer, one hand on her cheek, the other still on her breast, and he glanced up to be sure Paul hadn’t moved, finding him in the exact same position. Returning his attention to Paul’s daughter, he spit onto her awaiting tongue, watching as it slid down the already slick muscle toward her esophagus. 

“Swallow,” he whispered, thin lips grazing her forehead once more. Hand clutching his wrist, the other still atop his on her breast, she closed her mouth and obeyed, Punk gliding his hand down the side of her throat so his fingers could feel her actually swallowing what he’d given her. “I missed you,” he murmured, kissing her nose, and he tried to ignore the swelling in his chest, instead focusing his attention on the straining in his joggers, as she grinned, tight body writhing under the weight of his praise and attention. 

“I missed you, Daddy,” she faintly replied.

Punk took a deep breath through his nose, cocking his head disapprovingly. “You’re gonna call me that when he’s一” His hips ground against the back of the seat, seeking any and all friction. He hadn’t planned on doing anything during the flight … 

“Mhmmm,” she purred, nodding, and Punk would be goddamned if he didn’t absolutely fucking adore her honesty and raw enthusiasm and the fact that, not only did she not worry about any punishment he might bestow upon her, sometimes she begged for it.

“That’s not what good girls do,” Punk intimately informed her. She shook her head this time, eyes utterly wicked and inviting and so fucking stunning, never afraid to maintain eye contact for long periods of time. And if there was one thing Punk loved, it was eye contact一there he could see her obedience, and her want, and the mischief, and even the naivety of a young woman who had yet to really be exposed to the harsh realities of the world. Which was difficult when you were a millionaire and had absolutely no reason to entrench yourself in the atrocities of the real world. If anything, Punk wanted to keep her sheltered, maintain her innocence, as it were. Let him be the most nefarious thing she ever came in contact with. “But you don’t wanna be a good girl,” he went on. 

Another shake of her head. His lips drifted to hers, barely brushing them, and his eyes fluttered as her hand snaked to the back of his head, carding her fingers through his hair along the way. And son of a bitch did she fucking own him when she did that一her nails scraping along his scalp, gently tugging at his hair一and he would make sure she never, ever discovered the power she held over him in that respect. She tilted her chin, raising herself up in her chair, but Punk eluded the kiss she so desperately sought. 

“You wanna be Daddy’s bad girl tonight, don’t you?” Punk breathed. Her nod this time was frantic. “Take your shorts off. Because if you’re Daddy’s bad girl, then you shouldn’t be wearing any panties, right?”

She lifted her hips, nimbly removing her shorts, slipping them past her sneakers without one snag, and she spread her thighs as far as she was able. Punk peeked over her shoulder, sighing, finding no panties, just smooth lips, which also easily separated, and he could then see her little clit poking out, begging to be licked. He suddenly felt his age, his heart pounding at an almost painful rate, but he quickly recovered, taking a deep breath and strolling around the seat. Paul hadn’t moved, and Punk descended to his knees in front of the wiseman’s daughter. Her grin was contagious as Punk gripped her hips and yanked them closer to the edge of the seat so he could then spread her legs to his heart’s desire, which usually meant as far as she could physically handle. The saccharine scent of her pussy slapped him in the face, and his hand shot down to clutch his cock一he hadn’t prematurely cum since high school and he wasn’t about to go back down that road. She was wet一from the fondling? From the spit? From calling him Daddy?一perfect一because every fucking thing about her was perfect一cunt simply weeping, and he glanced up, finding her pupils blown, jaw dropped, and her own hands were now cupping her breasts. 

“Aww, is this all for Daddy, princess?” Punk whispered, hand abandoning a leg so he could slip the tip of his index finger down her already spread folds, sliding along her swollen clit.

She nodded, sneakers in the air—Punk had a vision of Paul turning around, able to see only the Nikes above all the other seats, and it shouldn’t have made him squeeze his dick harder, but fuck all if it didn’t. “My wet pussy is always for Daddy,” she purred softly.

Punk shook his head. “Slut,” he hissed, diving face first into the cunt he literally dreamed about, even while lying next to her following a hard fucking.

She gasped, Punk’s eyes and brows rising instantly as he prepared to reprimand her for being too loud, but her hand slapped over her mouth, quickly followed by her other hand when Punk flattened his tongue and licked from her tight hole to the top of her clit. He battled with the volume of the groan which bubbled unknowingly from his chest because somehow this pussy tasted better every single time he put his mouth on it—more luscious, wetter, that much more addictive. Sucking on the soft nub, he scraped his teeth along the bundle of nerves, and her lithe body twisted not unlike a pretzel, sneaker sole landing hard against the wall beside the oval window. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Punk declared, and as he pulled away from her flooded pussy, a thin, clear string of her essence bridged the gap between his salt-and-pepper beard and her rosy clit. This had to be heaven, he thought, passing his finger through the middle of the bridge, gathering the string, before sucking the digit into his mouth. She whined, manicured nails sliding down her belly, bound for the apex of her thighs, and Punk snatched her wrist before she arrived at her destination. “You gotta be quiet, princess,” he reminded her, hardly audible, as he gradually came to his feet, positioning her hands on the backs of her knees. He glanced over his shoulder, at the same time pulling his straining cock out of his briefs and pants. Paul hadn’t moved, and maybe Punk even heard him snoring. Turning his attention back to Paul’s precious little star shine, his knees were pressed against the edge of her seat, her legs still spread indecently, which she couldn’t close now if she wanted to due to his proximity and sheer size compared to her, and her big, beautiful eyes were laser focused on his leaking cock that was mere inches from her face.

“Please, Daddy?” she whispered, licking her lips eagerly. 

“Listen,” Punk said, finger lifting her chin until her eyes reluctantly left his dick to give her attention to his mouth. “You have to be quiet. No choking, no gagging …” She pouted, the girl fucking pouted, and Punk smirked, shaking his head. Lord have mercy on his soul, but she had him finished. “Just lick it—” He pressed the wet head of his cock to her lips, and her tongue promptly slinked out of her scorching mouth, lapping up the precum from her skin and his. Punk let out a breath, one hand clamped on the seat, the other finding its way to the side of her face, thumb on her forehead, her tongue exploring as far along his cock as she was able. “—and suck it real fucking quiet, you hear me?”

She nodded, opening her lips around the head, and Punk pressed forward, somehow forbidding himself from shoving his dick directly into her throat. Her cheeks sunk as she applied just the softest pressure, crystal eyes locked on Punk’s face, because as much as she loved him in her mouth, she loved watching his reaction, and that did something to him all on its own. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” Punk sighed, surprised at the restraint in his own voice. Her tongue undulated against his cock, still gently sucking, and he started to pump. Only an inch or two, not enough to kiss the back of her throat no matter how much he wanted to. He smelled her sugary pussy on the air, and made a note in the back of his mind to try and find something to mask it after he was finished with Miss Heyman. “Daddy’s sweet girl.” She smiled around him, sucking just a little harder, though staying perfectly silent, hands still holding her legs open. He’d have to remember this position as one to use when he didn’t want her touching herself. “You wanna be bad, but you can’t help being Daddy’s good girl, can you?” Her eyes fluttered, and he felt a warm rush of air from her nose over his wet cock, and he then stole his dick from her mouth with a pop, and as much as he wanted to blame her for the lewd music, he hadn’t warned her he’d be pulling out while she was in the process of sucking. 

“Daddy,” she whined, pushing out her bottom lip, and Punk nearly fell to his knees so he could worship at the altar of her. 

“Spoiled little slut,” Punk said, backing up. She closed her legs and sat up in the chair, glaring at him because of the pet name, but also awaiting further direction. He nodded toward  a small couch on the other side of the cabin, and she understood almost immediately, standing, naked from the waist down, save for curiously sexy sneakers and the sports bra. She was also aware of their position, that there were three people in the cabin of this jet, so she laid across the couch on her back, head facing the front seats. Someone needed to keep an eye on Paul, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with this task. Punk, on the other hand, didn’t mind at all, and maybe it turned him on a little, and, as Paul’s daughter watched him, body squirming as she waited impatiently for him, wicked smirk on her lips, maybe it wasn’t such a secret. 

“Daddy, please,” she breathed, lifting the sports bra to entice him to hurry the fuck up, and Punk dropped his head back, laughing silently. Yep, she was gonna be the death of him. And he was old, so he probably wasn’t long for this world. 

“What?” Punk teased, glancing at Paul as he stroked his cock, which was now coated in his precum and her spit. He looked back at the desperate girl writhing about on the couch, his eyes darkening as he closed the space between them. 

“I need you inside me,” she murmured. “It’s been so long.”

Three days. It had been three days since he’d had her on her hands and knees on his bed, hands leaving bruises on her hips that he could easily see now, buried balls deep in the tightest pussy he’d ever had the pleasure of fucking.

He climbed onto the couch on his knees, between her open thighs, and he unzipped his hoodie, dropping it on the floor beside them. She mouthed fuck as he revealed one of his merch shirts, sleeves cut out, leaving holes big enough to show about half of his tattooed chest. She slipped her fingers inside those holes, fisting the shirt, and she yanked him down to her. Punk chuckled, she smiled as she bit her lip, but they were both short-lived when Punk’s cock slipped along her slick folds, and they both shared a gasp. 

“God, this fucking pussy,” Punk gushed into her ear, fondling a breast, and she turned her head to allow him better access. He sucked at her collar bone, biting down like a feral dog, and her hips lifted, bringing the head of his cock that much closer to her pulsing hole. “And you smell so goddamn good,” he continued, not even realizing he was speaking anymore, still rutting against her. “Christ, it has been too long.”

She giggled, a whimsical melody not unlike wind chimes, and she cupped his face, urging him to look at her. Then she did it—first she sifted one hand through one side of his hair, then the other, pure eyes locked on his sinful ones as she wrapped a leg around his waist. Punk was now under her spell. “You’re so obsessed with me, you dirty old man,” she muttered against his lips.

And the spell was broken.

Punk sat up, tilting his head, eyes slits, nostrils flared. Without warning, his hand shot up to clutch her throat, applying enough pressure to let her know he wasn’t fucking around, if the wild eyes and snarl weren’t enough. “I didn’t hear you,” he growled. “Must be my old man ears. What did you say?” She gripped his wrist with both hands. 

“I said—” she forced out, still swiveling her hips into his, her pussy desperately seeking his cock. She met his eyes defiantly. “—you’re so obsessed with me, you dirty … old … man …” He was offended by the old man, though she spoke only the truth. 

“I don’t know where this attitude is coming from, but you better fucking squash it and apologize … now,” Punk rasped. 

“Or what?” the girl challenged. 

“Or I’ll take you into the bathroom right fucking now and wash your pretty mouth out with soap,” Punk promised. “And you definitely won’t be getting this old man cock.” She wasn’t as frightened by the prospect of soap in her mouth as she was the possibility of not getting fucked, and there couldn’t possibly be two people better suited for each other than CM Punk and Paul Heyman’s daughter, he thought. “So which is it?” he pushed. “The soap and no dick? Or—” 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she breathed. “I just like that you’re obsessed with me …” 

“And the old man?” Punk seethed.

She shrugged, still gripping his forearm as he still clutched her throat. “I like that, too,” she admitted.

Punk searched her face for a moment before crushing his lips to hers, hands grabbing at her legs, shoving them apart, Nikes flopping around, and then he rubbed the fleshy head of his cock along her clit before plunging inside her. He was able to get a hand over her mouth just as she was about to cry out. Her eyes squeezed shut, Punk pummeling her pussy, and she tried to push him away with hands on his belly as he rammed her cervix at the same time as her legs pulled him impossibly closer and somehow deeper. 

“I am obsessed with you,” Punk rumbled into her ear, using his hand over her mouth to shove her face to the side. The air was so thick it was difficult to breathe, dripping with the aroma of their intimate union. “I watch you when you don’t even know I’m there …” Her legs tightened around him, the hands on his belly now fisted in his shirt, also tugging him closer. “You like that?” he asked. She nodded, rolling her hips into his, meeting each of his slow thrusts. “You like that I have pictures on my phone of you that you don’t even know about?” She moaned into his hand, her hands releasing his shirt so she could clutch his shoulders. “And I jerk off to them every single fucking day we’re not together?”

She came apart then, entire body shuddering, cunt clamping around his cock, milking it like it always did. He pounded faster into her, harder, one hand remaining over her mouth while the other groped a breast. 

“Fuck, you dirty slut,” Punk panted. “I’m gonna cum inside this pussy.” Her back bowed, her nod frantic. “Daddy knows that’s what you want, isn’t it?” Another desperate, silent affirmation. 

A few more pumps into her and a glance in Paul’s direction to find he’d changed positions, but was still asleep, and he exploded within her, lips pulling back from his teeth as his hips stuttered. He looked down at where their bodies were joined together, his cock covered in her cum, glistening in the harsh overhead lights, and he thought, no, this was heaven. Pulling out, he couldn’t help but finger her clit poking out between her spread folds, and she jumped, squeaking. When he was sure his legs could handle it, he stood and grabbed her shorts, helping her to move them past her shoes as she languidly pulled them on. 

“These are gonna be a mess in a few minutes,” Punk warned, “but I want my cum as close to your pussy as possible for as long as possible.”

She breathed an exhausted laugh, pulling her bra down over her breasts. “That’s exactly what I wanted,” she replied. “It’s also why I brought the big shirt.” Punk tucked himself away and sat on the couch, her sneakers in his lap. “So … when can we talk about how you’re basically stalking me?” she grinned.

continued in part two.

[onlyangel4]

going soft. cm punk.

cm punk x reader

synopsis: when punk goes on a podcast the whole world finds out just how soft he is for his girlfriend.

punk hadn’t expected to enjoy this podcast as much as he was. he’d been on enough to know the beats, a little banter, a few nostalgic wrestling stories, some inevitable teasing. but this one had a laid-back energy, and the host clearly knew his stuff, not just about wrestling, but comics, pop culture, and all the weird corners of interest that Punk cared about. they were nearly forty minutes in, and it had been mostly harmless fun, batman debates, injury horror stories, and a detour into punk’s very strong feelings about pineapple on pizza.

then the host grinned across the table and said, "so, we’ve talked wrestling, pipe bombs, and the joker’s overrated plans but let’s pivot. fans want to know, what’s going on outside the ring these days? you’ve mellowed out a bit, haven’t you?"

punk chuckled, sensing the shift. "i don’t know about mellowed out" he said, leaning back in his chair. "i still yell at clouds on twitter. but yeah, life’s good. i’ve got someone who keeps me grounded."

the host raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. "the mystery woman makes an appearance. you’ve been keeping that low-key."

"i try. i don’t need the whole world in our business", punk replied with a shrug. "but she’s awesome. smart, funny, way cooler than me. And patient. god, so patient. you have to be, to put up with my cranky ass."

the host laughed and pointed at him. "you’re smiling like a dork right now."

punk blinked. "am i?"

"you don’t even realize how soft you just got. dude, you went from ‘pipe bomb’ to ‘puppy love’ in thirty seconds."

punk rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. "she’s got that effect, i guess. i don’t notice it when i’m talking about her. feels normal."

there was a brief pause, and then, more quietly, he added, "it’s weird. you go through life thinking you’re this lone wolf. you make peace with it. then someone shows up, looks at you like you’re worth something, even on your worst days and suddenly you’re checking her grocery list and reorganizing your whole damn house just so she has drawer space."

the host let out a laugh that bordered on a wheeze. "so what you’re saying is, cm punk the most dangerous man with a mic, is out here living the domestic dream."

"hey", punk said, mock-defensive. "don’t get it twisted. i’ll still fight a dude in a parking lot. but i’ll text her first to let her know I’ll be late."

that set the host off again. "that’s love, man. that’s growth."

punk laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression softening despite himself. "she makes things better just by being around. she doesn’t try to change me, and somehow that makes me want to be better. you don’t come across people like that often."

"does she know she’s got you like this?"

"oh, she knows", punk said with a smirk. "doesn’t abuse the power. well, not much."

"you’re whipped."

"i’m in love. big difference."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, one of his hoodies drowning you, headphones in, phone clutched loosely in your hand as the podcast played. you were at the exact part where he started talking about you, really talking about you and the smile on your face couldn’t have been stopped if you tried.

you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he walked into the room, pausing mid-step when he saw you grinning.

"you’re listening to it, aren’t you?" he asked, already looking like he regretted opening his mouth on the show.

you paused the episode dramatically and turned to him. "she’s got this stupid laugh", you quoted, placing a hand over your heart. "poetic."

he groaned and dropped down onto the couch beside you, burying his face in your shoulder. "i knew that was gonna come back to haunt me."

"you’re soft", you teased, laughing as you stroked his hair.

"i was ambushed", he said into your hoodie. "i thought we were gonna talk about bane and joker, not my undying devotion."

you kissed the top of his head and pulled him closer. "for the record", you murmured, "i love your cranky ass. especially when you get all mushy without realising."

he sighed but didn’t move. "remind me to never speak publicly again."

"too late. the world knows", you teased, resting your chin on his head. "you’re whipped."

he tilted his head up just enough to look at you. "yeah", he said simply, his voice low and honest. "i am"

[whowrotethenote]

Write a cm punk x reader x Roman smut but they’re basically Paul Heyman in the situation

Disclaimer // Main Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist

A/N // Thank you to the anon for that creative ass request. @novamystxcxox sent me something similar, but I had already started this💗 Hope you both like it!

I did not make this x reader because I'm not good at those. I have to give my characters personality, backstory & physical characteristics. That's just my preference.

Also, the smut is reserved for the OC & Roman because... that's my man and I love him.

I do not take requests yet. Mostly because I barely have the time to write as is and I know they would just be sitting in my asks collecting dust like this one was for so long. This was just too good to not pursue. One day. Just not today lol. Okay, bye.

Pairing // Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC (Paula Heyman) x CM Punk

Warnings // Profanity // Smut [minors DNI] // Toxic behaviors // Age Gap

Word Count // 6.5k

“It’s going to be five versus five…”

Paula watched in the adulation that replaces the smug pride after waiting for his music to play. The entirety of Green Bay, Wisconsin buzzed with every emotion given to the human race as they recognized the infamous theme song.

Nothing feels like this. No amount of alcohol. No drug. Nothing can mimic this feeling of a live crowd giving back tenfold what’s given to them. 

He brushed past her, wrapping his hand to meet the rest of them inside the ring. A full on war breaking out the minute he slid inside. Five exceptionally large men, all cleared out the ring by her boys. With ease. It's how she knew she made the right decision. She knew no one else would carry it out like he would.

She made her way to the side of the ring just in time for their stare down. All the faces in the stands losing their minds.

CM Punk! CM Punk! CM Punk!

The pressure of the cheeky grin pushing through was heavy. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t seen Roman in months. Hadn’t seen Punk even longer. But as soon as she called—he came. 

“Why are you here?” She read Roman’s lips as he squinted. 

“To save your ass,” was his reply. 

He was pissed. His pinched brows. The tension in his broad shoulders. The tightness of his mouth. The flexing of his jaw. His hand, opening and closing in a tight fist. No—he was fuming. But that’s only because he couldn’t see the bigger picture right now. That’s where she came in. That’s what warranted her presence in his life a necessity. If it wasn’t more obvious before tonight—amongst all the chaos that had ensued in her absence— it was now shoved in his face.

“Thank you. Really.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Punk smiled unwrapping his hand. “That was only half the job.”

Her head swiveled slightly watching the hustle of the backstage crew. Gathering equipment, everyone mic’d up and moving with a purpose. She missed this. 

She nodded. “He’ll come around. Trust me.” The pressing matter of Roman’s disapproval of his presence was heavy. It lingered above them like a storm cloud. It put the biggest wedge between them. Something that was never there before in their relationship. “I just have to talk some sense into him. He’s emotional right now.”

“I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you, Paula.” His eyes, sincere—always opposed to his appearance. The tattoos, the foul language, the attitude—none of it ever complimented his kind eyes. “I’ve seen the way he talks to you. The way he talks to everyone he loves.” He raised his brows.

Immediately defensive and strangely protective of her current client, she shook her head. “He’s just…used to betrayal. He keeps everyone at an arm’s length. It's his way of keeping control.”

“It doesn’t make it right.” He stood firm. The affection for his best friend and former manager, overriding any excuse she felt compelled to give him. He didn’t care for any of it.

“I guess I’ll let you go, then.” She scanned him once more, already thinking of her next phase of business. She didn’t have the luxury to sit and tangle in emotions. She was a woman working in sport’s entertainment. They already looked at her as if she was Barbie dropped in the jungle. And they expected her to get invested in her work in a way that was overlooked in men. Flirting and sleeping around and whatnot. But that wasn’t Paula Heyman.

She vowed to never get entangled with clients. It was business first, always. She was about business. That’s what they loved about her. The men—charismatic and dominant as they are—were off limits. But every now and again, she found the lines between client and manager blurring. Things get sticky. Lines get crossed.

Her first blurred line—Phil Brooks. Best in the world. And to the world he was CM Punk. The bad ass that swept the WWE universe off their feet.

They developed a friendship that transcended client and manager. An intimate kiss between the two, one drunk night celebrating another victorious defense of his title reign—almost led to something more. Thankful for the little voice in her head, she stopped it. Things were different after that. She put up boundaries, but it did nothing to ease the ache of what if. That same ache presenting itself right now, like it did every time they found themselves this close and secluded.

“Thank you, Paula.” He held a hand out. A spot in WarGames benefited him as much as it benefited the Bloodline and she made that possible. She gladly took his hand, until he pulled her all the way into him—foreheads kissing. “You think about what I said the other day?” He whispered. 

She sighed deeply. “Punk…”

“I know you remember what it felt like. All those years ago. Just the two of us. Young, wild, and hungry as hell. Kicking ass and taking names.” She released air from her nose reliving the memories. She had never felt more alive than she did with him. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit to missing those days—and him. But that was then. This was now. She wasn’t that girl anymore. So, she kept that sentiment to herself. But he didn’t need to hear it. Because the same way she was now in synch with her current client, she once was with him. He could still feel it. “It’d be just like that. But better this time.” She opened her eyes that were met with his—specks of olive always so alluring. 

“Just think about it…Alright?” He pulled away as she nodded. Their hands lingering before he completely turned and left her there. 

She looked around, now aware of the world around her again, hoping no one saw their moment. Everything gets back to him here. Him.

Paula swallowed knowing she’d have to face him. She made a menacingly slow stride to his trailer after leaving the arena. She knocked twice. Then three more times, before she heard the familiar voice tell her it was open. 

She walked in the small but familiar space as he removed his OG Bloodline shirt with a heavy sigh, releasing all the weight that’s been dumped on him since losing his title. You’d think the load would be lighter now. The saying is supposed to go—heavy is the head that wears the crown. He had given his crown up, or rather it was stolen by the American Nightmare, and yet he still felt like the King. On top looking down at everyone else, even in his untimely absence. And Solo had presented him with an entire new set of weight with this whole New Bloodline mess. 

The muscles in his back flexed as he slightly stretched and rolled his head. The silence was agonizing. Gnawing at her because she could already feel whatever he wasn’t saying. 

“Where have you been?” He finally questioned. His back still to her. “I’ve been calling.” He took a sip of whatever he poured. 

She squinted at him once he finally turned to face her. His chest—one she’s seen plenty of times—still, a distraction as she attempted to just zero in on his static expression.

“That’s funny. Considering you went M.I.A. long before I did.” She crossed her arms, causing her full breast to push up, catching his attention for a split second. “My calls fell on death ears as well.”

“I asked you a question.”

“After Mania you vanished. You left me here. Vulnerable. Alone. Defending you. Fending for myself—”

The cup met the counter harder than he intended, summoning dead silence again as she swallowed the remainder of her rant. He had already lost his Bloodline before all this—then his title. He didn’t need another crash course on all the ways he’s fucked up. 

“I’m here now.” She spoke again when she felt it was safe enough to. “You’re here. Jimmy’s back. Jey’s back. Sami’s here. Things are back to normal.” As close to normal as possible without Solo and that belt hanging from his waist. 

He gradually nodded. Her words sinking in. He didn’t want to fight. He fought enough tonight. She turned to leave, knowing he preferred solitude at the end of the night.

“Don’t forget who you work for.”

She scoffed. Only Roman would leave her to fend for herself after he lost his little title and decided to tuck tail, just to come back and want to run shit again—as if he never left. But that’s just the kind of man he was. He wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it and he didn’t care who he had to run through to get it. That’s what drew Paula his way in the first place. Her contract was ending and she was looking for some else to counsel on the roster. There was not a single person that housed half as much charisma and hunger as the Roman Reigns. 

Their journey has been the epitome of a rollercoaster. By his side in feuds and every climb of the ladder. Reaping the benefits of accompanying such a charismatic figure in his own right. Her life went from great to legendary. Now, she sits on the Island of Relevancy as they call it—pockets as fat as they had ever been, and her life looks exactly the way she’d dreamed. 

But no good deed goes unpunished.

“How could I?”

Roman checked the time on his expensive watch again—only moments after the last check. Leg bouncing, jaw ticking, with that infamous stone cold exterior, that screamed he was not to be fucked with. Long fingers smoothed the hair above his plump top lip, until he reached the dark and greying hairs of his chin.

Whatever he was feeling, Paula felt in her bones tenfold. She shifted in her seat, unable to keep still. In the dark room, the only thing they could hear was her irregular breaths and his less than impatient sighs. 

She couldn’t explain it if someone were to ask her. It was as if signing the dotted line and agreeing to manage him put a hex on them. This invisible string—this unimaginable force pulling them together in every instance of every universe formed. She felt this burning,  unwavering loyalty to him. It was sick and twisted. The lengths she’d go to please him—to carry out his wishes. How empty, aimless and useless her life had felt these past months without him. Not even so much as a text from him. It took every fiber of strength to not answer that call. But she needed him—if only for a second—to feel what she had felt since Wrestle-mania. 

His brown eyes pierced her, feeling like another beam of light in place of the one they sat under at the stretched table. Three seats. One at the head where Roman sat of course. Another next to him, always reserved for her. Lastly, a vacant one at the other end. 

She knew what was coming next.

“Paula.” His deep voice made her heart stutter. Out of fear, relief and every other emotion in between.

“Yes, My Tribal Chief?” She answered trying her best to keep her voice steady amidst the storm of emotions brewing inside of her. 

“Where the fuck is he?”

Turning to meet his hard stare, she hesitated. Raking through her brain to find the words that wouldn’t tick him off. But considering the flex of his jawline, she could tell it was too late and it didn’t matter what she said—he was already at the edge of the cliff. 

“He’ll be here,” she assured. Only she hoped. Punk just like Roman liked to play mind games. Toy with his prey before he caught it. Please not today, she thought. She prayed their years of friendship and building a bond outside of their old contract was enough to get him to pull through for her. 

“I don't understand. He’s going around calling you his Wisewoman. He’s butting in on family matters. And now he’s got me waiting like I’m some errand boy. As if my time isn’t valuable.” The legs of the chair made a violent shriek as his towering frame began to rise. “Let’s go.” It wasn’t a question, nor was he looking for her opinion, but Paula still placed a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“Roman—”

On cue the slam of the heavy door that granted entry to the empty vast room sounded. Paula’s heart sighed watching him make his way to the empty seat. Looking back at Roman she silently challenged him to sit and he obliged. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” Punk checked the time on his watch. Paula rubbed her forehead feeling an oncoming migraine. These two men—with the whose dick is bigger games—were going to be the death of her. She had never faced a bigger challenge in all her years in the business. They were going to collectively chase her into an early retirement at the ripe age of thirty-one. 

Just get through the weekend, she thought. Then it’ll all be over…right? A dream. That’s what she was selling herself. As long as that hex she spoke about was still alive between her and her current client, she’d never know peace. With the fuck you, pay me attitude he rendered and big bully on the playground persona he carried with him like a purse, pissing anyone within a five mile radius off—it’ll never be over.

“I don’t know what you’re looking at your watch for. We’re on time. You’re the one that’s late, Junior.”

“Yeah, well I’m here. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But you need something from me. So, I’d think you’d turn your asshole down just a little bit.”

“I don’t need shit from you.”

“You sure about that?” A snort pushed through his throat. “Cause the way you’ve been face down on the mat every week at the hands of your family says otherwise.”

Paula sat back like a child witnessing her parents have their first post-divorce argument. It was no point in getting in between these two. She knew better. They had to figure it out.

“Listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me. I came here for two things. One,” he held his pointer finger up, “to make it very clear that I’m not doing this for you.” He nodded in Paula’s direction. “I’m doing it for her. I’m not here for you—it’s all for her.”

Roman smiled so deeply his dimple showed as fine lines creased around his mouth. He sat back in the chair eyeing them both. Paula could feel the heat radiating off his body as she fiddled with the Bloodline ring he gifted her years ago, refusing to return eye contact. 

“I’m happy for you two. Really, I am.” Whatever feeling was opposite of happy on the spectrum, was what he was actually feeling inside. “Finding each other again after all these years. The story’s lined up perfectly. It’s beautiful. Poetic almost. But, that also has nothing to do with me. That’s y’all shit.” His hand shifted between the two of them. Paula flinched at the heightening aggression she recognized as a precursor before he usually put his hands on someone. “I don’t want—need—whatever you wanna call it—your help tomorrow night.” He spoke like a dragon emitting fire with his every word. 

Over his antics and borderline temper tantrum, Punk adverted his gaze to the only person in the room he deemed worthy of any acknowledgment. She took the deepest breath before finally speaking up for the first time since he entered. 

“My Tribal Chief.” She placed a dainty hand in front of where he sat on the table to disarm him first. He looked down at it as if it was a cuff restraining him. “With the way Solo has gone about things—especially after Crown Jewel—it wouldn’t be very wise to turn down a helping hand.” She spoke like a circus tamer trying to calm the big cat before it went rogue. “Now, I can find someone else. But there’s no one I trust to do this as much as him.”

Roman tried his hardest to accept her words, but the smug smirk on Punk’s face was pulling him in the direction of irrationality. 

“And you.” She continued only turning her head in Punk’s direction. “You think Solo is just going to forgive and forget what you’ve done?” The smirk vanished. “You speak like someone who has a choice, but let’s be all the way real here. If you don’t help, you’ll just move up on the list of people he plans to run through after he wins. We can do more together than apart. You mean to tell me the two of you can’t put these petty ass differences aside for just one night, to conquer a common enemy?”

Both men regarded one another. A silent battle that couldn’t have been louder in the ears of the woman between them—who knew both like the back of her hand. Punk was the first to come forward as he slid his forearm on the table.

“You don’t like me and I don’t like you. That much is clear. But Paula’s right. We can get through one night. One common enemy. One win. One time.”

“One time,” Roman agreed. 

“When it’s all over and done—you and I can have a different conversation in the ring, maybe.” He smiled pushing the chair back.

“What was the second thing?” Roman interrupted his attempt to remove himself from the meeting. The room grew eerily quiet. “You said you came here for two things.” He clasped his fingers together. “What was the second thing?”

Paula’s relief was short-lived as she watched the look he always had when he was up to no good present itself. “To make sure I get what I’m owed when it’s all said and done with,” he revealed. 

Roman scoffed with wide eyes. “I’d owe you a favor?” Punk immediately shook his head. 

“No—no, you don’t owe me anything.” His eyes flicked longingly to his best friend who he’d been removed from all these years. “My best friend—our Wisewoman will owe me a favor.” 

Paula subtly shook her head, hoping her eyes could relay what her mouth feared to speak. She remembered the conversation after he came out to help the Bloodline. How he begged her days before to just consider the idea of coming back home—as he referred to it as. In his corner, supporting him and counseling him. Keeping him on top. Although she never gave him a direct answer, she knew after tomorrow night, it’d go from an inquiry, to something owed—just as he spoke of now. 

Oh, but she was so wrong. About everything. While Punk did yearn for his friend to come back and play for his team—he had a bigger picture in mind. One he didn’t plan on revealing until every thing was all over, to eliminate the risk of this said favor not being carried out. 

Joy reflected in his eyes as he watched the shift of tension build within the two other parties at the table—but that wasn’t his problem. So, he got up and left them to deal with the mess. 

“Wisewoman,” his authoritative voice called to her. 

She winced. Her wish that he would just leave it alone until after WarGames, completely in vain. 

“Yes, My Tribal Chief?”

She met his dark eyes. “What is this favor he’s talking about?” He pressed.

“Uh—” Paula didn’t truly know and she knew that wasn’t an answer he was going to accept. She was only guessing that the favor had to do with their previous conversations. A topic way too touchy to present to Roman. He was already hanging onto his sanity by the thinnest thread. The contingency of losing his Wisewoman after just gaining her presence back, would sever that thread completely.

“Let’s just get through tomorrow night. Okay?” She flashed that pretty smile. Not at all ready to become the object of his wrath—like she’s been plenty of times before. “We can talk about it after. I promise.”

Again, she twisted the band gifted to her by the man seated next to her. Always by his side. Always the master pulling the strings to ensure him and his family stayed out in front. What she tried her best to conceal, was that she needed him as much as he needed her. It was a two way street. It wasn’t just the inevitable betrayal that she anticipated. It was the unprecedented emptiness she’d feel again without him.

WarGames was its namesake. A full on fucking war. A civil war amongst men of the same Bloodline, which made it that much more brutal—because it was rooted in love in place of hate. But in the throws of the obvious war between the original Bloodline and this new one—there was an equally intense war within what was supposed to be two men playing for the same team.

Every side eye and hateful glare that transpired, she shifted and sighed to herself. Anxiety growing until she had a garden full of concern and angst with her at the ringside table with the announcers. Two bombs that always seemed to be ready to detonate at any given moment.

She paced. She ran hands through her blowout frustratedly. She had to do away with the suit jacket. She was hot with worry. She didn’t know which was worse. Them in the confines of a cage outside the ring, or them inside a bigger cage in the heat of battle. She just kept praying that they made it through the night without killing each other and winning of course. 

When Roman wedged a hand out to prevent Punk from entering the match, Paula nearly lost it. She was sure they were going to kill each other before even stepping foot inside the ring, then. Mean ass, she thought as he waved a hand at an exhausted Punk whom he disregarded to help the rest of the Bloodline on their feet.

Proud. That’s what the pinball of her emotions landed on at the end of the night. Her boys fought valiantly and the win was well deserved. Punk and Roman even shook hands. Two of her favorite men, now coming to an understanding. A mutual respect. She did that. 

At the end of it all, Roman met her down the steps of the ring—a strong hand cupping her face. His thumb grazing her cheek three times. I love you was the hidden significant message. Something he started years ago. Too prideful to speak it, he’d stroke the words with his thumb. On her wrist, her arm, her knee. Today, her face. It’s when she knew she made the right decision. The war was over. 

In the wee hours of the night, she found herself in his trailer. He called her over and offered a bottle of champagne that they popped open together in celebration. Things were finally looking like they were coming together after being abruptly dismantled. 

On their second glass now, they stood reminiscing on all it took to even get to this point. How far they had come and how much further they planned to take it. Somewhere in the expensive champagne and the fog of taking a jog down memory lane, Roman was feeling more sentimental than usual.

“You know I appreciate you right, Paula?” Thank you would’ve been too much. But even him extending his appreciation was something she didn’t see often. It had her momentarily melting like ice cream on a stick in ninety degree weather. 

He knew he lashed out more than what was needed. Talked to her like the shit on the bottom of his shoe at times. He threw more than enough responsibility in her lap. Threw a fit when things didn’t go his way. Created more problems for Paula to come behind and clean up, instead of solutions. But his worst crime of all—leaving her alone after losing at Mania. He was ashamed. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t ready to face the universe of WWE yet. More importantly, he wasn’t ready to face her. She worked her ass off, day in and day out, to guarantee he made it to the top of the mountain—and he lost it all in one night. 

“Next phase of business—putting that Ula Fala back around your neck where it belongs.” Already onto the next phase—moving the goal post back. “Only halfway there, Chief.” She offered a half smile.

Always so professional—so well put together. Composed. He always yearned to see her come undone. Touched himself to vivid imaginative flashes of what that must look like. Loose curls cascaded around her, head rolled back and mouth agape. Him beneath her, admiring his new canvas—her. He couldn’t help but to paint a picture of what Paula Heyman would look like as a mess, losing control—just for him. Desperate. Begging.

She was strong. Resilient. But even the most unwavering women—solid as a sculpture in Italy—could always use the reactive force of a stronger man. 

Those lips. They were naturally pouty and plump. Every time she talked, he found himself drawn to them and how they curved at certain letters. He deemed them perfect. Only able to use his imagination, he thought about how they’d feel wrapped around him. How’d they look. 

“When’s the last time somebody fucked you?” He blurted out. She nearly choked on the bubbling champagne. He stood unmoved, expecting an answer.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.” He placed his glass down. His dick pressed uncomfortably against his pants. He was losing every ounce of patience and composure he had. He was done playing games. He respected her and her hustle, but it did nothing to put out the fire inside of him whenever he watched her interacting with other men—especially that motherfucker Punk.

“And I’m not talking about the last time you had sex—no. I mean the last time somebody fucked you so hard, you forgot to breathe. So good you felt it everywhere. It was all you could think about after the fact.” 

Her skin heated up to an uncomfortable degree. The kind that warrants tiny tingles and possible rashes all over your body. Her breathing pattern kicked up at the smoldering look in his eyes. She couldn’t mistake his intentions now. Especially after her eyes flickered to the bulge in his pants. 

He made a step toward her. The heavy thud of his giant boot meeting the floor sounding as a doomsday soundtrack for her professionalism. She knew she was in trouble. “Roman—”

“Shh,” he hushed her and smiled wickedly. His sharp canines on display. He relieved her of the glass and sat it on the counter her ass was rested on. She didn’t even understand how he’d gotten so close so fast. She was sure he could hear her heartbeat, as it was booming in her own ears now. “Relax,” he whispered. “Let me thank you properly.” The wicked smile had vanished in a flash and in its place was an intense concentration. His brown pupils blown and trained on her lips.

He was going to kiss her. And as much as Paula’s head screamed no—her body conforming to his and her mouth falling open before he even reached her, told a completely different story.

The air around them was so charged, if anyone else walked in they’d be electrocuted on sight. His fingers found their way into her hair, tangling and fisting it, earning a gasp from her. Leaning in, his tongue swept her mouth fiercely. He didn’t need to test the waters with a timid peck. For what? She was his Wisewoman and he planned on making that very clear tonight. In the sickest part of his membrane, he wished he could sit Punk down and make him watch what he planned to do to her. 

Paula’s hands found his muscular and tanned arms as his free one roamed the meaty flesh of her ass though her skirt. Always galloping about in the highest heels, shortest skirts and tightest dress pants. He craved to know what it felt like under his palms. To squeeze and knead it as he was now. His dick was so stiff, it was almost painful. 

The eruption of their kiss quickened. It was messy now, as they couldn’t even keep up with their own lust—passionate and scorching with the heat of hell. 

“How long?” He mumbled in between the kiss. Still, expecting an answer. 

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had blown her mind in bed. She tried for years to make some sort of connection, but it was pointless. This job—governing Roman, had become her life. It consumed her and men could see that. She opted for the occasional fling here and there, but they were all pointless. Always leaving her dissatisfied and half full. So she scrapped the idea of men and dating altogether. 

Roman roughly turned her by the hips. Pushing his pulsing member on her ass and growling in her ear at the friction of her writhing against him. She was soaking and he barely touched her.He could smell her and it ignited the beast in him. 

This was a new frequency of intimacy for her. No man had ever been so exhilarating and demanding in his approach. He commanded things from her body without even speaking a word. It was sorcery, really. 

She felt his hands next. Big, calloused, and firm. They slithered over her thighs as his warm breath and facial hair tickled her ear. Under her skirt, they disappeared until it was bunched around her waist. She got lost in the heat and hardness of his body. Her eyes popped open after hearing the violent tear of stocking material. The cotton of her panties snapped next. 

“Ro—Unnh!” 

She gasped violently at his entry and he wasn’t even halfway in yet. No condom. Nothing between them except passion and the longing of two people who underhandedly craved each other for years and couldn’t do anything about it. Hatred and frustration, that only two people who loved one another could muster—sprinkled on top.

He eased his length in, inch by inch, watching the pinched look on her gorgeous face. This was better than he had imagined. Crinkle between her curved brows, hands spread on the wall, mouth as wide as it can go. All because of him.

He stretched her out to his liking, until he reached the end and then pulled back. He slammed back in almost losing his nut at the squeeze she granted around his thickness. It felt like the best hug he ever received—warm, wet, and tight as fuck. A small hand slithered between them, to which he easily caught. Using one strong hand to pin both her wrists together above them on the wall. 

Leaning back slightly, he admired the view. Her round ass perked up and pushed out. Puffy lips  wrapped tight around him, glistening under the lights of his trailer. The deep line in the center of her arched back with a thin layer of sweat.

“You’re perfect. Just like this.”

“Roman,” she whined. Frustrated and helpless to move as he had her trapped. 

He smiled against the side of her face. “You feel so good to me.” Another gasp as he began to push in and out at a steady pace. Squishy and sloppy sounds filling the small space around them. “Can’t believe you kept this shit from me for so long, baby.” His free hand came down on her left ass cheek before he dug his finger in her hip, guiding her up and down his massive dick. He let her adjust and find her own rhythm—too fixated on the little sounds from her mouth and the contortions of her pretty face, to do anything himself. “Yeah. Keep throwing that pussy back on me.”

“It's so big,” she moaned. She shouldn’t have been surprised. He talked too much shit to not have the means to back it up. He grinned smugly.

“You can take me. Right, baby?”

Struggling to locate her voice she just nodded against the wall profusely. Afraid he might stop and put an end to this immeasurable sensation he awakened. It hurt so good. He was creating a monster and he didn’t even know it.

“Keep them hands right there. Don’t move,” he instructed. He used his own to grab handfuls of her ass in both palms, stretching her wide so he could get a clear shot of her wetness pulling on him. Every time he withdrew she sucked him back in. A trail of white stuff lingering as evidence to how good he was making her feel. “Making a fucking mess,” he grunted. He let his possessive hold go, loving the recoil of her ass on his pole. It was hypnotizing. He questioned how long he could hold out like this. 

Against what his body was advising him—which was to pace himself—he violently pounds into her drenched hole over and over and over again. Beating her up. 

“Oh my—fuck! Yesss.” She was a glutton for punishment. His punishment disguised in gratitude. His frustrations took control of the wheel. Her going ghost on him was unacceptable. He was losing his fucking mind. A fact he’d never admit out loud. It didn’t go well with his, I don’t need anybody—head of the table—persona. 

Teeth barred down and upper lip curled into a snarl, he continued his assault, but that little pussy packed some power. It fought back. A fight he wasn’t prepared for. She was leaking. Juices running down her toned leg and his balls that hit her clit with every connect. 

“Damn, girl.” His head falls back for a second. 

“Right there—oh my goddd!”

“He can’t help you right now.” He teased huskily. 

“Please, Ro.”

“Please what? Huh?”

She didn’t even know what she was pleading for. Mercy? Release? She wanted more of everything. More of him, if possible. 

They found themselves in the space of his bedroom. He wanted to try every position, but he knew he’d have her in here until this same time the next day to fulfill that fantasy. So he opted for the position where he could see everything.

He had her on full display. Button down now completely off, her breast hung freely over the lace bra after he pulled them out. Stockings still obliterated, the hole he made had grown. He could see everything. Her swollen lips surrounding her poking clit. The tight ring of her ass that he vowed to play with later. The wetness smeared everywhere. 

He gripped himself—heavy and strong—at the base to ease back in where they both needed him, but not before slapping it down twice, loving how reactive she was to every little thing. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she hadn’t been touched in years.

She was enamored with his body. The way his smooth bronze skin stretched over every defined line and cut. How his tattoos—reflecting the armor of a Pacific warrior—danced with every flex of muscles. He had the body of a god. If only it wasn’t attached to such an asshole.

His hand found her breast. He pinched the chocolate nub until it hardened again. 

“Push ‘em together for me.”

Hastily, she cupped both D cups together. Her chocolate peaks to the forefront as they bounced with every salacious thrust of his hips. 

He planted two swollen fists on either side of her head to lean all his weight down. His mouth latched onto her, igniting a tingle in her clit as she clenched around him. 

“Mmm,” he hummed like he was tasting the most delicate and richest piece of chocolate straight from the factory. Flicking, sucking and swirling. He was in heaven as she watched in awe. The most dominant man on the current roster, feasting on her. He bit down on one nipple causing her to jolt up slightly. One last suck as he pulled back, releasing her, and leaving her nipples tender. “Tastes sweeter than you look.” He bit down on his bottom lip. 

He hooked his hands under her knees and pushed until they met the bed to get a deeper angle. The sounds—loud and erotic slapping of flesh, as he buried himself inside of the softest place on earth. She fit like she was molded specifically for him. And in this moment, you couldn’t convince him that she wasn’t.

“You’re mine.” He growled in between pants. “You belong to me. You hear me?” There it was again. That deadly sense of loyalty encompassing her. The looming of Punk’s claim and this damned favor, hanging above his head. 

“Yes,” she barely whispered. 

“Yes, what?” He pushed. Thrust growing erratically sharper and more intense.

“Yes, My Tribal Chief.” 

Satisfied, he rewarded her with another overpowering, sloppy kiss. His hair covered them both. Her hands came up to cup his face—grabbing desperately at his beard as their tongues tangled. But his mission was only halfway complete. He wanted that nut. She earned it. She made him feel like a winner even in the absence of a title or Ula Fala. 

He didn’t want to, but he rose up breaking the intimate kiss. Picking his pace back up. All the way in and all the way out. Hitting that spot that had her pulling at her own hair. Eyes rolled back into her brain like she was possessed.

“I wanna feel you cum on this dick. Come on,” he begged. “Cum for me Paula. Cum for Your Tribal Chief.”

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Like an unforgiving flood coming through a broken dam, she exploded on him just as he requested. Forgetting to breathe. Shaking uncontrollably—she felt him everywhere. 

Attentively, he ogled at every change in her beautiful face, every shake of her body—as she unraveled on him, shedding every bit of composure she had left. “That’s it,” he commended breathless. Loving the scene before him. His big palms, rubbing up and down the length of her soft thighs and stomach, to help her come back to center. 

She was shook. World completely knocked off its axis to the point where tears threatened to spill from the corners of her almond eyes. 

She knew working for him came with its perks—but this? This shot straight to the top of the list of all the benefits that came with being his special counsel.

A/N // Of course, if you read it or even a portion, thank you. Feedback is always welcomed💗

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[hexgirl13]

hold me now

wc: 1,188

summary: after witnessing punk lose, you make sure that he knows he's not alone

warnings(?): cussing, established relationship, punk is honestly raging in this but who can blame him? age gap (punk is 46, reader is in her late 20s), use of y/n, sorta suggesting ending??

a/n: omg i was so livid when i saw that he lost bro i can't explain it "he should've won!!" i scream as they drag me back to the padded room

for the past forty minutes you had practically been on the edge of your seat. watching as cm punk, your boyfriend, fought for his life in a triple threat against roman reigns and seth rollins. you wanted him to win. he needed to win this. in his over two decade career, he was finally main eventing wrestlemania. when he came home to you and told you the news, you were over the moon for him. wrestling’s hottest couple had huge matches during one of the biggest wrestling events of the year. in the previous match, you defended and regained your women’s world championship against charlotte flair. and you practically rushed to punk’s changing room to watch his match.

his promo video nearly brought tears to your eyes. as a huge wrestling fan growing up, and a fan of punk himself, you were filled with nostalgia hearing ‘this fire burns’ fill the backstage area and watch some of his biggest moments. only for in living colour to perform ‘cult of personality’... this was truly what wrestlemania was about. how could they not let him win?

as you saw paul heyman grab a metal chair and slide it over to punk, you leaned forward to focus. you began to bite at the skin of your nails, freshly manicured nails be damned. however, when you saw paul hit punk with a low blow, it felt like the whole world had collapsed around you. punk laid there, completely broken, watching as roman picked up the chair and got ready to hit seth, only for paul to do the same thing to roman.

after that it all felt like a blur watching it. seth pinning roman, punk’s arm attempting to stop the pin, but barely coming up in time. one, two, three… match over.

seth rollins had won because of paul heyman’s help. punk sat in the middle of the ring, feeling and looking completely defeated. you couldn't keep watching this, so you grabbed the remote and turned the tv off, slamming it down. you stood up from your chair, and began pacing, still picking at your nails. you knew you shouldn’t have trusted heyman. the second you saw him, you had this feeling in your gut that he wasn’t to be trusted. it seemed like tonight proved that.

you stopped your pacing when you heard the changing room door slam open, nearly causing a dent in the wall. punk was pissed. who wouldn’t be? but i’m talking smoke coming out of his ears, face red kind of pissed. when he was angry like this, you knew better than to try and intervene. he slammed the door shut behind him, and almost immediately began throwing all the shit he could get his hands on. kicking over the chair you were previously sitting on, yanking his luggage off the counter, spilling all of his stuff onto the floor. throughout all this, though, not a single thing touched you.

he was breathing heavily, hair undone from the nice slick back it was previously in. his back was turned to you, giving you a full display of his tattooed and defined body. slowly, you walked up to him. one hand outward like you were approaching some rabid animal. your nails glided across the span of his shoulders, gently scratching them along the way. “hey, baby. you okay?” you whispered.

it was a stupid question. of course he wasn’t okay. you just didn't know how he would react to anything else. his body turned towards you, and you could see just how tired he looked. the second his big, brown eyes met yours, he broke down. gone was the cm punk that the world knew, or the one who was just previously raging, it was the one that only you got to see. he practically collapsed into, wrapping his arms around your waist and dropping his head into your neck.

you could feel warm tears dripping down your neck, wettening your shirt, but you didn't say a single thing. you just let him cry it all out. one of your hands scratched up and down his back, while the other played with his hair. “shh, it’s okay, honey. i’m so sorry. i’m so so sorry,” you repeated over and over in his ear with a soft voice. eventually, his quiet cries had subsided, and all that was left was his sniffles. his hands gripped the back of your shirt like it was his lifeline. “i can’t believe he fucking did that shit. i… i trusted him, y/n. i thought he was my friend,” he said, words muffled by your shirt.

you nodded at his words. “i know, baby. that isn’t fair to you. you deserved that win fair and fucking square. but, hey,” you pulled his face up and made him look at you, “i’m so proud of you, baby. you still main evented wrestlemania. you know how many people make it that far? barely anybody. you made it that far. and i’m so glad that you are one of those people. win or lose, i’ll always be proud of you, honey.”

his puppy dog-like eyes bore into yours as you spoke. your words hit him directly in his heart. he could feel himself just overflowing with love and admiration for you, ten times more than before. you were always his biggest cheerleader. always in his corner and with support no matter what. he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, all he could do was lovingly stare down at you. noticing his silence, you tilted your head to the side. “punk? you oka-?” you weren’t able to finish your sentence, before he slammed his lips against yours. a sound of surprise was muffled by his mouth, until you relaxed into the kiss. your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer. his hands tangled into your hair, gently tugging on it. he wanted you close. needed you close. he needed to know that you were here and real. after a few more seconds, you pulled away first, but not too far. his forehead pressed up against yours as you breathed heavily, trying to gain your composer from that bruising kiss. “what was that for?” you whispered.

he shook his head, focusing his gaze on your swollen, kissed lips. “nothing, i just… i love you so fucking much, baby. you know that?”

you giggled, ducking your head to hide your blush. “yeah, i know a little something about that.”

he quirks his eyebrow, tilting his head. “only a little?” you nod in response. he clicks his tongue, a smirk gracing his rugged, yet handsome face. “nah, that ain’t enough, baby. i gotta show you that it’s much more than a little.” gone was his previous anger towards him losing his match, all that was left was admiration and love for his girl.

using his strength, he grabs the back of your thighs, lifting you up to wrap them around his waist. you let out a squeal of shock. “punk, what are you doing?”

“i’m showing my little champion how much i love and appreciate her.”

[wallofchynax]

BITE YOUR TONGUE!

Requested anonymously: could you maybe write something about cm punk and a younger nxt superstar. literally any smutty scenario idc i just need old man punk. I'm so sorry if you wanted something soft because this is far from it. He's kind of a mean dom in this fic.

Synopsis: you spent the day mouthing off to your mentor, cm punk, in training so he punishes you in the shower.

taglist for cm punk fics: @vixenhatesyou

if you want to be added to the tag list: comment or answer this.

content warning: punk is a mean dom. sex in a risky location, degradation (he calls you names like bitch and slut), sub/dom vibes, age gap (reader is in their 20s and he's in his late 40s), mentions of bratting previous to sex.

got a request? send it over to me <3

You weren't supposed to be here.  

The showers were meant for relaxing after a match. Cleaning off all the blood and grime from your body and ideally, you were supposed to be alone in the shower. It was not meant to be like this; Punk pinning you against the cold tile, his hands bruising your hips with the way he was holding you and his breath hot against your ear. 

“I told you to wait for me in the locker,” he murmured, low and tight in his throat, like he didn’t trust himself to say it louder. Like he knew he wouldn’t stop if he did. 

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t, really, not with the way his thigh was shoved between yours, crowding you against the slick wall, water pounding down over both your bodies like it was trying to wash away something sacred. 

You swallowed thickly, mouth parted but your voice came out small and pathetic, barely any words to which Punk just smirked down at you, tilting his head watching you like a predator who plays with his food. 

“Cat got your tongue? You were talking plenty of shit today in front of the other rookies today.” He dragged his mouth along your neck, lips brushing the spot just under your ear. “That was your first mistake.” 

His hand slid down between your thighs, shameless and unhurried. Fingers digging into you, and the sound you made was so goddamn pathetic, broken.  

“It’s funny. All that shit you spoke and yet...” The pads of his fingers stroking along your slit, slick and already puffy.  

"You’re wet like a bitch in heat," Punk muttered, voice low and cruel, like he already knew how ruined you were and wanted to hear it anyway. Like he was daring you to deny it. 

But you couldn’t. You fucking couldn’t. Your thighs were already shaking, cunt so slick he didn’t even need to push, his fingers slid right in, two at once, to the knuckle, curling so goddamn deep it felt like they were scraping up everything decent left in you. 

The sound that tore from your mouth was humiliating, choked and ragged, half a sob, half a moan. 

Punk just laughed, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and wet against your skin. 

"Jesus Christ. You're already this fucked just from my fingers? You’re pathetic." Another curl of his hand. Another sharp grind of his palm against your clit. "How the fuck do you expect to survive my cock?" 

Your nails dug into the slick tile, desperate for something to hold onto. Water kept pounding against your back, almost drowning out the wet, obscene sounds between your legs as he pumped his fingers into you harder now, faster with no rhythm or patience, just rough and hungry like he wanted to ruin you fast.  

"You talk all that shit in front of the other kids," Punk sneered, dragging his fingers out of you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched after them, slick strings clinging between your thighs. "Act like you’re too good to take orders. And now look at you. Spread and dripping. Fucking needy." 

“Please...” you gasped, pushing back against him but you weren’t even sure what you were begging for. Not for him to stop, but you didn’t know if you wanted him to make you cum with his fingers or on his cock… you just wanted the pressure to end. The pressure you felt in your stomach. 

Punk’s hand came down hard across your ass, a sharp slap that echoed off the tile and made your whole body jolt forward. 

“Pathetic,” he hissed. “Can’t even beg right. You think just ‘please’ is enough?” 

You whimpered, the sting blooming across your skin, mixing perfectly with the throbbing between your legs. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too far gone already, lost in it, soaked and aching and ruined. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tanked your head back, so your spine was arched, and your throat was baring to the hot spray of water as his other hand came between your thighs, fingers coming down hard on your clit which made you moan loud. Much louder than you should have.  

“Fuck,” he muttered, mouth hot and nasty at your ear. “Bet someone heard that. Gonna get us caught, huh? Gonna make me explain why one of the Performance Center’s golden rookies is getting fingerfucked like a slut in the showers?” 

You shook your head weakly, lips parted, breath shallow. 

He growled something under his breath you couldn’t catch, something angry and hungry and sharp. Then suddenly he was gone, hand off your cunt, fingers gone from your aching hole, grip gone from your hair 

The loss made you whine but only for a second because you heard the drop of a towel behind you as it hit both your feet. 

“Don’t fucking move,” He warned voice low and sharp, “You want it? You stay right here?” 

You didn’t dare.  

You just stood there, breathing deep. Stood there, naked, dripping, trembling, with your hands braced against the tile and your legs spread wide enough that the cool air kissed your throbbing cunt. The hot spray of the water rolled over your back, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the ache he left behind. 

The soft, slick sound of his cock being stroked once, twice, just enough to make sure he was hard for you not that you doubted he would be. Then his hands grabbed your hips hard enough that you would be bruised afterwards. He yanked you back into position until you were bent, ass presented for him like the filthy thing you were. 

“You're gonna take every fucking inch,” Punk muttered, lining himself up. The thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, forcing a sharp gasp from your throat as he teased you, barely pushing in, enough to make you shake. 

"And you’re not gonna make a sound this time, are you?" he added, tone mocking. "Not unless you want everyone out there to know who you spread your legs for." 

And before you could even answer him or catch your breath, he drove himself into you in one brutal, unrelenting thrust. The force of it slammed you against the wall, your hands splaying out uselessly against the tile, in a silent scream as he split you open. No time to adjust, no gentleness. Just Punk’s cock thick and deep inside you, claiming you. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned behind you, hips grinding into your ass, holding himself there like he needed a second to savour it. “Fucking made for it.” 

He pulled back and snapped his hips forward again, hard enough that your toes curled against the slippery floor, your body jerking with every thrust. You were trying so hard to bite your lip and say silent like he had told you but every time he bottomed out, a high little moan punched out of your throat which made him laugh against your ear, dark and cruel. 

 "You can't even keep quiet," he sneered, one hand slipping down between your thighs, finding your clit again with obscene precision. 

You sobbed at the touch, hips stuttering, unable to stop yourself from grinding down against his hand like you needed it to survive. 

"You're fucking desperate for it, huh?" Punk muttered, his fingers rubbing ruthless circles around your clit, cock hammering into you harder now, faster, deeper. "Little rookie slut, begging with your body even when you know you shouldn’t." 

The words hit you almost harder than the thrusts did, each filthy, degrading word sinking into your skin, into your bones, making you clench around him so tight he cursed low under his breath. You loved it. You loved when he treated you like this. That was why you mouthed off to him all the time because you knew that he would treat you like a slut when no one is looking. 

"You were fucking made for this," he growled, voice wrecked now, hips slamming into you so hard the slap of skin against skin echoed off the tile walls. "Made for me to fuck the attitude out of." 

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The only thing you could feel was him. Around you, inside you, owning you.  The wet slap of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, the cruel twist of his fingers on your clit, the low, guttural sounds he made every time you clenched down around him like your body was trying to keep him there forever. 

You didn't care how pathetic you sounded anymore. You didn’t care if someone heard you. Hell, part of you wanted them to. Wanted them to know that no matter how cocky you were in the ring, no matter how tough you talked in front of the other rookie, you belonged to him when the doors were closed.  

You could feel it. You were so close to cumming. His hand slid from your clit up to your throat, squeezing enough to make your head spin. It was almost as if he could tell how close you are when your pussy was fluttering around him. 

“Bet your close,” he whispered hot against your ear, “Just because I’ve got my hand around your throat and I’m fucking you like the slut you are. Can’t fucking help yourself,” 

You tried to nod, but his hand on your throat kept you still, pinned against the tile and helpless. With the confirmation, he let go of your throat and reached down to slap your clit before rubbing firmer, tighter circles until you were literally squealing.  

And then it hit you. Flashes of white in your vision as your cunt spasmed around him in desperate fluttering shots of pleasure shooting through your body as you squeezed him like a vice.  

“Fuck, fuck—that’s it," Punk growled, hips jerking as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high now. "Good fucking girl, take it...take all of it-" 

He thrust once, twice, and then buried himself deep, cock pulsing inside you as he spilled into you with a broken groan, filling you up so hot and thick you could feel it leaking around him already. 

The both of you sagged against the wall, the water still beating down over your ruined, shaking body. His forehead rested against the back of your neck, both of you breathing hard, steam curling around you like a blanket. 

For a second, he didn’t move. His hands stayed locked around your waist, cock still buried inside you, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of pulling out yet. 

Then finally, he grunted low in his throat and pulled back, slow and messy, his cum dripping down your thighs almost immediately. You stayed slumped against the wall, arms trembling, knees half buckled, and brain empty in that wonderful floaty sort of way that often occurred when he fucked you like this. It was like a punishment and a reward all mixed into one. 

He watched you for a moment. Watched the way your legs shook. Watched the way he made a mess of you. His palm came down, not hard, just resting on your lower back as his thumb traced idle circles there. 

“You look good like this,” his voice was softer this time, reverent almost as he leaned forward and kissed between your shoulder blades. You shivered as he held himself there for a moment. You couldn’t speak. Your voice was raw, lips parted and breath incredibly shaky as you tried to pull yourself together, but you were still floating, with how hard he fucked you, how hard you came and the echo of his words in your head. 

His hands were warm again now, firm, grounding, palming over your waist, your hips, the very places he’d gripped hard enough to bruise. He wasn’t moving like he was ready to go. He was just there, body close, cock softening against his thigh, breath still ragged in your ear. 

“You gonna be good now?” he asked quietly. Not mocking this time. Just low, deliberate. 

You nodded or tried to. Your muscles still weren’t cooperating. Everything in you was molten and sore and dripping. 

He chuckled under his breath, brushing a strand of wet hair out of your face, then ran the backs of his fingers down the side of your neck in a way that made you shudder all over again. 

"You’ll mouth off again," he said, more to himself than to you. "Just so I’ll do this again." 

You swallowed, managed a breathy, “Yeah.” 

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was something darker behind his eyes, something not quite finished. Something that said he knew you hadn’t learned your lesson at all.  

“Next time, I don’t stop at the showers,” he said, voice low and final as he pulled back. “Next time, I make sure everyone knows you’re mine.” 

He left you there, still leaning against the tile, water still running. 

Still full of him. 

[grain-of-sando]

i don't believe this (i'm in love again!)

cm punk x reader

You don't watch wrestling. You don't know why you even agreed to go to this wrestling show. However, you DO know that whoever the cutie that's in the ring right now seems to be looking directly at you.

OR

CM Punk sees you in the crowd and falls in love.

WORD COUNT: 3007 TAGS: gender neutral reader, meet-cute, ecw/roh punk, punk is in luvvvv TITLE INSPO: hit by the sugarcubes

(cross-posted to ao3, read here !!)

You don’t really watch wrestling. Like, at all.

On a Saturday night, you normally would be staying inside and watching a crappy movie while barely awake, but instead, you’re sitting inside of a venue watching a match all because your friend begged you to go with her. She promised she’d pay for a meal afterwards, and it’s not like you have anything to do, so you begrudgingly went.

Despite your hesitance, you were having a good time watching, even though you didn’t have a clue what was happening. Maybe the Ancient Greeks were onto something with Gladiators, because every single move that happened in the ring made the whole crowd erupt like animals.

As you asked something to your friend about how much longer this is gonna be on for, the entrance music of a new wrestler suddenly filled the room, making some of the more dedicated wrestling fans start cheering. You looked around to see who was entering until you saw him.

Oh my god, he’s cute.

While you watched this wrestler you had no clue about sauntering out into the ring, you shamelessly ogled at him. He came out in a black zip-up jacket with a white stripe across the chest, along with some red shorts and some generic black boots. As he combed his taped-up hands through his bleached hair, you could make out a piercing on his lip with the silvery metal glimmering from the light upstage. Despite his more alternative look, his face looked full of energy, which says a lot considering you weren’t sitting close to him in the slightest.

Not to mention he had a great build… You probably had no chance, but it doesn’t hurt to stare.

“Who is that?” you yelled while leaning over to your friend. The room was so loud that your yell was equivalent to a whisper. Your friend looked over at you and shouted back, “CM Punk!”

You were about to ask her what the hell CM meant, but as you were glancing back at this CM Punk guy, you noticed it felt like he was looking at you.

Okay, don’t be delusional.

You blinked a couple of times to make sure you weren’t being crazy, but the more you looked at him, the more it felt like he was truly staring at you. You gave a smile in case he truly was looking, and maybe you’re truly insane, but you could’ve sworn he smiled back.

-

“Okay, okay, maybe you were right,” you started, walking out of the arena with your friend. “Wrestling is fun to watch. I was wrong. Happy now?”

“Now I am!” your friend replied, snickering. You were about to ask her where she parked, but suddenly your friend stopped walking and said, “Oh, shoot, would you mind if I run to the bathroom really quickly before we go?”

“Go do your thing, I’ll wait here,” you assured, waving her off. She gave you a little “I’ll be quick” before she scurried back into the arena, leaving you standing in the cold outside. The parking lot was full of people shuffling into their cars and talking amongst themselves about the different matches.

As you looked around and fiddled with the hem of your shirt, you heard a voice behind you.

“Uhm, hi, hey,” the voice started. You turned around, shocked when you realized the voice was CM Punk. He looked tired and less… well, half naked, with him sporting a grey shirt under his jacket and some regular blue jeans.

Was he really looking at you during the match after all?

“I, um.. I saw you in the audience,” CM Punk started, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. “I knew I'd be mad at myself if I didn’t try and talk to you.”

He seemed to be nervous, but his eyes remained fixed on you, which gave you the opportunity to admire their hazel-green color. God, he looked even cuter when face-to-face with you. You must’ve been a saint in a past life because karma had to be the only reason he would even notice you.

As you guys exchanged your hellos and formalities, he asked, “Do you, umm… have any plans right now?” You might’ve accidentally given him a funny look at his question, because he immediately started to backtrack and say, “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a creep, I just… would you maybe wanna go grab a bite with me?”

You were about to say yes in a heartbeat before you remembered your friend. Crap, she was your ride home…

“Um.. I’d love to, can I just call my friend super quickly?” you say, trying to smoothly pull your phone out from your pocket. CM Punk nodded and said, “Sure, sure, take your time.” If you didn’t end up going out to eat with him, at least you know he’s nice.

You stepped away and quickly sped through your contacts to find your friend, silently pleading for her to pick up for every ring. The second you heard her voice, you immediately started speaking.

“Hey, sorry this is sudden, but you know that CM Punk guy that just wrestled, like, 20 minutes ago?” you said quietly, trying to seem casual about how excited you are over this.

Your friend said on the other line, “Uhm, yeah, duh, what about him?”

You paused. “Okay, so… He may have just asked me out.”

“…Lying is a sin, you know that, righ-”

“I’m not lying!” you argue. “He just asked me if I wanna go get food with him, but I didn’t want to abandon you since that’s kind of a crappy move-”

“If you’re telling the truth and he seriously just asked you out, I’d be pissed if you didn’t go!” your friend interrupted you. “Go get that man!” You gave a sigh of relief and said, “Okay, okay, see you tomorrow then!”

With that, you hung up and turned back to CM Punk. “Well, where to?”

“I know there’s a diner nearby,” he said, seeming way more relieved at you officially accepting his offer. “My car’s somewhere in this area, except I can't see shit in the dark…” He muttered that last part, but you still caught it and giggled at his annoyance.

The two of you walked around the parking lot until he pointed to a grey car in the distance, picking up his pace. When the two of you reached the car, he quickly unlocked the car and hopped into the driver’s seat while you opened the passenger side door. His car wasn’t anything fancy, and honestly, the inside was pretty cluttered, but you didn’t care in the slightest. He could’ve had Fred Flintstone’s car, and you would still be gushing.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, picking up some of the random receipts and junk lying on the passenger seat.

“Don’t worry, my car’s not any better,” you assured knowing damn well you clean your car regularly, sitting down and closing the car door. He grabbed the steering wheel, tapping on it with his fingers before saying, “Um… I don’t do this often. I don’t, y’know, normally ask out people after matches.”

He looked over at you. “..and I wasn’t even expecting you to not reject me from the get-go. You’re really gorgeous. Out of my league by a mile,” he said earnestly, gazing at you in a way that made you know he wasn’t just trying to flatter you.

You gave him a bashful smile and said, “You’re not giving yourself nearly enough credit.” You couldn’t see his face very clearly in the dark, but you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks turn ever-so-slightly redder.

Punk turned his key on the ignition and started slowly pulling out of the parking space, scanning around for the exit in the dark lot.

-

You and Punk arrived at a small diner near the area that seemed to be aiming for a 50s vibe, but then again, all diners have that “sort-of-vintage-sort-of-given-up” decor. He pulled into the parking lot and rummaged through his center console until he pulled a beat-up leather wallet.

Taking the key out of the ignition, he turned to look at you again and said, “Okay, ready to go?” You nodded and opened the door, moving over to his side and walking into the diner together.

After sitting down and ordering your meals from the waitress, you turned your attention back to your date. In the diner’s artificial light, you could see him way clearer compared to in the dark outside. His eyes looked more visibly tired, probably because he just got pummelled by a grown man not even an hour ago. As he shrugged off his jacket, you noticed his tattoos more clearly. Sure, you saw he was tattooed when he was out in the ring, but it’s hard to pick up detail when you aren’t face-to-face with the guy. As his hand pulled on the sleeves of his jacket while taking it off, you noticed the tattoo on his hand that said ‘NO GIMMICKS NEEDED’, not to mention his knuckle tattoos that spelled out ‘DRUG FREE’… You barely had a conversation with him so far, but his tattoos seemed to tell a story in themselves.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Punk jokes, grinning at your obvious staring. You yanked your gaze back to his eyes, slightly embarrassed, saying, “Sorry! I just – I really like your tattoos.” “Oh? Thank you,” Punk looked down at his arms as if he forgot he had ink on him. “You got any yourself?”

You shook your head. “I wish. I just don’t have any good ideas for what I’d wanna put on my body, like, permanently.” As you spoke, you aimlessly admired the heart tattoo he had near the inside of his arm. “Trust me, if I had a good idea, it’d be on me already.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” Punk lifted the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing to reveal his large Pepsi tattoo resting atop his shoulder. “I don’t have the most meaningful tattoos ever.” As he let go of his sleeve, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to you. “I think you’d look great both with and without tattoos, though.”

Just as you were about to compliment him back, the waiter came strolling over with your guys' drinks and plates of food. After taking a bite from your surprisingly good burger, you looked back up at Punk, who must have been starving after his match because a good third of his burger had already been scarfed down.

“So, how’s it like being a wrestler?” you asked, making him perk up. “Sorry, that’s probably a lame question,” you backtracked, taking a sip of whatever soda you ordered. Punk shook his head and replied, “No, no, it’s not lame, wrestling’s… a very weird career, to say the least.”

“Weird?”

“Well, for starters, I get paid to get beat up and beat up other guys,” Punk jokes, making you stifle a laugh. “It’s definitely fun, though. Not for everybody, but I’m not everybody,” Punk quipped while stuffing his face with the fries he ordered.

“Do you only do wrestling?” you followed up. “Like, for work, I mean.” Punk nodded, swallowing before continuing, “I used to work at a comic book store, but once my wrestling career took off, I just stuck to this.”

“That’s enough about me, though… what do you do for work?” Punk asked, sipping his drink. You still feel like you don’t know nearly enough about this guy, but if he’s asking you questions, who are you to not like the attention?

“I’m in school right now,” you say, “I’m getting my bachelor’s, but I work as a receptionist part-time.” You pause, trying to get through your words without seeming like such a bore. “It is not as cool as wrestling, that’s for sure.”

Punk chuckled at your own self-deprecation before adding, “–way less injuries, though.”

“If injuries are your dealbreaker, I think you might be in the wrong line of work,” you jokingly counter.

Punk laughed at that, sipping his drink before saying, “You think?”

“Wait, wait, wait.. now I need to ask,” you start, “What is the worst injury you’ve ever gotten?”

Punk thought to himself for a moment – okay, if he’s thinking, then at least he didn’t get something crazy – before answering, “I once fractured my skull.”

Wow, nevermind.

“Okay, I was gonna explain, you can pick up your jaw,” Punk chastised, smiling at your shock. “It was… I wanna say it was near the beginning of my career. I tried to do a neckbreaker move, and I thought I broke my neck while the match was going on, which, y’know, that’s still–” Punk furrowed his brow and winced, “– but whatever. Anyways, once the match was over, it felt like the biggest challenge just walking from the ring to backstage.”

“Other than that… maybe a broken nose,” Punk finished, acting like he just told you a mildly infuriating anecdote, meanwhile you were still trying to envision how the hell a fractured skull probably feels like. You shook your head and commented, “I don’t know if I’ve ever even gotten, like, a fraction of that level of pain.”

“Trust me, you’re not missing out,” Punk noted, stuffing his face with some of his fries.

The two of you talked casually about your guys’ lives and interests as you ate – or, in the case of Punk, inhaled – your meals. When the waiter came back to ask about dessert, Punk raised an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask if you were still hungry, but it was getting late, and you unfortunately had work the next morning. Once Punk – who insisted on paying for your food despite you telling him you were definitely capable enough to pay for your own $8 meal – covered the bill, the two of you walked back out into the cold and into his car.

While Punk turned the car on and adjusted the heating, you looked over at him. A nearby light pole was casting a halo around his silhouette, making him look otherworldly despite his unassuming look. The light against his jet-black hair made him look like a solar eclipse you can’t seem to look away from.

“What?” Punk asked you, noticing you staring. “Do I got somethin’ on me?” He brought his hands up to half-hazardly wipe whatever he assumed was the reason for your gawking. Instead, you just shook your head and said, “You just look really good right now.”

“You know, it’s unfair how nervous you make me,” Punk teased while starting his attempt to pull out of the parking lot.

As Punk merged onto the nearby road, he glanced over at you and asked, “Where do I turn?”

“Keep going down this road,” you signaled, all while digging in your pocket for your phone. All your most recent messages have been your friend begging for details on your date, so you sent a quick ‘on my way home’ text to hopefully satisfy at least her craving for how long the date was.

As Punk drove, the two of you mostly sat in silence, only broken up by your directions. The lack of conversation wasn’t awkward; if anything, it felt comforting being able to sit in each other's presence without feeling an obligation to keep speaking. As the two of you reached closer and closer to your house, you told him to make a turn at the Circle K nearby.

“Just drop me off here,” you said, pointing to the convenience store’s neon sign. Punk turned into the lot, but he furrowed his brow and asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I wanted to pick up a few things anyway.” Punk parked at the front of the lot before proceeding to rummage through the center console of his car for a pen and an old receipt for CVS.

“I have another show here tomorrow,” he started, flipping the receipt over to the back while scrawling something on it, “but in case you can’t make it…”

After he finished writing, he held out the receipt with his phone number on the back. “Give me a call sometime. I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

You grabbed the receipt from his hands, giving him a bashful smile. “I enjoyed it too.”

You held the receipt, but your hand didn’t move away from his. Instead, the two of you just held onto it while staring at each other. He had a soft expression, but the fiery glint he always seemed to have in his eyes made you feel like you were all he was focused on right now. You noticed his eyes seemed to be bouncing from your eyes to your lips.

“Can.. can I ki–”

You cut him off by answering his question before he could even get all the words out, closing the distance between you two with a soft kiss. His lips felt soft against yours, and although you could’ve stayed in his car and kissed him senseless for eternity, your body was aching to go back home as fast as possible.

You pulled away and looked at his astonished expression. His hazel eyes looked so blown out you would’ve assumed they were black if you didn’t know their true tone, slightly widened just looking at you like you’re an angel descended from the heavens. You tried not to giggle at his expression, instead moving some of the stray hairs out of his face before grabbing the receipt.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you say. Punk nodded, seemingly still starstruck and saying “yeah, yeah” while you opened the door and stepped out. You waved goodbye at him before closing the door and scurried over to the front of the Circle K. You watched him reverse out of the lot and drive off as the wind blew against you.

You just met him, but somehow it felt like you’ve been wanting to know him your whole life.

(let me know if you enjoyed reading!!! im new to posting on tumblr so lord knows i need all the interaction i can get LOL)

[wisteria-bae]

WWE is hiring writers and producers Imma need my fanfic girlies to hop on that 🫣

[punkssavior]

better than sex.

cm punk x fem!reader

part two of 'tired of you'. i decided to give these sweeties a prequel since you guys seemed to love their relationship as much as i do (before it ended, duh). this fic is also much fluffier than the last. ur fuckin welcome ;)

link to 'part one' is here. this fic takes place 3 years prior.

tags! @xkittypunkerx @idaisyy @ringoffiction @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @eringobragh420 @meadow-field

content warnings: mentions of blood/violence (very brief!), hookups, oral (f!receiving), car sex, occasional pet names.

wordcount: ~12k

Nights out were supposed to be fun.

Right?

What originally began as a multi-club run and bar hop quickly turned into a mishmash of fallen through plans, after the group of college friends you’d decided to meet up with began acting out of line.

“You told me to meet you at Aurora!”

“I’ve been standing out here for at least thirty minutes!”

“Well— can you tell him to hurry up please? I’m freezing my ass off out here!”

You hugged your brown, faux fur jacket tightly to your chest, walking out of the thumping New York City nightclub named Aurora. Your friends told you to be there at 10:30 sharp, which you were, after taking 2 trains and a taxi to get you there.

Surely your ‘friends’ weren’t intentionally trying to swindle you, leaving you standing out in the cold as they spontaneously decided to shake up the meeting plans.

Surely that wasn’t the case, you hoped.

The weather was unforgiving, that small fur coat and matching boots barely keeping your body at a livable temperature. You always hated going out in the winter, especially since none of your clubbing outfits were suitable for harsh winds and possible snow.

God, this was a drag.

The strip that Aurora was on was very secluded, resembling more of a dark alleyway than a place for bustling nightlife. As much as you hated to admit it, in order to prove to yourself and your parents that moving back to New York by yourself was a good idea, you were a little bit scared to be alone right now.

There was an event happening in the venue down the block, and you could tell from the colorful lights beaming out of the small glass windows and the neon sign at the entrance. But other than those two leakages of light, you hadn’t a clue what was going on.

With yet another huff of frustration, you pull out your phone once again and dial the number of your friend, Cassie.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Cass,” you sigh into the microphone, “If nobody’s coming to pick me up, just fucking say it already. I mean, I’ve been standing out here for what, an hour? At this point, I might as well walk home! Y’know what, yeah! How about this, I’ll walk home so you and your stupid friends don’t even have to worry about getting me a ride! Take your dumb, fucking clubbing plans, and shove them up your—”

“You okay?”

You shriek, the feeling of a cold, rough hand resting on your shoulder by your neck causing you to whip around. Without thinking, you wind up your fist, and whack whatever, whoever, it was, square in the nose.

“Shit!”

The now embodied voice falls limp in agony, breathing heavy from the practically lethal blow as you take a step back.

Woah.

You gasp quietly, covering your mouth with your hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

The man doesn’t answer; instead, he’s keeled over, now resting his hands on his knees. You stare down at him for a moment, in pure shock at the way you were able to just swing around and punch this poor guy in the face. You supposed it was a good omen for your survival skills.

“Don’t— don’t sweat it,” he finally answers you, his raven-colored hair hanging above the ground and over his features as he collects himself. You can see him gathering his breathing, his shoulders moving beneath his tight, dry-fit athletic top when he shakes his head.

“Are you okay?” your voice betrays you, as you take a step closer to his crumpled up figure. You knew deep down that stepping this close to a random guy on the street was one of the first things they taught you not to do in grade school— but you felt particularly bad in this situation.

Beneath where his face was parallel with the ground, you see a drop of blood hit the pavement beside your feet. You take a step back, to your original position.

“I’m fine. Happens— more often than you’d think,” he says, slowly coming to and standing up straight.

When he looks at you, you almost feel the need to gasp. The lower half of his chiseled face was doused in blood, caught in the crevices of his now forming smile. You admire him in a moment of utter shock, your gaze bouncing between a pair of hazelish eyes and a lip ring.

“Do you— get punched in the face by girls on the street often?” You attempt to lighten the mood, now feeling like a mouse as you notice just how much he towers over you.

“Girls on the street? No, never. But grown men in speedos? Absolutely, all the time.”

You wanted to speak again, but were stunned by the growing amount of blood that poured from his nose. But he took it like a champion, using the white tape dawning his wrists to sop up some of the flow. You also couldn’t help but notice the red X’s drawn on that wrist tape, now stained with crimson.

“You sure know how to pack a punch with those little ass hands,” he chuckles wryly, glancing down at the hand you’d punched him with. You follow his eyes, noticing a small speckling of red across your knuckles. “Might I ask why your first thought was to lay one on me?”

“May I ask why you thought it was a good idea to approach me on a dark street corner?”

“You were yelling into your phone. Seemed agitated.”

A smile fights its way onto your cheeks, and you shake your head, “An agitated young girl cursing someone out on the phone seemed approachable to you?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

You laugh, still taking him in. He was built, surely some kind of gym rat or athlete. You assumed he’d just gotten done working out, evident from the way his forehead glistened with sweat despite the rapidly dropping temperatures outside. He also carried a confident air to the way he shot back up after being punched in the nose, a catty smile and eyes that were green enough to kill a man.

You were now simply infatuated with looking at him.

“I’m Phil, by the way. I’d shake your hand but I don’t think you want any more of my blood on your person.”

Hot blush falls across your cheeks, but you take his hand anyway, absolutely unbothered. “I’m Y/N. And I’d take looking like a crime scene over turning down a handshake from the first man I’ve ever punched in the face any day.”

Phil smiles, and it’s more warm and inviting than you’d ever expected from a man who looked like him. His jet-black hair was a stark contrast to the olive tones of his complexion, only making those damned green eyes pop out at you like a picture book.

“Y/N,” he repeats, savoring your name on his tongue, “Do you work out?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm.”

You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the small spatter of blood on your hand in order to tuck it away from the harsh cold. “Why do you ask?”

Phil shakes his head, pressing an index finger to his temple, “Still just reeling from that absolute roundhouse to my nose.”

“Did it hurt?” you inquire, wincing as you notice the blood continuing to drip onto his black shirt.

“Would you believe me if I said I barely felt it?”

“In your dreams, maybe,” you scoff, watching Phil as he digs into his pocket to pull out a crumpled up tissue, “You think you’re tough or something?”

Phil laughs, a hearty, genuine chuckle that almost felt like he was mocking you. You fold in on yourself slightly, unable to pull your stare away from the way he was delicately wiping his scarlet coated, busted nose.

“Some would say I am. But it’s up to you to believe that.”

“Are you picking a fight with me, Phil?”

Looking mildly offended, he scoffs, “I don’t fight chicks. In fact, I typically let them swing at me with little to no consequence.”

You harumph at his comment, shaking your head. The nerve of this guy to act like your first ever punch didn’t hurt him? How dare he.

“Well, it seems to me like that blow to your nose knocked a few screws loose in that pretty head of yours.”

You expect him to fire back with a witty comment, anticipating the ping-pong of banter. But instead, his smug smile pokes dimples into his cheeks.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Silence falls over the two of your bodies, the winter winds now whipping around you as you froze in time. You were completely speechless, Phil just standing haughtily before you and allowing you to take in his question.

“I, uh— I didn’t— didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think? About what you said? You had that quip ready and loaded.”

“It was an expression,” you feign innocence, your eyes growing wider by the second, “Y’know Phil, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

He laughs, just laughs. Everything under the moon tonight seemed funny to this guy and you hadn’t a clue why.

“It’s weird hearing you say my name this many times within the span of five minutes.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, slowly getting the feeling that a facade was being dropped, “You’re not used to people saying your name?”

“Not necessarily. Most people call me Punk.”

Punk. How fitting, you thought. Fitting enough for a man who has let his nose bleed for the better half of ten minutes while dressed exclusively in black. You push your lips to the side, mind still reeling about what exactly he was hiding behind that nickname.

And, respectively, what he was hiding beneath that tight ass shirt.

“Punk. Would you prefer it if I called you that instead of Phil— ‘er whatever?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Phil, Punk, shrugs, his arms mirroring yours crossed against his chest, “Do you have a name that you’d prefer me to call you?”

Immediately, your mind went elsewhere. Far off elsewhere.

“I don’t think so, no.”

He takes a moment to think, his pupils enlarging when his eyes scan over your figure and eventually stop down at your brown fuzzy boots.

“Bunny.”

“What?”

“Those boots. Looks like you skinned a rabbit for those babies.”

You press your hand to your chest, awestruck by the abrasiveness of his words, “Heeeey! They’re fake, asshole!”

“Fake or not, they remind me of bunnies. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

Punk looks back down at your boots, and you can’t help but cross your legs and stand at ease like a soldier. You wished you’d had gum to smack or a bubble to pop; for he had you feeling like a complete amateur in a battle of wits and compliments.

“So that’s the script we’re sticking to,” you mumble, trailing off, now self conscious of whether or not your jacket and boots actually look like you were compliant in animal cruelty.

“You tell me, Bunny. How does it sound coming out of my mouth?”

His words snap your eyes back to attention on his face. He juts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, and you can’t help but notice the piercing that sat directly in the middle of it. You freeze at the sight of it, which you seemed to be doing a lot the more you noticed the smaller details of his person.

“Sounds nice,” you hum, satisfied. A bit distracted by his attractiveness and the small gap between his front teeth.

You were still telling the truth.

“Perfect. Now that we’ve gotten the semantics of politeness out of the way— care to explain why you’re out here alone on a cold winter night in a miniskirt?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to point out that I was wearing a miniskirt, actually.”

Punk chuckles dryly, “I was concerned about the loud, hurtful obscenities you were yelling into your phone and here you are thinking I’m a shallow pig.”

You sigh in defeat, having lost the battle of wits once and for all. Punk seems to notice the sudden deflate in your ego, as you look out into the street.

“I was supposed to be clubbing with my friends— but they fucked up all the plans and now here I am. Standing outside in the cold. Just so happen’ to also be in a miniskirt and boots that apparently make me look like a bunny.”

“They left you here?” Punk asks, the concern laced through his voice far more prominent than the sarcasm.

“They didn’t even show up.”

The more you mulled over your unfortunate plans for the evening, the sadder you felt about how it all went down. You didn’t think that those low-lifes ditching you would have such an effect on you, but you just decided it’d be best to choke it down.

“That’s fucked up. I’m sorry, Bunny.”

“It’s fine. No skin off my teeth.”

Punk’s sharp face softens for a moment; you still can’t help but stare. The juxtaposition of a soft brown rabbit, Bunny, standing meekly before a tall, raven-haired, vampire was driving you insane. The thought of his blood splattering across your knuckles, the thought of him wiping up the mess, amused by the collateral damage and completely unphased by the pain.

Anyone else would run off, terrified of leaving their fate in the hands of a hard-headed stranger they’d met on a poorly-lit street corner.

Anyone else would be scared.

But not you. You weren’t scared of Punk.

In fact, you rather liked him.

“You cold?” He breaks the silence, sniffling as if to regain the sensation and feeling in his nose.

“Very.”

You take a deep breath in, remembering the little clutch purse that you’d brought that held all of your clubbing essentials; a singular tampon, a wallet, headphones for the train, the keys to your apartment and a loose cigarette.

Y’know, in case of emergency.

Soon enough, that cigarette is between your lips. You fish around the bottom of your tiny handbag as Punk just stares you down, nailing your furry brown boots to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, “Do you have a lighter?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Bummer.”

After looking down at your purse for so long and almost forgetting that he was standing there, you catch Punk’s gaze. With a straight face, he reaches up, and plucks the cigarette from your mouth.

“And you shouldn’t either.”

Your shoulders slump, a whine stuck in the back of your throat, “Can’t a girl take the edge off?”

“Every time a pretty girl smokes a cigarette, an angel loses its wings.”

It was still very cold. But the way Punk so graciously and spitefully took the cigarette out of your mouth and tossed it into a nearby subway grate made the pit of your stomach grow warm. You couldn’t deny the effect he was having on you. He was ballsy— fearless. Ten minutes into knowing him, you’ve already grown quite fond of this dynamic.

“Fine. No smoking. But can we at least go somewhere warm if you’re gonna keep asking me questions?”

“Is my body heat not enough for you?” Punk quips right back, somehow closer than you remembered him being.

“Standing here with you has been fun, but—it’s thirty degrees. Take me somewhere warm or else I’ll start screaming that you’re an axe murderer.”

Amused by your empty threat, Punk smirks. He took a moment to think to himself, before reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a set of car keys.

“I’m parked in the garage. I assume you need a ride. No way Bunny’s gonna hop on home all by herself.”

“Bunny would’ve gotten home just fine.”

Your arms are still crossed against your chest, attempting to subdue the chattering of your teeth. But rather than leading you towards the garage in question, Punk stays still. His eyebrow raises at you, his lips pushed to the side.

“Well? Aren’t you gonna lead the way?”

“Aren’t you missing something?”

“Missing what? I have all my shit—”

You begin to frantically tap at your pockets, feeling silly once you remember that damn miniskirt.

“Here, I’ll make this easy. What’s the magic word?”

“Oh come on.”

Punk stands his ground, his teeth now sunk into his bottom lip, “I’m not going anywhere until I hear you say it.”

You huff like a child, stomping your foot against the ground out of pure instinct. The weather was taking over your senses, making your hands freeze up and the back end of your jaw clench.

“Fine—Please, Mr. Punk? May I please go sit in your nice warm car so I don’t get hypothermia and die?” You have your own fun, and let your eyes go wide and shimmery.

“Only since you asked so nicely.”

You could tell that the little show you put on made Punk stiffen up, a slick attempt to play it cool left him digging his hands into the pockets of his sweats before turning to lead you to his car.

Good call, Punk.

“So, now that you know my reasoning for standing outside of a nightclub with my ass out, how about you tell me what you’ve been up to on this fine Friday night?”

As the two of you walk towards the parking garage, shoulders occasionally knocking in time with the clunking of your boots, you turn to admire his side profile. He walks, looking straight ahead, almost as if he were attempting not to get sucked back into those eyes of yours.

“I actually had a match tonight.”

“A match? What are you, a boxer or something?”

“Every time you take a guess about me, you get closer and closer to the actual answer,” says Punk, sparing you a sideways glance, “One more guess and you’d be right on the nose.”

“The only thing that I can think of when you say ‘matches’ is boxing—”

“—Wrestling,” he jumps the gun, “I’m a professional wrestler.”

Oh.

“Makes sense why my punch didn’t hurt.”

You pout dramatically, feigning for a reaction out of him while the two of you walk through a practically empty parking garage towards a beat up Chevy Malibu in the very last spot.

“Why the long face, Bunny?” he asks, his car honking as he unlocks it, “Did you want it to hurt?”

That comment in particular makes you blush. You felt small enough next to him as is, but his wordsmithing abilities left you breathless. He smiles at you, rounding the hood of his car to hold open the door for you. There was something a little more complex than pure satisfaction hidden beneath those eyes of his.

You wait until the two of you are sitting side by side in the car before answering, thinking the thrill of anticipation is what’s getting him going, “No. I didn’t expect to punch anyone tonight at all. Just— kinda bummed that my first ever punch was square in the nose of a man who gets punched for a living.”

“You’ll get there someday. Maybe next time I’ll cry a little bit— just to make you feel better.”

You scoff, reaching over to push him in the shoulder. He takes it lightly, but you’re stuck on the firmness of his bicep.

“You keep implying that there’ll be a next time. What if I never see you again after tonight?”

Punk leans his head against the car seat, his eyes fluttering towards the windshield as his Adam’s Apple bobs. An open, empty parking lot with a singular flickering light really set the mood for the circumstances.

“Is that what you want? To never see me again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it was implied.”

Your face pinches. You wished you had that cigarette right about now. Punk’s face was unreadable, and you couldn’t stand it. This entire situation left you feeling a bit dizzy.

“You’re such a jerk,” you blurt out.

“And you’re kind of a brat. ‘Suppose it’s a match made in heaven.”

Feeling defeated, you huff, and fold your hands in your lap. You don’t think you’d ever met someone who could keep up with all of your quips. You were smart, but he was smarter. You were snappy, but he left you tongue tied.

“Wanna get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

There it was again. That ping in your stomach every time he shot you down. It was getting to be amusing— the more he deflected and kept up that cocky attitude, the more you wanted to push his buttons.

“It’s late,” he mumbles behind a half-lit smile, reaching down to fiddle with his wrist tape, “Any more sugar in you and you’d be wound up like a toy.”

“You don’t know that,” you defend, mimicking his movements and twisting the costume ring on your middle finger.

“You’d be surprised at how well I can read people. Especially clever girls like you.”

You were a button pusher by nature, but Punk was made of rubber. Everything you had to say bounced right off of him. You couldn’t stand it, he was perfect. He was so fucking hot that it made you want to claw at walls and break through windows. It was absolutely infuriating.

“What are you doing to me?” you ask; once again, not thinking, moving your hands animatedly, “It’s like you’ve got a forcefield on my brain or somethin’.”

Punk scoffs, eventually reaching the end piece of his wrist tape and beginning to slowly unravel it, “I’ve been told I have a weird effect on people.”

“Weird is a fucking understatement.”

You were telling the truth. The chokehold that Punk held over you loomed like a storm cloud— his eyes, his moody face, that thick, toned body and that damn black hair. You were a sucker for an emo boy, but you didn’t think that obsession ran deep.

Until right now.

A brief silence passes, and it’s tense. You keep sneaking glances at him as he waits for the car to warm up. He keeps catching your eyes every time they wander down to the little sterling silver ring pierced into his lip.

“So,” he begins to say, turning up the temperature dial all the way, “Finally warm enough for me to ask some more questions?”

“Well yeah, I guess… God, you make it sound like I’m in the interrogation room.”

“I meant that sincerely, dick. I was asking if the temperature of the car was to your liking.”

Although having met him under an hour ago, a comfortable smile slides across your face. You sigh dramatically, kicking up your feet onto his dashboard and letting your furry jacket fall open to reveal your cute little clubbing top.

“Sure, I’m warm. Hot, even. Might start sweating soon. This jacket’s a bitch and a half.”

“A cold-blooded woman. I like it.”

“It’s one of my most redeeming qualities,” you retort, gaining back some of that confident spark you lost in the crossfire of Punk calling you a brat, “So, what? Are we playing twenty questions?”

“Twenty questions?” Punk repeats, his sentence trailed with laughter, “I’ve been out of the scene for a long time— didn’t think it was long enough to have to resort back to icebreakers.”

“Hey, don’t laugh! It’s a good way to get to know someone! Here, ask me anything. No holds barred.”

Punk rolls his eyes begrudgingly, his massive ego somehow bruised at even the mention of such a childish game. He thinks to himself for a moment, ultimately caving when he looks over and sees your newly exposed chest.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What’s your favorite color?”

“Lame,” you blow a raspberry at him, “it’s blue.”

“Y’know, I’d like to see you ask a better question.”

You sit up slightly in the car seat, uncrossing your legs from the dash and putting them back in their correct place on the floor. In one last attempt to commandeer the power dynamic in your favor, you place your elbow on the center console, and stare deeply into his eyes.

“Thought this one would’ve been a no-brainer, but— do you have a girlfriend?”

Punk scoffs, as if he were offended that you’d even assume, “A girlfriend? No.”

“Hm. Good to know. I’ll keep that on the back-burner.”

“Must be my turn again,” The cheeky expression lingers on his face— you could tell he was amused just by looking at you.

“Yep. That’s how the game works.”

“Okay,” he puffs, mimicking the batting of your eyelashes and the little twinge of flirtiness in your smile, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope. Not a boyfriend for miles.”

He nods, his lips pursing, “As you said, it’s really just— good to know.”

Twenty questions was an awful game. Despite being the one to suggest it, you were also the first to admit it. There was so much nothingness to be discussed when it came to getting to know someone— and asking mundane questions seemed far too manufactured for the way you typically liked to handle things.

Punk already seemed to take a liking to you, it was evident in the way he acted thus far. His body language, the way he was teasing you. It was just so comfortable. And comfort was a good thing in most cases.

But in this case, comfort wouldn’t do.

“My turn,” you blurt excitedly, repositioning your legs back up onto the dashboard, “I’d like to take this question to address the elephant in the room.”

“Elephant—?”

You smile at Punk, watching his eyes follow your movements, the tail end of his sentence getting lost somewhere in his distracted mind.

“You keep on staring at my legs, Punker. You wanna get your head between ‘em?”

“Pardon?” he asks, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You heard me, pretty boy.”

In a flash, Punk’s body is strewn across the center console. He’s kissing you.

Holy fuck, he’s kissing you.

His lips are soft and inviting, a stark contrast to the heavy breathing and wandering tongues between you as he presses his chest into yours. It was a whirlwind, you could barely keep up with him. You decide to pull away for a moment, honing in on those beautiful Kelly greens.

“Shit,” Punk laughs, his palm cupping your cheek and letting the remnants of wrist tape scrape against your skin, “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” you breathe out, feeling like your back was superglued to the leather.

Punk retreats back to the driver’s seat, running a hand through his hair. He’s panting, that wicked smile still painted across his face, “Nothing, nothing— I just—”

And just like that, you’re attached at the lips once more.

You figured the less time spent talking right now would be for the better; getting to know someone was just semantics, anyway. If you think someone’s hot, and that person shares the sentiment, you firmly believe that you should get into their pants as quickly as possible.

Especially when that someone is a suave, punk wrestler who had some sort of bionic force field over your mind.

You deepen the second kiss, practically dislocating your hip as you stretch over the center console. You want to get closer— the inside of the car and the lowness of its ceiling preventing you from positioning yourself in the ways that you want.

“Get on top of me. Right now.” Punk’s words knock against your now plump lips, raw from all the teasing.

You oblige without another word, hoisting yourself over the console and straight into his lap. You think you have it all under control, despite the wobbling of your knees each time you look into his eyes.

“You’re very demanding,” you tease.

“And you seem— insatiable.”

Once you lower your hips onto his lap, a collective sigh fills the car. Not much was released from the tension in your lower half, but you fit into his lap like the last piece of a puzzle. He spread his legs comfortably beneath you, wasting no time in attaching his broad, blistered hands to y our waist.

Punk chuckles to himself, watching you adjust your ass so that it wasn’t digging into the steering wheel.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“This is just— an odd situation we’ve gotten ourselves into,” says Punk, reaching up to run his hand across your chest to the nape of your neck, “We met less than an hour ago. Now you’re straddling me in my car.”

“I’m a woman that knows what she wants as soon as she sets her eyes on it,” you whip back, taking your pointer finger and finally getting to run it across that dastardly handsome lip ring.

“I like you more and more each time you open your mouth. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”

Punk’s sentence trails off when his hand slowly snakes its way into the back of your hair. You smirk at his gentle quip, a subtle push in the right direction.

“Wanna find out?”

He pulls you back in, breathing in deeply as he nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. You moan at the feeling of his hand in your hair, tugging at the roots like he was trying to pull you away, but couldn’t stand to be far from you for longer than a second.

You swivel your hips against his, the tight biker shorts beneath your miniskirt leaving zero room for the imagination. When your hip makes one last dig, Punk’s entire body jolts— he takes that pent up frustration out on your soft flesh, nipping at your jaw towards your neck.

“Fuckin’ Christ, you’re—”

“Everything and more?” you gloat through heaving breaths as he starts a trail of love bites down towards your clavicle, “Super hot and amazing?”

You can feel Punk laughing beneath you; as if he hasn’t let himself enjoy life like this in a long time.

“You’re— unreal.”

With his words, you scoop up his face in your hands. It was hard not to just talk his ear off and shower him in praise for the foreseeable future, he checked every box for you as far as a man goes.

“What? What about me is so unreal?”

“Just— everything,” he hums, his eyes foggy and in a daze, “Can’t really put my finger on it at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“You’re like a fuckin machine gun. Loaded with questions.”

“Kiss me harder,” you purr, lifting your hips and planting them back down firmly onto the growing bulge in his sweats, “Maybe that’ll shut me up.”

Soon enough, you’re back in the game. Punk had taken the liberty of shrugging you out of your fuzzy jacket— the one he liked so much that he pulled a nickname out of his ass for.

He took time showering you in kisses; one would think a man of his stature wouldn’t be so delicate. But he treated you like he was picking petals off a daisy— and you were more than satisfied with that.

“Wanna take this to the backseat?” Punk grunts as your hands start to grasp at the hem of his shirt, he notices your struggle.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Figured you’re tired of the steering wheel digging into your ass.”

You smile warmly at his cute little quips, wanting nothing more in this moment than to pinch at his cheeks, “Why thank you for being so considerate, Mr. Punk.”

You grace him with one more searing kiss, letting him linger in the aftermath before rising from his lap. Making it to the back with grace, you slide into the seat behind the passenger as Punk stares at you from the front.

“I would have opened the door for you. You didn’t have to pull out a whole gymnastics routine.”

With flushed cheeks and a smile, you shrug, “It’s more fun this way.”

“Whatever you say, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes open the driver’s side door.

You sit timidly in the backseat for the few seconds that you’re alone, your body pumping with adrenaline. It was hard to believe the turnaround of how this night was going— from shitty, fallen through club plans, to meeting someone who may or may not be the love of your life. It was all happening so fast, you could barely keep up.

“So.”

Punk’s voice and the slamming of the car door snaps you out of your spaceout. You turn to him with an amused face, instantly brought back down to earth when you notice how he’d comfortably spread his legs. A silent invitation.

“Sooo…”

“Come here often?” he jokes, drumming his fingers against his knee and eyeing your figure.

“That was so fucking corny. You’re such a loser.” You laugh, mimicking his eyes and traipsing them down his frame.

Dear God, he was divine.

“Quit the name calling and c’mere, you fuckin’ minx.”

As if his words were a wish and you were a genie that granted them true, you slowly crawl over to him, softening your eyes and tossing your hair over your shoulder as you once again get comfortable onto his lap.

The kiss from earlier picks back up— it felt almost redundant to do so. But you couldn’t get enough of the taste of his lips, and he couldn’t stand resisting the scent of your vanilla perfume.

“How far do you wanna go?” You breathe out, not entirely thinking with your head screwed on while he claws tightly at your hips.

“As far as you’ll take me. Seems like you’ve got the energy.”

“What? Can’t keep up with me?” you pout, leaning in to nip at his jawline and graze his stubble with your teeth, “So much for being an athlete.”

Punk snorts, you’d almost forgotten how strong he really was. He pulls you closer to him, your chest fully flushed against his.

“Don’t test me. Just because you’ve got the libido of a rabbit doesn’t mean I can’t keep up.”

“Ahhh, I don’t know— you got that kind of stamina in the bedroom? Or do you save the real show for when you’re in the ring?”

“Bunny wants a show, huh? I’ll give you a fuckin’ show—”

Like flipping on a light switch, Punk’s entire demeanor changes. The oozing sense of a desire to be in control clouded the small Chevy Malibu like smog. His hands detach from your waist, with one hand cupping your face and the other sliding up towards your throat.

You were loving this energy— he was like a leech. Feeding off of your lust like it was keeping him alive. When his hand eventually clamped down against the sides of your throat, you moaned out, pushing out a weak smile through newly forming tears in your eyes.

“Punk—” you squeak, but it wasn’t loud enough to grab his attention. He was kissing you with so much fervor and passion that it almost knocked the wind out of you.

Your position quickly switched. He was now on top of you, crammed into the backseat of this entirely too small sedan, his hips meeting yours and causing friction in your lower half. The bulge in his pants was making you want to take whatever he was willing to give.

It was almost desperate at this point.

“Shirt. Off. Now.” The odds were seemingly back in your favor. You’ve been wanting to see what was hiding beneath that tight athletic top the moment you saw how his back muscles contorted beneath it, illuminated by the streetlamp after you whacked him in the nose.

“Help me,” he huffs, struggling to reach between your bodies towards the hem of said shirt, “Help me get this damn thing off.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, the clumsy fumbling in an attempt to peel off Punk’s shirt allowed you to see a bit more of the sparkle in his eyes as he laughed along with you. Once the shirt was off, the most you could do was stare.

Tattoos. So many of them. You wanted to run your hand across all of them and paint along the colorful, traditional style. He was truly a work of art.

The heat of the moment had never left, but for a second, it felt as though you and Punk were the only two people on this planet. He hovers above you, panting at the sight of lust in your eyes. His dark hair was like a set of blackout curtains that framed his face just right. You couldn’t help yourself. You pushed a lock of that hair behind his ear, catching what you assumed to be a bashful, blushed grin.

“What? What are you smiling at?” you ask through giggles, letting the back of your hand trail his jawline.

“Nothing, nothing— you’re lookin’ at me stupid right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you hum, “I can’t really help it. I—didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“I’ve got quite a few, yeah,” he nods, speaking to you as if his bulge wasn’t millimeters away from where the both of you needed it to be, “Glad you like ‘em.”

“I don’t have any tattoos, sadly. ‘Wish I did. The adrenaline rush of a needle getting shoved into your skin over and over again seems like it would be better than sex.”

Punk’s eyes flicker with desire, his gaze firmly planted onto your lips as you spoke. He was one track minded, from what you could tell. Though you weren’t sure which track he’d been focused on running.

“Better than sex huh? You say that like I don’t have you here, pinned to my backseat.”

“It was a euphemism, jackass,” you snarl, craning your neck to reach up and peck him on the lips, “Doesn’t mean I don’t still want a tattoo. Or, to be pinned to your backseat.”

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll go get you a tattoo, eh? Set you up with an artist and everything. That way you can really tell me if being under the needle is better than sex.”

The kiss picks back up for the hundredth time, though it was the fiercest kiss of them all. Soon enough, Punk was shimmying you out of your miniskirt and biker shorts, and pushing your knees towards your chest.

“Is it fucked up that I’ve been thinkin’ about seeing you like this since I laid eyes on you?” He takes his time with you, settling to the best of his abilities while crammed into the back of his own car.

The only sound you could muster was an airy giggle, his blistered hands rubbing circles atop your knees as he slowly started to spread you wider.

“Tell me. Tell me right now if it’s fucked up and I’ll stop.”

“What? Are you crazy?” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, “I should punch you again for thinking that way.”

“Mmmh, I’d like to see you try.”

You understood why Punk kept implying that there’d be a next time. Because the way his gaze roamed down every dip and curve of your body and stopped to linger on your clothed core…

…You couldn’t imagine being here, in this moment, with anyone else.

“Can I just say— you’re fuckin’ heavenly,” Punk grumbles, his hands finally finding the lacy trim of your underwear.

“All these compliments are gonna start getting to my head, Punker. Choose your next words wisely.”

He chuckles, knowing full and well that he was holding the reins. You had him, basically, in a headlock. Your ankles clasped around the back of his neck, keeping him hostage towards the center of your thighs.

“Want these off?” he asks, pulling at your waistband.

You think for a moment, letting Punk take a second to drink you in, in all of your aphrodisiacal glory.

“Mmmh, no. Kinda’ wanna see you work for it.”

His eyes suddenly narrow with challenge, a newly formed drop of sweat beginning to roll down his forehead at the sheer impetuosity of his current position.

Face first towards your pussy.

Punk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes lock with yours— your head begins to spin as he lowers his, not breaking his stare for even a second. He takes his rough-padded fingers, and pushes aside the dainty lilac colored fabric of your underwear.

“Work for it,” he mutters, scoffing under his breath as he feels your entire body jolt, “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

Punk dives into you with expertise and precision, his tongue initially dragging a long, torturous swipe up between your folds. The pressure of his tongue against your now aching core felt like you were just launched into the air from a slingshot.

You gasp. You whine. Your legs had suddenly gone limp and dropped beside him. You attempt to claw at his colorful, painted shoulders but instead, end up reaching all the way to his back to dig your nails straight into his spine.

He hums in what you assumed to be delight, ripples from his vocalization sending a shock wave through your body, whilst he continues to prod at your entrance with his tongue.

“Holy fuck—” you breathe out, the sensation of his nimble tongue causing your legs to spasm, “Fuck— fuckin’— shit!”

With his head still buried between your thighs, Punk laughs. He simply can’t help it.

“You’ve got a mouth like a goddamn sailor,” his eyes pop up to look at you momentarily, but that wouldn’t do.

“Keep your comments and questions reserved for after the show, thank you.” Shaking your head, you push his mouth back down to where the attention was needed.

After all was said and done, you still couldn’t believe you were here right now. It seemed far too early into the evening to call any shots, though it was far past midnight now, but there was a stirring feeling in your gut about Punk.

The stirring could've been attributed to the agility of his tongue between your thighs, but the bigger part of you knew that this feeling could only be described as butterflies.

Butterflies. That’s exactly what it was. From what you knew about him so far, Punk was a gentleman. Treating you delicately like he was pruning a rose bush, but with just enough of that rough, jagged edge that made you swoon.

Back to the present. You’d been digging your nails into Punk’s toned back for so long that you started to notice red etchings in the place of your hands.

“Oh my God,” was all you could muster. His tongue flicked mercilessly at your sensitive clit— the way his head dipped and swiveled only proved the attention he was paying to you.

He really was working for it.

“Keep goin’… fuck, please keep going. I’m— so close.”

With your words, Punk’s head pops up. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, immediately pushing two of them inside you and stretching your walls along with it.

“What’s that? You’re close, you said?”

His eyes shot through yours like bullets, his face now morphed into, possibly, the most determined expression you’ve ever seen. He takes those two fingers and curls them deep inside of you, the sounds of your arousal suddenly echoing throughout the car.

“Yes— yes I’m fuckin’ close… Are— are you mocking me?” you pant, weakly chuckling at the mercy of his fingers.

“Mocking you? C’mon now,” he interrupts himself with a grunt, his voice rich and sticky like honey, “I just wanted to clarify… and hear that pretty voice while you cum for me.”

Stars begin to cloud your vision. Your heart rate was picking up at rapid speeds, chanting yes yes yes yes yes over and over again as if it were some sort of demonic hymn. Punk had you hypnotized, borderline possessed. His face melts in time with yours, studying your expression as you chase your orgasm towards the finish line.

“Punk, oh fuck. God, yes. Faster. Faster!”

“Give it to me, Bunny. Gonna cum all over my fingers like a good girl? Yeah.”

Punk nods to you, as if it were a sign to let loose. He was coaching you through this like he was born to please you, hitting all of the correct spots with his large digits and occasionally ducking down to lap up your juices.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, baby. So fuckin’ good. I know you’re almost there.”

Seconds later, he does the unthinkable, and presses his palm flat against your lower stomach. You whine at the now building pressure, still cursing and surprised at the fact that you hadn’t drawn blood from his shoulder blades after grabbing them so roughly.

His body shifts upwards, keeping his balance by still pressing deeply against your abdomen. He muffles your moans with a searing hot kiss, biting at your bottom lip to heighten both the pain and the pleasure.

“Cum all over my fuckin’ hand, baby. I wanna’ make a mess of such a sweet, pretty girl.”

You do as you’re told, naturally, your body jolting in pure bliss as release crashes over you. Your legs stiffen, and go weak once again, letting Punk grace you with one last dirty kiss before pulling away to ease you.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, your body still in a state of shock.

“Mmmmmh,” Punk hums as he massages one of your thighs, still coaxing you through your high with his two fingers, “That’s it, Bunny. Let it all out.”

You finally get a second to relax your shoulders, your neck falling limp as you rest your head against the car door. It was hard to believe just how fast your heart was beating— that was probably the best orgasm you’ve had in months.

“Feelin’ okay?” Punk breaks the heavy, sweaty silence, abruptly pulling his fingers out from you and making you gasp. He seemed to be extra cautious now, making sure your lightheadedness wasn’t too much of an issue.

“I— Shit… Fuck, I’m sorry. Don’t really— have the words.”

He chuckles softly, taking it upon himself to reach out and lift you, propping you upright against the carseat. “I’ve rendered the chatterbox speechless? Never in a million years…”

“Oh shut up,” you whine, feeling the remnants of slickness between your thighs, “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

After a few tender moments of giggles, swatting at each other playfully, and threatening to punch Punk once more, you had resumed the position onto his lap. While still crammed into the back of the Malibu, his large, blistered hands roamed your sides and sent shivers down your spine. He had also asked you’d be opposed to keeping your skirt off for the time being.

Of course, you didn’t mind.

“Where’d you learn that shit, Punker?”

“Hm?” Punk seems to be lost in you, his eyes wandering down to the love bites he’d left on your neck.

“Oh come on. You just whipped me through fucking space and time and you’re gonna act all humble about it? Where’s your pride?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to brag about. Real men make girls cum. It’s as simple as that.” He punctuates his thought with a kiss to the tip of your nose, his eyes narrow and hazy with adoration.

“Oh, so you save all your gut-punch-trash-talking for the ring, huh?”

Your comment makes him laugh. It’s hearty, and rich; he’s so lost in your eyes that you’re afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.

“If you came to one of my matches, you’d find out. But why don’t we save the shop talk for another time and get you home? It’s getting late.”

Your chest aches, the words echoing against your skull. Take you home? The thought of going home after one of the most exhilarating nights of your life so far felt like an arrow through the back. You didn’t want this to end, you didn’t want to leave this car. You didn’t want to leave this parking garage.

You didn’t want to leave Punk.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” you ask softly, the first time you’d put your guard up since you were standing on the sidewalk.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Come home with me. Stay the night.”

You blurt it out faster than you could process your thoughts— though you always were a firm believer in trusting your gut.

“You serious?” He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear; he seemed to have put his guard down for a fleeting moment, too.

“Serious. I’ve got a nice king-sized bed all to myself and a vinyl collection that’ll make your dick hard.”

“Once again, unreal…” Punk chuckles, shaking his head. You feel his body rumble along with it and can’t help but hold onto him tighter.

“…Sure. I’ll stay the night. But if you’re lying about that record collection, I’m driving back and leaving you out on the sidewalk where I found you.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. If you don’t have a raging boner the second you step into my place, I’ll sell you my soul.”

“A deal with the devil,” Punk smiles warmly, before pulling you in for one last kiss that’s as sweet as molasses, “Prettiest damn’ devil I’ve ever seen.”

—

After a playful, sexually tense car ride that seemed to last an eternity, Punk finally pulled up to the front of your place. Throughout the entire duration of the drive, his hand was anchored to your thigh, rubbing slow, soothing circles that occasionally veered off between your legs; you talked his ear off about work, friends, and all of the other quirks that made your life worth living.

He also told you more about his wrestling career, and how he was working small indie shows in hopes to sign a bigger contract. You listened to his ramblings about what it takes to be a wrestler, not without asking him a million questions, of course.

You learned that his full ring name was CM Punk. And quickly realized that the ‘CM’ could stand for just about anything— Cookie Monster, Curtis Mayfield, Car Muffler. The possibilities were endless for you. But truthfully, hearing you talk and joke around was the only thing that mattered to Punk.

Your curious mind and nonstop motormouth quickly became one of the things that Punk liked most about you.

But he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“So, this is the place huh?” Punk hums, tossing his head back at you with a bit of tension from before that still lingered, “The place that’s supposed to blow me away with a rockin’ record collection and a promised king-sized mattress.”

“Mhm. Welcome to my dojo. Usually there’s no boys allowed— but tonight, I’ll make an exception.”

Soon enough, Punk opened the car door for you, allowing you to slide out and stand beside him on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. You lived in a duplex in Brooklyn, in a somewhat seedy neighborhood that you quickly took a liking to after living in it for almost half a year. Your neighbors were kind, considerate, and never asked questions.

You hoped that’d remain true after tonight.

The two of you walk up to the porch, laughing playfully at the misfortune of your miniskirt before reaching the door. But before you fish out your key from your clutch, you spin around, and press your back against the screen.

“What’s the password, Punky Brewster?”

His eyes widened with challenge, a smug expression on his face, “How should I know? It’s my first time here.”

“I can give you a hint if you’d like,” you purr like a cat, trailing your index finger down his chest as he steps a smidge closer.

“A hint, huh? Lucky for you, riddles turn me on.”

You laugh heartily— you haven’t laughed this much in months. He was surely a spitfire for the ages; the only person for miles who was willing to keep up with your attitude for this long. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes seemed to shimmer as he gazed down at you, the overhead lighting of your porch giving him a faux halo.

Fitting.

“This isn’t a riddle. It’s simple. You have something that I want. And I need you to give it to me.”

“Something that you want— interesting. Is it a physical object? An action? C’mon Bunny, cut me some slack. My brain’s fuckin’ fried.”

A desperate chuckle passes his lips, and he just can’t help but reach out to caress your cheek. Still reeling from previous events, you nudge your face right into his palm.

“I feel as though I’m being fair. You have something I want, and I need you to give it to me.”

You were implying that you wanted a kiss. It was simple. Merely because you couldn’t stand the thought of your lips being detached for longer than the time it took to walk up your front porch.

After thinking to himself for a moment, your cheek still cradled in his palm, the lightbulb flicks on in Punk’s mind.

“Oh. You fucker. I know what you want.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shrug, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause you’re greedy. C’mere.”

Leaning in to kiss him for approximately the fifteenth time tonight still felt like slow motion. It wasn’t until your lips finally reconnected that the tension left your shoulders.

‘Mrrrrooowww’

A loud mewl from behind snaps the kiss. Punk stares at you in shock for a moment, but you knew exactly what that sound was. “What the hell was that?”

‘Mrrroowww’

At your feet sits a little tortoiseshell cat. The neighborhood stray.

“Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me.” Punk steps back, teetering with uncertainty in an attempt not to step on the animal. You didn’t think such a small creature would knock a big man off his balance so easily.

“Scared?” you scoff, bending down to scoop up the familiar cat, “Of this little guy?”

Punk’s eyebrow raises, curiously admiring your Snow White-esque way of going about this. “Is he a friend?”

You chuckle at his sarcasm, petting the purring feline and letting him rub his head in your palm. “I guess you could call him that. This is Channing Tatum. Mr. Tatum, Tater Tots, Tater for short. He comes by every morning and night to hang out for a bit. I think we, uh, interrupted his busy schedule.”

“No shit. That’s his fuckin’ name?” Punk guffaws, crossing his arms in disbelief, “Who named him that?”

“Who do you think?”

Punk chuckles, running a hand through his hair, “Naturally.”

“Yeah. I feed him n’ stuff,” you rattle off like you were born to, still petting Tater and watching as he cocks his head towards Punk in curiosity, “He’s put on a few pounds since I moved here, but I plead the fifth. This dude’s got hookups at every house on this block.”

“Smart man. He’s a hustler.”

It took Punk a moment to reach out and pet Tater, the tattoos on his knuckles catching the light of the porch. DRUG FREE was scrawled across his hands in black ink, making your mind race with even more questions to ask him. But you didn’t want to bore him, or piss him off. So instead, you just soaked in the moment.

“What do you feed this guy? He’s got buff shoulders and a toned bod. Might have to hijack his diet.”

“I’ll give him a combo of wet and dry food every day,” the two of you were now petting Tater simultaneously, and he was loving every second of it, “plenty of water, too. Hydration is important for cats, you know.”

The loud purrs disrupted the peaceful silence between you and Punk. You catch his eyes in a sideways glance— he wasn’t looking at Tater anymore.

He was looking at you.

“I give you cat people a lot of credit. Cats usually hate me,” Punk smiles, leaning in to hear the loud, rumbling purrs coming from such a small creature, “This one might be special.”

“He’s pretty good at feeling people’s energy. He gets it from his mama.”

“Didn’t realize I was signing up to be a step-father.”

An airy chuckle leaves his chest, but you clam up. For no particular reason. “Why don’t we go inside? I’m still fuckin’ cold.”

There’s a pause in space and time. You set Tater down gently onto the porch and watch him scurry off, knowing he’ll be back promptly at eight in the morning for breakfast. But the way you clammed up just then didn’t go unnoticed by Punk, you just assumed he chose to ignore it.

You led him over the threshold of your apartment, tapping the tips of your fuzzy boots on the side of the door to rid them of any dirt, mud, or grimy New York snow-sludge. Punk mimicked your actions, as if he’s been here before.

“Shoes off?”

“Shoes off.” You repeat, pulling off one boot at a time as your ass hits the floor. Punk slides out of his Nikes, propping them up against the wall beside yours.

“Your place is nice,” Punk whistles, his hands on his hips as he admires your living room/kitchen combo.

“It’s not much, but it’s all me.”

“No roommates?” He asks, shuffling towards your kitchen island and poking his nose into one of your drawers.

“Nope. I got a discount on this place because the roof was caving in on my side. My dad’s a contractor, he came down from upstate and fixed it for free.”

“Jesus,” he glances at you on the floor, you were now sitting criss-cross applesauce. He can’t help but stare as you unzip your fuzzy coat, haphazardly tossing it onto the back of the couch.

“Meh, it’s no big deal. Knowing that the roof may cave back in any day now really keeps me on my toes. Gets me motivated, you know?”

Your dry humor makes Punk laugh, the gap in his teeth catching beneath the kitchen lights. When you finally stood up, and walked over to him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen island, the two of you were now in a face-off.

The energy switch was minuscule. His eyes narrowed, as did yours, as you braced your hands against the granite.

“Want anything?”

“You know what I want.”

You scoff, “I meant like, a glass of water. Or something of that nature.”

“A glass of water, sure,” Punk agrees, watching you vigilantly as you round the corner into the kitchen where he was. He was standing in front of the fridge, causing your back to slide against his when you went to open it.

The energy between you was like static— it was jarring and abrasive, sending little shocks down your spine. He doesn’t waste much time, spinning around to hold you from behind.

“Punk,” you say, your throat now gone dry.

“Hm?” His face had moved towards the crook of your neck, lips hovering behind your ear, “what’s up, Bunny babe?”

“You’ve got a real personal space problem.”

“Not like you mind it,” he retorts, lips finally connecting to your neck as he leaves soft kisses in their wake.

“I don’t. Just trying to be a good host. That’s all.”

“Am I invading your space? Do you want me to stop?”

Punks hands move from your waist, scooping up your breasts to massage them, all in one motion. The action makes you whine, and clench the glass of ice cubes in your hand. He was licking and biting at your neck, nearing the spaghetti strap of your clubbing top.

“No, no. I don’t want you to stop.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Punk spins you fully to face him, leaving the refrigerator door open and idle. The cool air hits your back and meshes with the contrast of how hot and searing his lips feel against your neck.

He really loved to bite at you, maybe he was a vampire.

In one motion, Punk takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter behind him, pulling you into his waist as he rests his back against the granite. It was a ridiculously slow, methodical dance he was pulling, his breathing heavy against your ear as he can’t decide whether to hold your hips, or your ass.

You take your now free hands and lace them around his neck, finally able to fully flush your body against his without being restricted by the confines of a backseat. He hums in delight when your tits press against his chest, and pushes you away to get a better look.

“I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got me whipped. Not gonna lie, it was taking everything in me not to pull the car over and fuck you on the side of the highway.”

You blush at his admission, “I wouldn’t have been mad at that. Though I don’t know how fucking in that small ass car would’ve went.”

“Anything is possible. We could’ve made it work,” Punk smirks, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Making out with someone against your kitchen counter wasn’t particularly a dream of yours. But the way Punk held you tightly and let his hands roam across your ass beneath your miniskirt, sans biker shorts, made you want to fall asleep and never wake up.

You moan into his mouth, letting the rough, sloppy kiss take over your senses. Punk moves you fluidly, whisking you away from the counter towards the wall.

“P-Punk—” you sputter, due to his hand hovering around your skirt.

“Yes?” He asks softly, almost too sweetly.

“Can I just—show you around?”

Punk sighs, pulling away from you to scratch his neck. His hand slaps his thigh when it drops, motioning for you to ‘go ahead’ with a lazy smile.

You slither out from his hold, making sure to sway your hips and drag your hand along the granite of the kitchen island, “So. This is the kitchen. Obviously. We’re standing in it.”

You point around, and his eyes follow, occasionally reminding you of his presence with an “uh huh” here and there. Once you make it towards the stairs, you stop and spin to face him.

“You don’t care at all, do you?”

Punk’s cocky expression doesn’t falter. He’s leaning on the wall, his strong, tattooed arm hovering beside your head, which is how he was standing while you pointed out every single knickknack on your shelf.

“Bunny. Baby. You think I don’t care?” he clutches his chest, feigning hurt, “I bet I can recite everything you just said back to you.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” you retort, crossing your arms with a pitiful pout, “You’ve been staring at my ass for so long to the point where it’s got bullet holes.”

At that moment, Punk wanted nothing more than to run the pad of his thumb along that plump bottom lip, but he kept his inner monologue at ease.

“The cat statues were a housewarming gift from your bitch friend Cassie, the one that ditched you tonight.”

Your eyes widen as Punk leaves the wall, stepping back over to the shelf. “The matchbox is from the restaurant that you worked one shift at— and then quit on the spot after a customer said your top was too low cut.”

“You found the bottle caps on the street in Queens, bought that seashell from a neighbor, and stole that pool ball from a billiard bar—”

A stammer gets caught in your throat as Punk, quite literally, repeats your words verbatim. “—Am I missing anything?”

“I—”

“You wanna tell me again that I’m not listening?”

“Oh fuck you,” you say sternly, but are unable to hide your smile when Punk pulls you beside him to take a gander at your trinket shelf.

“I’ve been trying, baby. But you’re not easy and I know that. If asking you about your frequent yard sale visits is what it takes to get you in my arms, I can do this all night.”

Smooth. He was so goddamn smooth. To spare him the satisfaction of giving him what he wanted the moment he asked for it, you slide out of his grasp once again, and scurry up a few stairs. The stairs that lead towards your bedroom.

“If you’re looking to do this all night, we’re already halfway there.”

“Time is a construct,” Punk scoffs, crossing his arms with that same lethal stare and mimicking your posture, “Show me to the bedroom, please.”

What started as a slow ascent quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse. You giggled as you flew up the stairs, hearing Punk’s heavy, socked footsteps gaining on you from behind.

“Stop it! You’re fuckin’ scary!” you shriek, clipping the corner of the stairs towards your bedroom door.

Your back is pressed against the door now, with Punk slowly creeping towards you. His broad shoulders grow taut against his athletic top with each eerie step.

“So I scare you. You’re admitting it?”

“What?” you raise an eyebrow, face flushing of all color, “you don’t scare me. You were just—running at me like it’s hunting season.”

“I wasn’t tryna’ scare you. But I mean, I could be scary if you wanted.”

You swallow. Hard. You’d only seen certain facets of Punk’s personality in the three hours of knowing him. And despite your curious nature and the inexplicable magnetic grip he held over you, the thought of him scaring you never really crossed your mind. You wondered what it was like to actually be threatened by him.

You wondered if he’d even give you the chance to know it.

“Really?” you stammer, your voice betraying you and fleeting off when he reattaches his hand to your waist, “You’d be scary for me?”

“Well, of course I would. It’s all an act. I can be whatever you want me to be, Bunny baby.”

A sinking feeling reaches the pit of your stomach, your insides growing warm and fuzzy with each passing moment.

“You’re quite the talker, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been told I have a magic mouth. Tongue included.”

You shake your head, chewing at your bottom lip whilst your eyes flick between his facial features, a stirring sense of God knows what clouding over your mind.

“Can I be honest?”

Punk nods solemnly, at full attention.

“I uh, haven’t done this in a while. I know I’ve only known you for like, three hours but— I don’t know. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

His face softens at your admission; you couldn’t quite get a read on him, but his expression had yet to reach this level of vulnerability. The steel cage that guarded that pretty, tough face seemed to snap, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sincere smile.

“Hey, it’s alright. I know I lay it on kinda thick when it comes to all the flirting but— truth be told, it’s been a while for me too.”

“I just— I wanna see you be scary. I wanna see you get mad. I wanna feel your jaw tick whenever you get irritated.”

Oh God, you were feeling yourself near the start of a class-act ramble. Shut up. Stop talking, you thought, for the love of fuck, stop talking.

“But I’ve also had so much fun making you laugh. And— calling you dumb names like Punky Brewster. I didn’t wanna leave the sidewalk. I didn’t wanna leave the car. I didn’t want you to just— take me home.”

“Shit,” Punk laughs, just as you mentioned, “you’re such a damn sap.”

Your body language grows more timid. Almost as if you were moving backwards from the progress you’d made whilst out on that sidewalk or in the back of that busted up Chevy. But truthfully, you didn’t want to mess this up. You had finally felt as though you’d found someone who was your perfect fit. A match made in fucking heaven.

“Is that a bad thing?” you mumble, looking down to muddle with your thumbs.

Before he speaks again, Punk sighs, tutting you with a click of his tongue before reaching up to pull your eyes back into his.

“No. It’s not a bad thing. And please, don’t you ever give me those sad puppy eyes again, ya’ hear?”

“I know, I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit sheepishly, “forget I said anything?”

“Oh, fuck off. Are you kidding me? That was just about the sweetest damn thing that’s ever been said to me, and you want me to forget it? Y/N, seriously. It’s okay.”

When he speaks your name, something about him snaps you back to reality. Maybe it was the fact that the emptiness that you felt in your chest from getting ditched by your friends filled right back up the moment you gazed into his eyes, but Punk genuinely had a hold over you.

And from the way he was taking in all of your babblings and praise, you could assume that he was feeling it too.

“Don’t get all pouty on me. I fucking hate that you’re not smiling right now,” says Punk, rubbing your chin with his thumb. You force out a smile that was hidden behind your own self doubt, starting to slowly feel comfortable again.

“Can I show you my room?” you hum, the nervous chewing of your lip morphing into a sultry gaze.

“You can show me anything, anytime.”

After the short lived grand tour, you and Punk made it to your bed. The promised king-sized mattress seemed satisfactory, getting rave reviews all around. It didn’t take long for Punk to sprawl across it, with your head seeking refuge on his chest.

“I’d kill to have a bed like this,” Punk says, running a hand across the side of your face, “I’ve got a fucking twin back at my place.”

“A twin? Jesus fuck. You’re like, six feet tall. There’s no way you can sleep comfortably in that.”

“You’d be surprised. Usually I’m so tired after my matches that I just— crash without thinking. I’ve got a roommate too, but he's never around. Always out doing fuck all and coming home at four in the morning.”

You shake your head, hearing the soft thumping of Punk’s heartbeat meshing with the mellow Led Zeppelin record that you’d chosen to play on your stereo. “Having a roommate must suck.”

“It isn’t exactly a dream, but he helps keep the rent paid. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Y’know— if you just stayed here all the time you wouldn’t have to worry about roommates.”

Punk laughs, his chest rumbling, “Wouldn’t that make you my roommate?”

“Well, to quote a great and honest man; I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“Using my own words against me huh? Damn, you’re good.”

A lazy smile spreads across your face as the two of you laugh, completely consumed with the moment. And each other. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and adrenaline from hours prior— you were debating offering him a shower. You were also debating whether or not you ever wanted to let him leave.

You’d soon find out that the answer was never.

“Y’know Bunny, you’re alright.” Punk breaks the peaceful silence, sitting up and leaving your head to go with it.

“Just alright?” you tease, letting out a sigh and running your hand through his dark locks, “I thought I was heavenly. Unreal. Whatever other fuckin’ SAT words you pulled out on me tonight.”

“You told me the compliments were getting to your head.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted you to stop.”

Punk pulls you into a kiss; it’s the most fiery, the most passionate one of the evening. It was getting far too late now— you could almost see the sunlight peeking over the horizon through the coin slots in your curtains. You’d officially stayed up all night.

But you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

[eringobragh420]

✘✘ i got it. ✘✘

➔ Pairing — CM Punk ❤︎ f!Reader ➔ Summary — Punk discovers Paul Heyman’s daughter used to be involved with someone he hates. Punk reacts as expected. ➔ Links — One. Two. ➔ Word Count — 6.2k ➔ Warnings — NSFW. Age gap (she is twenty-something, he’s forty-something), Daddy kink, dirty talk, name calling, oral (f receiving), somnophilia, unprotected p in v, toxic relationship, cum 18+ ➔ Notes — Shoutout to @caramara3 for all the ideas and listening to me whine AND reading this before I posted. Thank you so much for putting up with me! ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ MASTERLIST

if you enjoy my writing, please consider donating toward my IVF journey!

continued from part one.

Wake me up when you get here. 

Oh, he planned to do just fucking that, he thought, grinning wildly, tooth-gap on full display as he strolled down the hotel hallway toward his room. Inserting the card key into its slot, he entered the dark room, allowing the door to click closed softly behind him. Her iPad, propped up on the nightstand, was playing an episode of her favorite television show, silhouetting her body as she slept soundly on her side, facing away from him. He dropped his bag in the closet before lifting his hoodie over his head, tossing the garment onto the bag. He toed off his sneakers in the same place, smelling her shampoo and her body wash and her lotion because they all had very different, very distinctive scents—she must have showered while he’d been gone—and he suddenly didn’t have time to remove anything else.

He crawled slowly onto the bed behind her, holding himself up on his hands and knees as he nuzzled her neck, inhaling all of her fragrances. She snored softly, and Punk breathed a laugh against her hair—when this girl slept, she slept hard. And he’d taken advantage of this fact on more than one occasion, just like he would take advantage tonight. He’d done it before with a couple other women with mixed results, but he honestly didn’t care whether they liked it or not. Because he loved it. A sleeping woman was beautiful, sexy, an air of innocence surrounding her as she breathed evenly, utterly ignorant to the predator stalking her, who had intentions less pure than that of the devil himself.

“Are you awake, kitten?” he asked, expecting and receiving only more tiny snores. He licked at her neck, chasing those sweet scents, his hand sliding down her side to her ass barely covered in a pair of soft shorts. She gave no indication she was conscious, and Punk kissed her shoulder, her arm, the tips of his hair grazing her skin as his mouth traveled down her body. “Daddy’s home,” he grinned wickedly, mischievous eyes lifting to search her face as he tenderly maneuvered her onto her back for easier access to everything. She may sleep hard, but that was no reason to be careless with her or rough, no reason to tempt fate, no reason to see just how much he could get away with before she woke up.

Punk shuffled the blankets toward the bottom of the bed where he sat back on his heels for a moment, head tilted, hands on his thighs, and simply watched her. She wore one of his white merch shirts with the sleeves deeply cut out, the outer curves of her breasts on full display, and sometimes he found that sexier than if he were seeing the whole set. The bottom of the shirt had ridden up, giving him a view of her belly button piercing, his cock twitching at the dangling diamond jewelry he’d bought for her recently, at the memory of removing the old one and inserting the new one and how fucking hard that simple act had made him. 

“Look how cute,” she’d gushed before sifting her fingers through Punk’s hair, and he’d kissed the diamonds before raising his eyes to hers. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Punk was on his hands and knees again, hands on either side of her hips. “You’re welcome, Peach,” he’d replied. The shy smile she’d given him had been so fucking precious, and Punk’s heart throbbed now at the memory just as it had in the moment. Nicknames, diamond jewelry, installing a tracking app on her phone so he knew where she was at all times, and suddenly it had become more than just fucking between them. Or had it been like this since the beginning?

Forcing himself out of the memory and back into the present, his wolfish eyes gazed at the diamonds by the light of the iPad as he lowered his head, swiping his tongue along the accessory. As his cock strained against his jeans, he sat up so he could pull her shorts and panties down her legs and off, careful not to remove the strangely sexy, huge fuzzy socks on her feet. And there she was, his very favorite peach, the sweetest, tightest, goddamn prettiest pussy he’d ever seen, and that included in real life and in porn, and he got to feast on it any time he damn well pleased. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, his long body stretching out behind him, hips instantly rolling against the mattress, though it provided only a minimal amount of relief. 

He slid the tip of his nose from the bottom of her clit to the top, eyes closing as he inhaled, easily overdosing on her feminine aroma. His tongue snaked out of his mouth to replace his nose, flicking over the little nub, and then his lips wrapped around it and he sucked ever so carefully, reverently. And he didn’t regret molesting her while she slept, or tracking her whereabouts, or watching her from a dark corner to be sure she was safe and she wasn’t doing anything he deemed wrong because this cunt was worth every diabolical sin he ever had or would ever commit.

He had her dripping down his beard in no time, his dick promising to bust through his jeans at any moment as his tongue worked overtime, and she still slept, though she was becoming a bit restless. Her satiny legs moved and stretched around him, arms twisting under her pillow as her back arched, sending one of her breasts popping out the side of the sleeveless shirt. Punk smirked, nibbling her clit and reaching up to cup the bare breast, gently groping, scraping the pad of his thumb over the hardening nipple—that got him a teeny, tiny mewl, but then her body relaxed and she let out a breath and she was off to dreamland once more. Punk chuckled, hot air rushing over her soaked pussy, causing it to clench, and he was done with this fucking foreplay. He sat up on his knees, pulling the button of his jeans through its loop, lowering the zipper, and he pulled his weeping cock out, jaw clenching to keep from moaning as he gave it a few hard strokes. He could still taste her on his lips, smell her in his beard and mustache, as he reached up to expose her other breast in the same manner as its twin.

“Wore this just for Daddy, didn’t you?” Punk uttered, tweaking the nipple gingerly, and she produced a defiant whine this time, and even in her sleep, she was a goddamn brat. “Shut up,” he groused, massaging the unyielding head of his cock along her slippery slit before sliding slowly inside her tight hole, inside heaven itself.

Her spine bowed again, a complete groan escaping her lips as she tried to close her knees against the foreign intrusion, but Punk grabbed her thighs and held them apart, his dick jolting within her as he continued on. Her eyes fluttered, hands coming out from under the pillow to blindly shove at whomever was assaulting her, obviously disoriented, and Punk, always the clever predator, slammed the iPad down on its screen to extinguish the light, making it even more difficult for her to figure out what was going on. He snatched her wrists mid-air, her hands instantly making fists, and he slammed them above her head, at the same time fully immersing himself inside her. The groan he released was savage, vibrating the both of them, and he finally draped his long, hard body over hers, every muscle in his arms flexing as she fought him, his waist too close to hers for her legs to do any damage, and the more she fought, the tighter she became. He didn’t notice the vicious smile splitting his lips—and she couldn’t see anything at all in the pitch black of the hotel room—when he tucked his face into her neck, clamping his teeth onto her sleek skin. 

“Punk?” she panted, and he basked in the sensation of her nipples touching his chest every time she inhaled. “Daddy?” 

“It’s me, Peach,” he replied charmingly, as if moments ago he hadn’t been an unknown attacker, purposely darkening the room so it made it more difficult for her to figure out who was on top of her. Her legs were no longer trying to close, instead wrapping themselves around his trim waist, fuzzy socks locking at his lower back, but he refused to relinquish his vice-like grip on her wrists just yet. 

“What are you doing?” she quietly asked, finishing with a moan as Punk almost pulled his cock completely out of her cunt before thrusting back deep inside her.

“Just relax,” he coaxed. “Daddy’s using you right now.” He felt her cheek graze his as she nodded and let out a dainty breath that ghosted along his shoulder. She angled her hips, sucking Punk’s cock somehow further into her pussy, and they shared a moan. 

“I can smell my pussy on your beard,” she whispered, her lips rubbing along the salt and pepper stubble, and Punk lifted his head, their noses brushing. 

“I needed a late night snack,” Punk explained, rocking his hips into hers, her body moving in sync with his tempo. “And you know how I feel about peaches—”

His mouth covered hers, devouring her groan, and their kiss was feral, teeth-clacking, tongues wrestling, and it wasn’t about gaining dominance during something as simple as a kiss. No, it was about trying to taste her everywhere, lick her everywhere, feel every part of the inside of her mouth, memorize every tooth and taste bud. His thrusts came harder, faster, scratching that itch deep inside her as their lips moved together, perfectly in sync, her hips lifting to meet each pump. She was so fucking tight, so pretty, so trusting.

“Daddy, I’m gonna cum,” she exhaled, breaking the kiss with a lewd, wet smack. 

Punk released one of her wrists so he could quickly lift the iPad back into its propped up position, coloring the room in ever shifting, dull shades of blues and whites. Her smooth lips were parted, cut up t-shirt gathered between her bouncing breasts, and maybe he shouldn’t have killed the light in the first place. He reclaimed her wrist, her skin still heated from his earlier grip, but she slipped through his grasp, and she intertwined their fingers instead, and he told himself the gesture meant nothing, that he was too lazy to rearrange his grip. 

Whatever the reason, he let her hold his hand.

“Look at me,” Punk commanded. She shook her head, brows arching, licking her lips, and then licking them again, except this time the tip of her tongue circled her lips, tasting the remnants of her pussy juices and his spit. He preferred when she obeyed, but her defiance turned him on, too, made his balls tighten and his lower back tingle. “Fucking look at me, you stupid slut.”

She cried out, squeezing his hand, and he thought for a moment he was going to have to tell her again, but then her glazed-over eyes popped open. Their gazes met, and another shout escaped her lips before her cunt pulsated around his cock. He’d wanted to last longer, to fuck her until she begged him to stop, until she couldn’t take it anymore, until she was either in too much pain or too overstimulated to the point of crying—fuck, he loved it when she cried, tears streaming pathetically down her beautiful face while she beseeched him to stop, to please let her live—but then her cunt was milking his cock, begging in its own way for a reward for being so good to him, for him. He unloaded suddenly deep inside her, hips stuttering, breath hitching, and he felt like maybe he died a little, but he never once broke the eye contact he’d demanded, and neither did she, despite their earth-shattering orgasms.

“Oh, my god,” she sighed, blatantly satisfied, and Punk released her wrist and hand one at a time so he could support his weight with one arm at all times—under his dead weight, she’d have surely been crushed. She instantly combed her fingers through his hair, Punk’s eyes closing as her manicured nails scratched along his scalp, and if she were a wrestler, this would be her finishing move. “Thanks for waking me up,” she giggled, pressing her lips to his for a kiss that lasted minutes. Minutes. Never once did he feel the urge to pull away or feed her some excuse as to why he needed to put space between them, and if the grip she had around his neck or the rolling of her hips against his were any indications, she wouldn’t have allowed him to separate them, anyway. 

“You’re welcome,” Punk replied, catching her contagious, after-sex smile. “I hope you’re ready to go back to sleep, though. We gotta get up early.”

The following day, the couple—oh, jesus… are we a couple? Punk wondered—arrived at WWE Headquarters separately—Punk drove a rental, she always had a car service available to her—for a meeting organized by Triple H concerning the direction of the company. As CM Punk, and with a rock solid contract, he assumed the content wouldn’t have much to do with him, but his attendance was mandatory nonetheless. She was present as Paul Heyman’s protégé—the heir apparent—the future of what’s best for business. And before he made himself known to her, he watched her from afar, snapping photos as she chatted with talent, had a conversation with her father, and he even photographed her thumbs tapping away on her phone, seconds later receiving a text from her.

I know you’re here, the text said, and Punk’s eyes narrowed, glancing up at her. He was about to respond when another message came through. I can feel you watching me. 

Punk replied after a moment, sending one of the first pictures he’d taken of her so he could give her a rough idea just how long he’d been stalking her. His chartreuse eyes switched from his phone to her, standing in a corner across the room. 

She smiled upon receiving the message, chewing on her bottom lip as she quickly typed an answer. Now I’m wet, it said. 

“There’s my guy!” 

Punk glanced up at Paul Heyman as the shorter man approached him, joyful smile on his face, and then Punk’s eyes lowered to his phone once more when it vibrated.

You fucking creep, he read, hearing her taunt him in his head, her playful tone laced with lust and obscenity, and he almost reached down to adjust his tweaking dick, catching himself at the last second as Paul stood in front of him. Punk killed the screen on his phone and stuffed the device into his back pocket, crossing his sinewy, tattooed arms over his broad chest, preparing for either a famous Heyman lecture about this or that, or he was about to give Punk a sneak peek of what Triple H would shortly announce to everyone. The content didn’t matter—Punk couldn’t have cared less regardless—but he hated being interrupted, and the anger did well at suppressing his blooming arousal.

Once the actual meeting started, Punk parked his ass in the back row of chairs, sipping his coffee and scrolling his phone—it would be too risky to open that thread of messages while so many people were in such close proximity to him and could easily look over his shoulder. And then she was suddenly passing in front of him, a soft breeze of her perfume splashing across his face, and he inhaled until his lungs promised to explode, holding his breath as if the fragrance would have a mind-altering effect on him. She sat in the empty seat beside him, arching a brow as she glanced at him, a smile only for Daddy on her flawless lips.

As Triple H began speaking about whatever, Punk pretended to stretch in her direction, dropping an arm on the back of her chair. “You’re fucking killing me,” he breathed, glancing behind them as he spoke. 

She wasn’t as covert as he, simply leaning over closer to his ear as she whispered, “Sorry, Daddy.”

Punk looked at her as she pulled away, their eyes locked in yet another contest, and probably anyone who looked at them right now would be able to tell what was going on between them. There was a crackle in the ether surrounding them, tension so thick it was difficult to breathe, and although the eye contact succeeded only in further charging the air and condensing the passion between the old man and his pretty peach, neither of them broke it. Until— 

“So I want you all to give a warm welcome to Logan Paul!”

She blinked, the debauchery in her eyes from before replaced with unease and, what, fear? What had changed her mood so drastically and so quickly? He got his answer when she slowly turned her head to the podium, a snarl of disgust stealing her normally carefree smile and attitude. Punk followed her hardened gaze, watching as the douchebag “social media superstar” shook hands and hugged Triple H. Most of the people in attendance cheered or clapped, but the girl beside him looked as though she might throw up at any moment, and Punk wasn’t a fucking moron. 

“Tell me you didn’t date him,” he said, instantly wishing he could grab the spoken words and stuff them back down his throat. He hadn’t meant to say date—he didn’t care who she’d dated—he’d meant to say fuck. Because he did not care about her past boyfriends. He didn’t. She looked at him, once sparkling eyes having lost their light falling shamefully, and Punk needed to hurt someone. 

“I wouldn’t exactly call it dating,” she quietly replied.

Punk’s eyes closed and he took several deep breaths in a futile attempt to cool the raging fire within. He'd have to process her prior taste in men at a later time—the utter devastation written across the pretty girl’s normally lighthearted face had his stomach in knots and his hands clenching into fists, unclenching, and repeating. He’d never seen her this way before, not even when the two of them argued, and he placed a hand over his aching chest as a memory flashed through his brain. 

“Sorry I woke you,” she’d said, watching as he climbed on the bed so he could reach the ceiling and slay the evil eight-legged imposter that’d had her screaming for help at three in the morning.  

“What do I always tell you?” Punk had asked, balling up the paper towel with the spider carcass, hopping off the mattress.

She’d smiled, clasping her hands behind her back as she’d closed the space between them. “Daddy will always take care of me,” she’d sweetly replied.

Sweet. She was sweet. What the fuck had she even been doing with that idiot in the first place? What the fuck was she doing with him?

“I’ll take care of you,” Punk suddenly said, speaking without thinking.

Her eyes rose to his. “What?” 

“It,” Punk immediately corrected. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“… There’s nothing to take care of.” 

“I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t bother you.”

She rolled her eyes, Punk resisting the urge to smack her thigh as punishment for the offending gesture. “Just leave it alone. You don’t even …” She shook her head. “Just leave it alone. Leave it alone, leave him alone, leave …” She trailed off.

Punk’s jaw tightened. “Leave you alone?” 

“Did I fucking say that?”

Punk was silent—she hadn’t said that, but she might as well have—as he faced his body forward, again folding his arms over his chest. The two of them endured the remainder of Logan Paul’s insufferable speech, neither of them speaking again or even looking at the other. Punk didn’t really know what the heart of the argument he’d started was. Jealousy—Logan was younger, probably had more stamina, and could probably keep up with her better than Punk could. Humiliation—Was Logan really the kind of guy she was attracted to and she was just fucking Punk until she found someone better? Fear—What had the newest member of the Raw roster done to his girl in the past? Or had it been a special cocktail of all three?

When the garbled speech finally ended, Punk jumped from his chair, intent on escaping in his rented SUV, but Paul Heyman stopped him, as well as his daughter, imploring them both to meet the latest superstar. Owing a lot to Paul, Punk allowed himself to be tugged in that direction, and because she was his offspring, Punk’s little peach couldn’t find it in her heart to deny him, either. On the upside, Punk would be able to gauge the energy between her and Logan, keeping his eyes peeled for knowing smiles or blushes or lip biting.

None of which happened. Punk almost wished they had. 

“Holy shit!” Logan shouted once he laid his eyes on Miss Heyman. Punk watched her as she forced a smile but refused to make any sort of eye contact with the blonde moron. “I didn’t know you worked here!”

She blinked. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t know that,” she replied, looking everywhere but at Logan’s face.

Punk’s emerald eyes switched to the influencer as he shrugged. “I just don’t think about you, you know,” he said. Punk licked his lips, chewing the bottom one, tasting copper. “I mean, I don’t think about you in WWE.” He wasn’t trying to correct himself, and suddenly Punk’s vision was stained crimson, hands forming fists again. Who the fuck did this kid think he was? He turned his attention to the Second City Saint, extending his hand, and it took several moments for Punk to force his hand to shake Logan’s. He squeezed, hard, forbidding Logan to let go, and just as the kid’s face began to morph into worry, the girl with the dangling diamond belly button ring cleared her throat, diverting Punk’s attention and reminding him with her eyes not only who he was, but where he was. He was about to release Logan’s hand when the younger man pulled him in for a hug and whispered in his ear, “I act like I don’t remember her, but I do, and if you get the chance, you should hop on that.” Punk’s eyes glazed over, his entire body stiffening. “She’s a freak, bro.” The words were enough to set Punk’s blood boiling, but the fact that this kid just told a stranger, a coworker, that Paul Heyman’s daughter was a freak added fuel to the fire. Was he trying to impress Punk? Make a new fucking friend? And who else would he tell before he even got out of the building? Who else had he told already? 

“Ah, fuck,” Punk sighed, his momentary shock allowing Logan to remove his hand from Punk’s grasp and put some distance between them before Punk made a decision. 

“Punk.” His sweet, precious, little peach. He looked down at her, a foot, if not more, shorter than him, who loved to brush her fingers through his hair and was the reason he’d started growing it out in the first place, and he needed to hurt someone. “Don’t,” she warned, with zero conviction in her voice. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t listen, maybe she wanted him to hurt someone but she had to pretend to try and stop him. 

“What’s going on?” her father asked, making his presence known.

Punk gazed down at her, hands on his hips, and he knew very well there would be consequences for his actions, but he was prepared to face them head on. There would be consequences for her, as well, possibly, and still it wasn’t enough to hold him back. He tilted his head, pursing his lips, caressing her cheek with his thumb, fingers tickling her neck, and he turned around, stomping after Logan. He grabbed the new hire’s shoulder and spun him, Logan caught off guard, and Punk reeled back and got off a clean, hard punch to the asshole’s face. Punk followed him as he fell, straddling Logan with a knee on the floor and the other leg stretched out as he held him down with one hand and punched him repeatedly with the other. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Punk yelled, pausing the battery just so he could point at the beaten man under him. “Not one more goddamn word about her.” The hand holding Logan down went to his throat, and his voice was somehow much calmer than before. “Do you understand me?” Gentler still. 

“What the fuck, bro?” Logan yelled, doing his best to fight back, but Punk had gained the upper hand early and never released it. 

“I’m not your bro. Son. Stay the hell away from her. And keep her name out of your dumb fucking mouth.”

Punk finally climbed off him. Adrenaline surged through his veins, masking any pain, but he knew Logan had gotten a few lucky punches in while defending himself, though any bruises or black eyes were the least of his concerns. As he searched the surrounding crowd for the entire reason for his outburst, his heart accelerated when he realized she was nowhere to be found. Had she really left? He thought maybe she’d want to watch him beat someone’s ass for real, but evidently he was wrong. And as his eyes passed over the various attendees, he came to Paul Heyman who was still standing nearby, eyeing him suspiciously, and oh, that’s probably why she hadn’t stuck around.

Punk sighed, carding his fingers through his hair in case it had been mussed during the fight, and he wished it were her hands fixing his hair. “Paul,” he said.

Paul watched Punk a moment, Punk massaging his throbbing hand. “Punk,” he  eventually said, passing his old client without another look. Punk wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but since it was his life, he figured it would be bad.

Only capable of handling one problem at a time, Punk chose the most important. As Triple H was headed his way, Punk slithered throughout the crowd, bobbing and weaving, successfully escaping WWE Headquarters without being stopped. Shaking his throbbing hand, Punk drove quickly and erratically back to the hotel, having no idea what he might find when he got there. Would she be in their room? Did she book another hotel? Was she on her way to the airport to board a fucking jet? 

“Goddamn it,” he exhaled. No answers, only more questions. What other influencers had she slept with? Celebrities? Younger men she could compare him to? 

Fuck, he clearly wasn’t built for a relationship, much less a relationship with a woman twenty years younger than him, but he still pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the hotel they’d stayed in. He still took the elevator to their floor and he still jogged down the hallway to the correct door. He remembered making this trip the night prior, how excited he’d been, how amazing it had turned out, neither of them having any idea what was in store for them the next day. He pulled the key card out of his pocket, paused briefly, and inserted it, dropping his forehead against the door when the light turned red. He tried again just for the hell of it with the same result, and he tossed the useless card over his shoulder. 

“Peach,” Punk said. “Sweetheart, you in there?”

Silence. 

“I, uh—” He chuckled, though nothing about this was even remotely funny. “Look, I’m not sorry for kicking that kid’s ass. He had it comin’.”

Silence. 

“What did you want me to do?” Punk asked, hands on the doorframe. “He was gonna tell—”

The door opened without warning. “You don’t know that, old man!” his sweet peach yelled. “And now we’ll never know!” 

“Okay,” Punk said, holding a hand up, smiling at the sheer audacity of the entire situation, at her thinking that loser wouldn’t tell more people what he’d told Punk, or something worse. A smile that dropped instantly when she shoved him backward, heels of her hands on his chest, sending him stumbling into the hallway. 

“But you just couldn’t help yourself,” she went on. “And now my dad’s gonna know about us!”

Punk looked at her a moment before stomping across the hall, bound to enter the room and force her to have a conversation instead of a screaming match, but once he was close enough, he felt the smack before he even saw her hand. His cheek exploded, a surprising amount of power inside this tiny girl, and he lost his balance but was able to turn in a circle instead of face-planting. As he came around to face her again, opposite hand cradling his stinging cheek, lopsided smirk tilting his beard and mustache, he started inside again. She was able to close the heavy door before he could cross the threshold, turning the deadbolt even though she didn’t have to. The lock clicking heavily into place seemed to echo throughout his brain, Punk laughing again, however inappropriately, and he pounded on the door more out of irritation than anything else. Here he was, an old fucking man, too tired and, well, old for this shit, but he was still making an effort, trying to talk through things when he otherwise would have just said fuck it and been on his way. He was going to have to accept sooner rather than later that his life would be very different from here on out.

Maybe, he thought. If she ever opens the goddamn door!

Punk sighed, his body rolling along the door as he put his back to it before sliding down until his ass met the hard, ugly carpet he swore was the same at every hotel he’d ever been to. He scratched at his beard, wincing from the slap a moment ago, and he wondered whether his skin would simply redden or if he’d wake tomorrow morning with a light bruise. Arching a brow, he glanced down the hallway upon hearing the elevator ding, the sound almost as loud as the deadbolt separating him from his peach. The one thing that could have made Punk’s day even worse rounded the corner, Paul Heyman strolling toward him, a savvy smile on his robust face. Punk bent his knees, resting his elbows on them, and he raised a hand to wave. 

“Paul,” he greeted.

Paul came to a stop a few feet away and leaned on the wall in front of his old client. “Punk,” he said. He nodded at the door Punk rested against. “What are you doing outside my daughter’s room?” 

Punk’s mouth clamped shut and he averted his gaze. He should have been man enough to own up to what he’d been doing to Paul’s daughter, what they’d been doing together, but he clammed up and said nothing. Fucking coward. You’re not good enough for her.

Paul breathed a soft laugh, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “I remember when I heard you guys fighting at the Christmas party,” he casually confessed. Punk’s eyes widened as he gaped at the hideous carpet. “I think she … wanted to dance with you, right?” After a moment, Punk nodded. “But you didn’t want to because … What was your reason again?”

Punk scratched at his eyebrow with his thumb, and his cheeks weren’t red just from Miss Heyman’s slap. He cleared his throat, shaking his head, and he ultimately looked up at Paul. “Uh … at the time, Paul, I didn’t want anyone to find out about us.” 

“Right,” Paul shrugged, “but for some reason, today was okay for everyone to find out? With the added bonus of a fist fight.” 

“Look—” 

“Stop,” Paul interrupted. “Of course I don’t want you dating my daughter. My daughter is too good for you.” 

“I don’t disagree.” 

“I said shut up. But I looked the other way because I’ve never, in all her life, seen her as happy as she’s been with you.” Punk’s stomach sloshed. “So you—” The round man leaned over and pointed at Punk, his bulging eyes like two tiny pyro flames. “—need to fix this.” 

“What do you think I’m doin’ here, Paul?” Punk seethed, gesturing at his surroundings. 

“Looks like you’re sitting on your ass pouting,” Paul snapped. “Stand up. Be the man my daughter deserves.” Punk nodded, and was this what shame felt like? “What are you waiting for? Get up!”

Punk chuckled, climbing to his feet, brushing off his jeans self-consciously. “Thanks, Paul,” he said. Paul only glared at Punk before turning and heading back toward the elevator. Suddenly Punk heard the deadbolt release, and he spun around to face the door as it opened, though, at the last second, he took a step back. She stood there, eyes burning much like her father’s had. “You’re not gonna hit me again, are you?” he asked. Her frown twitched, and he considered it a victory to still be able to charm her. 

“You liked it,” she said. Punk’s own smirk grew, green eyes brightening, and he nodded. “I heard you talking to my dad.” Punk nodded again, and who had really done the enchanting here? Her beauty, even while angry, was unmatched, her pretty scent infiltrating his senses, and he thought for sure this time he’d end up stoned. “So how do you plan on fixing it?”

Punk pretended to weigh his options, eyes looking about as he thought. “I thought maybe you could sit on my face for … at least an hour.”

Her jaw worked, but that adorable smile of hers was starting to bleed through even more. “How do you actually plan on fixing it?”

Punk gripped the doorframe and leaned inside the room, drawing her eyes to his biceps despite being covered by a white hoodie. Her scent became stronger, her pupils grew larger, and Punk decided he wanted to fight with this girl and only this girl for the rest of his life. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied, “but I thought we could start with a dance.”

Her blossoming smile melted as she swallowed. “What?”

Punk extended his hand, palm up, and she let only a brief moment pass before she placed her hand in his. He took a few steps backward, into the hallway, and she followed, eyes glassy while watching his face closely. Punk locked her gaze with his as he pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing down momentarily to find the correct app and locate a song they’d be able to dance to. He pressed play before tucking the device away once more, taking a deep breath when their eyes met, and he took her other hand, so tiny in comparison to his, so soft, lifting both of them to his shoulders. The tips of his fingers danced up her arms and down her sides, grinning at the tightening of her muscles where he knew her tickle spot to be, landing heavily on her hips.

He turned them in a slow circle, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, and he wished he’d done this at Christmas. Her in her sexy green dress and heels, the stockings with the seams up the back … fucking idiot, he berated himself. No one would have suspected them of having a connection that went beyond just dancing—he knew that now, he’d known it then—but why had it mattered? He was an adult and she was an adult, which made their ages irrelevant, and, oh, by the way, he’d never given a fuck what people thought about him or the things he did, so why did he care when it came to her? 

“I’m sorry for slapping you,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulders, one hand sneaking to the back of his neck. Punk tilted his head with a small shrug, and she finally, finally, smiled—a full smile, like he could see every single one of her teeth, and he determined at that moment to make it his life’s goal to keep this smile on her face for as long as he was able. “But …”

Punk’s brows rose, thin lips forming an O. “You liked it, too, didn’t you?”

Her eyes were downcast then, remaining long enough that Punk truly thought she was humiliated by the newly discovered kink, but then her gaze lifted to meet his, and they were fucking black and consumed by hunger and filth and him. Her ability to flip a switch with her moods might have irritated other men, but Punk welcomed it—he enjoyed the surprise of not knowing which princess he was going to get on any given day. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, rising to her tip toes. “Possibly.” Her silky lips brushed his as she breathed, “Perhaps.” The kiss she gave him couldn't even be described as a peck—so gentle, so goddamn elegant—because he wasn’t sure he’d felt it at all. His hands glided from her hips to her back, easily covering the expanse, pulling her closer to him. “But also definitely.”

Punk’s smile had enough energy to power an entire country until the end of time. “Wanna do it again?” he purred.

“Actually I do,” she replied. “But first thing's first … you need to go down to the front desk.” She tossed a thumb over her shoulder. “We're locked out.”

TAGS: @southerngirl41 @femdisa @riverina69 @rollinssection @paramedicnerd004 @mandmilovehim @brianochka @yourmommyagone22 @sweetmoonlove0214 @partypoison00 @missbmc94 @lils2795 @aureliacorvina @magicalbuttertarts @madimcg14 @thealliasylum @lov3rla03 @plaidpajamallama @deansimpala @there-goes-thefighter @themarvelousmaks @xkittypunkerx @sarlaccussy @infamousvampcx @princesstiti14

[onlyangel4]

smile for the camera. cm punk.

cm punk x social media admin!reader

synopsis: the brand new quirky social media admin should get on cm punk's nerves, however he can't help but find her a breath of fresh air.

faceclaim: devon lee carlson

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y/ninsta posted a story

written: bringing rhearipley_wwe a coffee so she doesn't get pissed off by my silly little questions.

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"hi pookie fancy answering some questions for a tik tok", you spoke as you looked over at cm punk leant up against the wall.

if it was anyone else asking the answer would have been who the fuck are you calling pookie, go annoy someone else i have a match to prepare for. but as it was you asking that all came out as, "of course babygirl"

a light blush dusted your cheeks at the nickname, you just hoped that punk wouldn't notice it. but of course he did.

you smiled pulling your phone out of your pocket, cm instantly noticed the cute red cherry phone case that matched your manicured nails, could your vibe be any more opposite to his.

your nails tapped against the screen pulling tik tok up and getting ready to film, "these are very stupid questions that have nothing to do with wrestling at all"

"i wouldn't expect anything else from you"

you held your phone out clicking record.

"so i'm here with mr cm punk and he is going to answer MY pressing questions", you spoke with a smile on your lips

"let's start off with an easy one. would you rather fight 100 duck sized drew mcintyres or one drew mcintrye sized duck"

punk burst out laughing, "that's the easy one?", you nod from behind the camera

"i think one drew mcintrye would fight better than drew mcintyre and actually challenge me, that would be a good match", it was your turn to giggle.

"i thought you would pick the other option so you could just step on drew mcintrye 100 times"

"okay next question, If you were a dog, what breed would you be? I think you'd be a grumpy bulldog, but like… a cute one."

punk cocked an eyebrow at that question and just laughed, "do you ask everyone these same questions"

"yeah i accidentally called dom a chihuahua once, he won't be in my content anymore"

"that's my girl", punk smirked, "i like to think i'd be a german shepherd or something but you are probably right"

"and last one, if i made friendship bracelets for the entire locker room would you wear it?"

"i'd be jealous that everyone else got one, i thought what we have is special"

"sorry punkie i've got other bitches", you laughed before cutting the video and putting your phone back in your pocket.

"thank you for that, i know they are silly but i like filming content like that"

"if you like it, that makes it not silly", he spoke to you giving you a genuine smile, as a crew member approached telling him it was almost time for him to go on.

"i'll see you later alright, darling", he said smiling.

"i better get that friendship bracelet the next time i see you", he called over his shoulder.

y/ninsta

liked by rhearipley_wwe, americannightmarecody, cmpunk and 321,892 others

tagged: cmpunk, rhearipley_wwe, americannightmarecody and wwerollins

y/ninsta: happy rumble day to those that celebrate. enjoy a photo dump from the last few weeks

view all 17,283 comments

rhearipley_wwe: that picture of me is awful

y/ninsta: gonna make it my lockscreen

cmpunk: i see you are giving people the content they deserve

y/ninsta: i'm the people's princess

wwerollins: i'm this close to sending you a cease and desist

y/ninsta: i won't read it

user1: and this is why we love y/n

user2: y/n should not be their media manager the content is awful

y/ninsta: and what communications degree do you have? liked by cmpunk

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the men's rumble had just finished and you had just gotten done filming a video of both charlotte and jey together, something a little bit more professional than you were used to but it had gone well.

this had not been the outcome that you had really wanted. you loved jey like a brother but you knew how much winning the rumble meant to punk. when you were touring you would often swing by his hotel room and just sit and chat with him for hours. he had become one of your best friends in the sport, your personalities bounced off each other perfectly and he didn't think that you were weird or anything. he just liked spending time with you and you liked spending time with him. so of course you were a little disappointed for him but you knew that he would come back better than ever.

after leaving the room that you had been in with charlotte and jey you reached a traffic jam, a whole group of worried looking crew members stood around triple h. you found stephanie and walked over to her, "what is going on?"

"punk won't leave the room, we heard crashing and he won't let anyone in", she spoke brow furrowed with worry.

"can i try?", you asked cautiously

"you can try"

you took a careful step forward to the door knocking on it.

"fuck off", punk called out from the other side of the door.

"it's me", you spoke voice gentle but firm. and for a moment nothing happened and you were sure that you were going to be ignored like everyone else but the lock of the door clicked.

"come in y/n", he spoke voice sounding broken.

you looked at steph who nodded at you telling you to go in, so you opened the door and stepped into the threshold.

you looked around the room seeing that he had tossed tables upside down and even shattered a few glasses, "i see you have been redecorating"

that comment received a soft laugh from punk as he looked at you, "i thought i had that win in the bag", he spoke running a hand over his face.

"i know", you spoke as you moved to him placing your hands on his shoulders, "but this is not the last wrestlemania ever, there will be other ones"

"and what i don't main event them"

"then you are still fucking cm punk, i don't what you have heard but you are kind of a legend in the community", you spoke and he laughed, properly this time.

"how do you always know what to say"

"i just say whatever stupid thing comes in my head", you said truthfully and he looked down at you.

"it is not stupid at all, you are smarter than you know", he spoke his eyes lingering on your lips for a moment.

and that was when it happened. he pressed the softest of kisses to your lips, it was as if he was worried that he may scare you away.

but you weren't scared at all. you kissed him back softly even deepening it before you slowly pulled away to look at him.

"was that okay?"

"that was more than okay"

and that was how you ended up dating cm punk.

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y/ninsta posted a story

written: my second ever ple omg

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catering was so busy, everyone may not be partaking in the elimination chamber but pretty much every superstar on both brands were at the chamber. ples were massive events for the community and everyone tried to get to attend as many as possible, even if they were just going to be watching for backstage.

punk was currently waiting for you to come and join him for lunch. you walked into catering but you got distracted by tiffany and trish calling your name calling you over to talk about something. punk didn't mind he was used to your easily distracted nature.

what he did not like was the conversation that errupted next to him between grayson waller and austin theory.

"man i don't even know how she got hired", theory started

"i barely understand a word that ever leaves her mouth, she must be a stray hunter picked up on the side of the road", waller continued and both men started laughing obnoxiously and cm punk glared at them.

"what you looking at punk", waller spoke.

"just two idiots", punk continued

"i'm surprised you too get on, she talks way too modern for an old timer like you", waller continued digging his own grave.

"she may say slay a lot but she is a hell of a lot more interesting than you two", he spoke and shoved waller's shoulder causing waller to shove him back.

the rest of catering began realising that a fight was about to break out.

punk got one hard right hand punch to waller's face before cody forced himself between both of the men. with cody's distraction you grabbed punk's arm, "what the fuck are you doing getting in fights", you whisper shouted at the man as you pulled him down a random hallway.

"they were talking about you"

"you got in a fight because someone said something bad about me"

he nodded

"that's kinda hot"

and in that moment punk realised that it didn't matter whether he won the chamber or not. he had you and that was all that mattered.

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cmpunk

liked by y/ninsta, rhearipley_wwe, americannightmarecody and 792,634 others

tagged: y/ninsta

cmpunk: may not have won the chamber but i'm happier than ever

view all 21,328 comments

y/ninsta: love you pookie

cmpunk: are you ever going to stop calling me that

y/ninsta: never

rhearipley_wwe: got yourself a good one there mate

cmpunk: oh i am well aware

user3: omg i could have never predicted this ever

user4: her and larry is the cutest thing ever

user5: i know they are so different but this kind of just makes sense to me

[ellswritings]

In My Corner

Part 1, (Part 2), (Part 3), (Part 4)

Phil Brooks/CM Punk x reader

Colby Lopez/Seth Rollins x reader

TW: Angst, Shield betrayal, Dean leaving WWE, Vince being manipulative (very brief), that’s it for now :).

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

It didn’t make sense.

It has been over a decade since Y/S/N and CM Punk have been partners. The two of them took WWE by storm. Not only as singles competitors, but as a mixed tag team as well. They fought many battles side by side and they fit quite well together despite the eight year age difference.

They had each other's backs constantly, in kayfabe and outside of it. Phil and Y/N’s characters were close and so were they. Due to the close nature of their stories, they spent thousands and thousands of hours together. They were what peanut butter is to jelly, what butter is to popcorn, they just meshed seamlessly.

Until Phil left the company.

She never blamed him for the decision. If she had the same level of courage he did at the time, she probably would’ve left too. But she had fought tooth and nail to get to the top. She had battled her way through the indies after her time in OVW and when she finally got to try out, it had finally felt like every sacrifice she made was worth it.

So when things got bad between management and Phil, she didn’t know what to do. Y/N knew Phil was right. Everyone knew. But no one was brave enough to say anything except him. She couldn’t give up everything she had built. She loved wrestling and the thought of never being able to do it again terrified her.

So despite her better judgment, she kept quiet. She remained on the main roster while Phil left the company. It broke her heart watching him walk out of the ring for the last time. Especially since he cut all contact with everyone due to legal reasons. The only issue is when he could contact everyone again, he never reached out to her.

Y/N understood why. She left him high and dry. But they were best friends. She tried to apologize multiple times but never heard back. She can’t lie, it did make her a bit bitter. But she kept her focus on her career and the new friends she had made.

The fans missed her mixed tag matches. They loved her as a singles competitor and they still do, but they missed when she had a partner to fight along with. And that’s when Vince had the bright idea to place her with the most popular faction in the company.

The Shield.

Joe, Colby, and Jonathan welcomed Y/N with open arms. She brought a certain balance to their chaotic group while simultaneously adding to it at the same time. They grew close in a very short amount of time, the three of them being there for her in the absence of Phil. She vented her frustrations to them, her anger at Phil for leaving and simply never reaching out again. Like their friendship meant nothing.

They were all angry for her. None of them could understand how Brooks could just never speak to her again. Y/N had to be one of the best if not the best person in the locker room, inside and out. It didn’t make sense how he could walk away and never try to hear her side of things.

So the three men became fiercely protective of her, and she them. They worked as a unit, cohesive in every way. In the beginning, Y/N was worried being a part of a team like this would remind her of Phil, but The Shield was vastly different. The aspect of teamwork was the same, of course, but the way they operated was different from how she and Phil did. Neither of them being worse or better than the other, just different. She never forgot how much she missed the Second City Saint, but being with her boys distracted her enough that missing him wasn’t as painful anymore.

The Shield stood on business. They were as close on screen as they were backstage. Jokes ran through the locker room and through the fans that Y/N was the unofficial “leader” of the faction despite her late entry into the group. It made them laugh because they never really thought or cared enough to determine who would be in charge. She does tend to cut more promos than they guys but that’s simply because she has the gift of gab. She could keep an audience captivated with her words for hours. Perhaps that’s where the misconception came in. But they all did their part. She just happened to talk more than them on some days.

Y/N loved standing with them at ringside during their matches and they loved standing with her. They easily became four of the most adored people in WWE. Y/N remembers a particular show where they were in Houston Texas and more than half the stadium was sporting some form of their merchandise.

They were on fire.

So it came as a surprise when the writers and Vince pitched the idea to break up the group through Colby’s character Seth Rollins. They were all rather heartbroken over the news, but the angle they were playing at was that they wanted to push all four of them more as singles competitors because of how popular they became over such a short time period. Y/N was already on track to go after the Divas championship and it wouldn’t be hard to push the guys to win their own titles too.

However, the way they went about splitting up the group had to sting worst of all. Seth had to defect from the group to join the Authority by hitting Roman in the back with a steel chair and beating Dean down as well. Y/S/N wouldn’t be out in the ring for the beginning of the segment, only running out when she sees what’s happening. Once Dean and Roman are on the floor, she would slide in the ring and shield them with herself as a lasting symbol of what The Shield stood for.

Once Seth sees her, he’s supposed to look conflicted, still having a soft spot for the woman they adopted into the group after being abandoned by her old partner. It came a lot easier for Colby than he thought. To appear distraught and at war with himself. He knew that the breaking up of this group would mean they wouldn’t get to spend as much time together, and when they did it would most likely be through feuds. He had grown attached to Y/N and the guys. It was scary thinking of going on without them, but they all agreed this would be the best for all of their careers.

Still didn’t make losing their built-in family hurt any less.

For storyline purposes, Y/S/N sided with Roman and Dean. She protected them when the Authority or Seth came after them. She was very vocal about her feelings for Seth Rollins after the betrayal which led to many verbal battles in the ring. But backstage, the four of them were all still very close. Things did take a turn for the worse though when Vince started inserting himself in the writing. Whenever Y/N and Colby would be out there, he would always put something a little extra personal in the script to make the words sting even more. Neither of them were sure how Vince even knew about some of the things he would write in, but they always performed to the best of their ability.

There was one night that hit a little harder than Y/N had expected. She didn’t know about the last minute change, the excuse being they wanted to see her “genuine reaction.” Colby had no idea she hadn’t been told, but even then he was still hesitant to say what was written, but Vince assured him Y/N was fine with it.

How stupid he was to fall for that.

The way her face fell when the words left his mouth still haunts him. He should have known better. As soon as he read it, he should have went to Y/N. He should have asked her, not just taken Vince’s word.

The arena was rumbling — the kind of vibration you felt in your chest, not just your ears. Seth Rollins was already in the ring, microphone in hand, pacing slow, that familiar smug grin pulling at his mouth as the crowd hurled boos and scattered cheers his way.

Then Y/N’s music hit.

The place exploded.

She strode out onto the stage with a smirk, rolling her shoulders loose, the heavy leather jacket slung over her frame. She walked with that same cool confidence she always carried to the ring — chin high, shoulders square, eyes locked on Seth.

In the ring, Seth watched her like a lion waiting to pounce. As soon as Y/N slid under the ropes, he gave her an exaggerated slow clap.

“Ah, there she is,” Seth drawled, leaning casually against the ropes. “The queen herself.” His eyes flicked up and down, unapologetically lingering. “Looking sharp tonight, Y/S/N. Guess you do clean up nice.”

Y/N smirked, rolling her shoulders back as she slid into the ring. “Careful, Rollins. Keep talking sweet and people are gonna think you’re soft.”

He laughed, pushing off the ropes to circle her. “Oh, trust me — no one’s ever called me soft.”

Their eyes locked, a familiar heat sparking between them — the kind that wasn’t quite hate but was too sharp to be called friendship.

“Yeah, well, most people wouldn’t call turning on your family ‘strong,’” she fires back angrily. “So you’re right, maybe soft isn’t the right word to describe someone like you.” She takes a step forward, getting in his face. “I think coward is a lot more fitting.”

Ooooh! the crowd roared.

Seth’s grin twitched wider. He turned his back to her, pacing lazily across the ring. “Funny,” he said, voice light, “you talk like you’re some loyal warhorse. But you’ve always had a bad habit of jumping ship, haven’t you?”

Her smirk tightened. Careful, she thought.

Seth turned to face her fully now, eyes glinting under the lights. “I mean, sure — you’ve got Roman, you’ve got Dean… the great Shield family reunion. But let’s not pretend you were always riding with the best.”

Y/N’s grip on the mic shifted. There was a flicker of something in her chest — a tiny warning bell.

Seth tilted his head as if gauging her reaction. “Y’know, you’ve always been good at running that mouth of yours.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near purr. “It’s almost impressive, really. But it’s nothing new, is it?”

Y/N’s brow ticked, the playful glint in her eyes flickering just slightly.

Seth’s smirk deepened. “You’ve always been good at talking big, standing tall. Just like your old pal…”

He let the name hang, savoring the moment.

“C… M… Punk.”

A ripple rolled through the arena — the crowd caught between shock and thrill. They don’t mention Punk often, or at all really. No one talked about him in the ring, and his name was only brought up backstage when they knew Vince or one of his lackeys wouldn’t hear. Y/N’s heart skipped, her smile tightening as she tried to mask the jolt running through her.

Seth circled closer, his voice sharpening, playful edge twisting into something colder. “You remember him, right? The guy who carried you through your rookie days? Who gave you a shot when no one else would?” He chuckled under his breath. “Guess some things never change — you’re still riding coattails. Only difference is, Punk knew when to bail.”

For a split second, everything inside Y/N stalled.

That wasn’t in the script.

Her heart hammered once — twice — a hard thud against her ribs.

She masked it fast, forcing a tilt of her head, a cool smile. “Careful, Seth,” she said softly, even though her fingers had gone cold around the mic.

But Seth had already stepped in. Already smelled the blood. “You remember him, don’t you?” he murmured, almost tenderly. “The man you stood beside. The one you built your name with. Until things got messy. Until walking away was easier.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the mic.

“And when it all fell apart — when he fell apart — you didn’t stand by him, Y/S/N. You didn’t fight for him. You watched him walk out that door, and you stayed.”

The audience noise was dipping, unsure, waiting.

Y/N’s throat worked, but she held the mic steady. Her mind raced — what the hell?

But Seth leaned in now, voice dropping, knife twisting. “He carried you on his back for years… and you repaid him by surviving without him. Guess that’s what you do best — survive anyone who outgrows you.” An evil chuckle escaped his lips, not realizing Y/N isn’t pretending. “Tell me… did it ever dawn on you that Punk never left WWE… he left you.”

Colby could tell that Y/N’s reaction wasn’t acting. He watched as tears began to border at her waterline. He had just rubbed salt in a wound that he, Joe, and Jonathan spent thousands of hours trying to help her heal. They had at least five more minutes of back and forth before she had to snap and attack him, but they never made it that far.

Y/N’s jaw ticked and suddenly the tears were replaced with anger. Instead of responding and continuing the promo, she marched out of the ring without so much as a glance back at him.

He knew at that point she had no idea that was added to the script. Joe and Jonathan had been watching backstage, attempting to catch Y/N before she stormed off to the locker room. She stormed through gorilla into the backstage area. Joe tried to grab her, “Y/N–”

“Don’t,” she pulls her body away from him and Jonathan before trudging over to the women’s locker room, slamming the door behind her.

From that moment on, everything felt a lot more personal. She had heard Colby out who apologized profusely for what had happened but it didn’t change the fact that Y/N was now aware of how deep Vince was willing to cut her to get a good pop.

Everything played out the way they wanted it to. Y/S/N won the Divas championship, Seth won the money in the bank and cashed in at Wrestlemania which cost Roman his title opportunity, Roman eventually got the title, and so did Dean. They were all pushed very hard despite being broken up as a group.

Over the years, storylines kept Joe and Y/N close with one another. She still went out of her way to be around Jonathan and Colby, but it was hard when they couldn’t interact as much. It also became much more difficult to connect with Colby on the level they used to after Vince started using his dialogue as a way to personally go after Y/N.

They both hated the circumstances but there was nothing either of them could do. So all Y/N did was grow tougher skin. It’s all part of the show. However, it did affect their relationship slightly. She still loved the man, but the newly formed tension always seemed to linger over them.

As time went on, their small group fractured even more when Jonathan decided to leave WWE. It was an absolute heartbreaking loss for Joe, Y/N, and Colby, but they understood why he needed to go. Over the past couple of years, the three of them had a lot more opportunities offered to them than Jonathan and he deserves more than what he was getting.

They stayed connected, but seeing each other became rare. Then when the writers proposed the Bloodline storyline with Roman and his family, Y/N knew how big that was going to be. She could see Joe leading a whole faction made up of just his family.

Until it wasn’t just his family.

Roman and Y/S/N had stayed close, done mixed tag matches, supported each other in the squared circle always. So it shouldn’t have surprised Y/N as much as it did when Joe came up to her and said he convinced Vince and the writers to include her in the Bloodline.

She didn’t understand why he wanted her, but the only thing he said was that he needed his best friend with him. That he didn’t want to lead a faction without her in it. That she was his family just as much as the rest of them.

So how could she say no?

For years Roman led the Bloodline as the Original Tribal Chief and Y/S/N stayed by his side. She fought her battles and their battles with all her heart and soul and the group ran the WWE roster. Some days Y/N would miss working closely with Colby, but she knew he didn’t need her. Not as much as Joe did.

She was almost the voice of reason for the Bloodline. The only one who could get Solo to grin without having to coax him to do it. The only person to keep Jey level headed, and the only one to continuously make jokes with Jimmy without getting on anyone’s nerves. And the most important feat of all is that she could get Roman to listen to her.

Paul Heyman was extremely grateful to have her fight the battles he wasn’t able to. When he couldn’t get the boys under control, Y/N could. Many have stepped up to their little family, and many have fallen. The only person who Y/S/N didn’t fight when they approached the Bloodline was Sami Zayn. He was a perfect fit. He brought a certain lightheartedness they all needed.

For years they helped Roman stay on top. Through the Covid era and multiple hard times, they stuck together. Unfortunately, as both Joe and Y/N have learned, nothing good seems to last. It wasn’t a surprise when it was suggested the Bloodline be broken up. Especially when Cody Rhodes came back into the picture. They had been together for a long time so it’s true the storyline started to get relatively stale.

One by one the members of the original Bloodline defected. Some came back for brief stents before taking off again. Every one of them betrayed Roman. It was, of course, to add drama to Kayfabe, but it still hurt to watch them all leave. The only two people who stuck by Roman’s side were Y/S/N and Paul Heyman.

Y/S/N made it clear from the beginning she never trusted Paul, but she did what Roman deemed as necessary. Joe and Y/N spent a lot of time together, their friendship becoming the strongest it’s ever been. Both of them held the WWE undisputed championships for their respective divisions, ruling the company with an iron fist even if they didn’t have a complete family to back them up.

However, when Survivor Series 2023 came around, Y/N was placed on Bianca Belair’s team, a close friend in and out of the ring, to fight against Damage CTRL. The two teams had been practicing their bumps for weeks, Joe even helping Y/N with some of her more difficult stunts that could seriously injure someone if not delivered correctly. She’s one of the few people Paul Levesque trusts to do the more risky moves because he knows how careful she is and how much time she’ll put in to making sure everything goes smoothly.

Bianca’s team ended up winning the battle, putting Damage CTRL in their place. The ladies were kind enough to allow Y/N to get the pin, winning the match. It was one of the best moments of her career. Hearing the pop from the audience as the five of them climb up the cage, celebrating at the top with wide smiles on their faces.

Running to the back, the first people to greet her in celebration were Joe and Colby. The latter of the two competed with Cody’s team a bit later, but he couldn’t resist watching his close friend opening the show.

“You killed it out there,” Joe says, squeezing her tightly. “I told you you’d land that corkscrew moonsault off the cage.”

“You sure you don’t have a background in Lucha?” Colby says with a teasing eyebrows as he hugs her.

“I feel like my face is buzzing,” Y/N replies, face buried in his chest. “I could probably lift a car right now.”

“Let’s not do that,” Joe pats her back, him and Colby laughing quietly.

The night went on without much issues. Y/N and Joe remained backstage. She was surprised he even came considering he wasn’t fighting tonight, but she wasn’t going to complain about having his support. When the main event came around, Y/N made her support of Cody and Colby’s team known. Especially since Joshua was on it. Joe made conversation with some other people backstage as the match continued.

Y/N smiles as Randy Orton makes his way to Gorilla, getting ready to make his big entrance. The two of them share a brief hug and quiet conversation before his music hit and he went out to join the rest of his team. Of course, Cody’s team beats the Judgement Day and Drew McIntyre, but in the midst of the celebration, a familiar static flooded the speakers in the arena.

Y/N’s blood ran cold. She had heard rumors he may come back, but she never thought it would actually happen. The woman turns on her heel and comes face to face with a man she hasn’t seen in over a decade. His familiar green eyes meet hers. It’s brief, but a whole parade of emotions crosses his face. Hurt, betrayal, remembrance, sadness, love. Y/N’s sure her expression mimics his. It was only a mere few seconds before he walked out to make his triumphant return, but in those few seconds it feels like Y/N’s entire world stopped.

Phil Brooks is back.

CM Punk has defied all odds. Hell froze over. He made it clear he would never come back. But here he is in the flesh, turning Y/N’s entire life upside down.

“Y/N…” Joe’s soft voice calls out, his hand grabbing her shoulder softly. He didn’t see everything that happened, only that she was frozen.

She’s torn out of her trance as she looks back up at her best friend, “He’s here,” her voice comes out in a whisper. “I didn’t– I didn’t think…”

“I know,” he says softly, pulling her into him.

“Did you know?” Y/N asks quietly, allowing him to hold her.

“I heard some rumors, but I didn’t think anything of it,” he admits. “If I’d have known, you’re the first person I would have told.”

“He looked right at me,” she says quietly, looking down at the floor. “Joe, I– I haven’t even spoken to him since he left.”

“And you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he tells her, lifting her chin up with his finger. “You don’t have to talk to him. You don’t owe him anything. You tried to reach out, remember? He ignored you. Him being back doesn’t change anything.”

“But that’s not true,” Y/N tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. That’s when the sound of everyone from the final fight comes barreling through the curtain to join everyone else backstage. Joe pulls them aside so they’re not in anyone’s way. “This changes everything. Especially if he starts bringing up the past.”

“And if he does, I’ll be right behind you,” he reassures her.

That’s when Colby comes charging towards them, an irritated look on his face. He looks like he’s about to tear into someone, but that’s when he notices the panic on Y/N’s face, and the angry rant he was about to go on disappears from his mind. A small exhale leaves his lips as he grabs Y/N’s hand. “Are you okay?”

Y/N nods, but her eyes travel over to Phil who’s standing next to Randy and Paul Levesque as everyone begins to welcome him back. “Just a bit surprised is all,” she admits.

“Surprised is one word for it…” Colby grumbles before glancing up at Joe, “Did Heyman know?” He asks, eyes still blazing with barely contained fury. “He’s got eyes and ears everywhere and I know damn well he would have told you of all people the second he found out.”

“He just told me there were talks of him wanting to come back,” Joe says, a scowl forming on his face at Colby’s tone. “There was never a confirmation. They must’ve kept it quiet.”

“How convenient,” Colby scoffs. “Guess that little rat of yours isn’t as helpful as we all thought.”

“Guys,” Y/N stops them, her eyes still flickering over to the corner where her old friend stands. “He’s here. He’s signed. Fighting over who knows what isn’t going to change it.”

“I haven’t worked my ass off for the past ten years just for him to waltz back in here and try to take all the glory,” Colby says angrily. “I looked up to that asshole once upon a time. But he’s hurt too many people I care about and shit on this company for far too long. He doesn’t get to just come back and act like he’s helped build this into what it is today.”

Y/N watched the anger rise in Colby like a tide he couldn’t hold back. His fists were clenched, jaw tight. She knew this part of him well — not the performer, but the friend who felt things too deeply and hated when people he loved got hurt.

“I know,” she said gently. “Trust me, I know. But we can’t change that he’s back. All we can control is what we do from here.”

Colby looked at her, then at Joe. He opened his mouth to say something, but the roar of the crowd from the arena still echoed faintly through the concrete halls, and it was enough to make him pause. Instead, he just nodded — not in agreement, but in understanding.

Joe took a slow breath beside them, his voice low. “What do you want to do, Y/N?”

“I want to breathe,” she whispered. “I need to clear my head before I do something stupid. Like confront him while my heart’s still racing.”

Colby moved in front of her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Then we’ll get you out of here. He’s doing his welcome-back rounds with the suits and the veterans. He won’t notice if you slip away.”

Y/N’s head nods along with his words, her mind telling her to walk away, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from him. The man she once loved more than anything in the world is standing just a mere few feet away. He’s surrounded by executives and legends and people who used to mean something to them both. He looked a little older, a little worn around the edges, but those eyes — they were the same.

And then suddenly they were looking right at her.

Not for long. Just a second. Barely more than a blink.

But it was enough.

Her chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded her all at once — late nights in hotel rooms, bruised knuckles and whispered promises, the warmth of his hoodie after a long match, and the bitter sound of silence when he was gone.

“Y/N,” Colby said again, his voice lower this time, more urgent.

Joe gently touched her elbow. “Let’s go. You don’t have to do this here.”

She nodded before she even realized she had. Her body moved before her brain caught up, letting them guide her out of the hallway and down a quieter corridor. Away from the crowd. Away from him.

Behind her, she swore she could feel his gaze lingering.

As they walked, they ended up in one of the smaller lounges tucked near production. Colby paced. Joe stood with his arms folded across his chest, jaw tense.

Y/N sat on a crate, elbows on her knees, trying to regulate her breathing.

“He was going to walk over,” Joe said. “I saw it in his eyes.”

Colby let out a humorless laugh. “Not on my watch.”

“He didn’t look angry,” she murmured, eyes distant. “He just… looked. Like he wasn’t sure if I was real.”

“Yeah, well, he does have a habit of leaving people behind and forgetting they exist,” Colby snapped.

Y/N shot him a look.

He sighed. “Sorry. That was too far.”

Joe finally spoke again. “You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. If I open that box, I don’t know what’ll come out.”

Colby crouched in front of her, resting his arms on his knees. “We’ve got you. No matter what happens.”

“I know,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I just… I really thought I was done with this part of my life.”

“You were,” Joe said gently. “Until he stepped back in.”

Y/N leaned back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t want him to talk to me.”

“Then he won’t,” Colby said, without hesitation. “We’ll make sure of it.”

There was a pause. Then Y/N let out a shaky breath. “But what if I do? What if… some part of me still wants to hear what he has to say?”

Colby didn’t answer right away. His throat bobbed.

“You don’t have to decide that tonight,” he finally said. “He’s here. He’s not going anywhere. And neither are we.”

Y/N looked at him — really looked at him — and for a second, she forgot about Phil.

That’s when Joe’s phone begins to buzz. Each one right after the other in rapid succession. He sighed and pulled it out of his pocket, reading the screen before glancing at the two of them. “It’s Galina ,” he muttered. “She’s got the kids tonight. I should call her back.”

Y/N gave him a soft smile. “Go. We’ll be okay.”

He hesitated for a second, looking between her and Colby — clearly reluctant to leave, but trusting them. “You sure?”

“Promise,” she said gently.

Joe nodded and stepped out of the lounge, pulling the door closed behind him.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

But it wasn’t comfortable either.

Y/N kept her eyes on the floor for a moment, then finally glanced up at Colby. “You don’t have to hover. I’m not going to go running down the hallway after him or anything.”

Colby’s mouth quirked at the corner, but his voice was soft. “I know. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?”

His brow furrowed at the question, caught off guard by its sincerity. For a moment he didn’t answer — just looked at her the way he always did when he was deciding whether to lie or not.

He didn’t.

“Because when I saw your face back there… it scared the shit out of me.”

Y/N blinked.

“You looked like you saw a ghost. Or like you’d been hit by a truck and were trying to pretend you were fine. And I just—” He rubbed a hand across his jaw, suddenly restless. “I’ve seen you hurt before. In matches, on the road, after bad bookings. I’ve seen you furious. I’ve seen you drunk off your ass in the middle of nowhere crying about a botched promo. But I’ve never seen you like that.”

Y/N’s chest tightened again.

She looked down, twisting the rings on her fingers. “I didn’t know it was going to affect me like that.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me neither.”

She glanced up again, and this time his eyes didn’t move.

They held hers.

And for a moment — just one — the weight of everything else melted away. The buzz of the arena. The ghost of a man standing fifty feet down the hallway. Even the sound of Joe’s voice echoing outside the door disappeared.

It was just them.

Y/N felt the heat first. In her cheeks, in her throat. That flicker of something she hadn’t dared name before. Not with Colby. Not after everything else.

But it was there.

Undeniable.

She broke the silence first, her voice quieter than before. “Colby…”

He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t back away either. “I’m not going to push you,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I just need you to know… I’ve got you. No matter what happens with him. No matter how complicated it gets. You’re not alone.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

She could feel herself teetering on the edge of something.

Colby’s hand drifted toward hers — not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

And she wanted to reach out. Wanted to close the gap.

But not tonight.

Not with Phil still echoing in her chest like a heartbeat she thought she’d buried.

So she looked at him — really looked at him — and whispered, “Thank you.”

Colby nodded, the air thick between them.

“I meant it,” he said. “We’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for once, she believed him.

[alicia-18]

Arrogant Bastard — CM Punk x Reader Smut

Summary; You had never liked Punk. He was cocky, arrogant and self obsessed. He practically thought he was Gods gift to Earth, and knew just how to piss you off. But when he gets to the route of your tension and bad attitude, you came to accept that maybe he wasn’t all talk… sometimes.

Word count: 3120

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, suggestive content, female masturbation, female receiving oral, fingering, an extremely cocky but selfless Punk. Probably quite poorly written smut

“Fuck!” You yelled, slapping your hand against the wall as you stormed past it. A few of your coworkers chuckled lowly at you as you moved past them, just low enough to not anger you any further. That was until you got into the locker room and was greeted by the smuggest bastard you worked with. You hit your locker with an open palm, the sound echoing around the room and making him laugh without shame. Your neck snapped to him, glaring harsh daggers towards his stupid smirking face.

“Michelle pissed you off that bad, huh?” He grinned, enjoying the rage emitting from you. It was as if he got a sick pleasure from seeing you so wound up, so enraged.

“Fuck you, Punk.” You spat, marching over to him and getting in his personal space in hopes of him feeling the angry heat radiating off of you. Your negativity was far too amusing to him for your intimidation tactics to work though, and his smirk stayed firmly in place.

“I think you’re the one who needs to get fucked. So much built up tension.” He joked, poking your tensed arm muscles only to receive a slap to his chest.

“You’re such a perv.” You chastised him, your cheeks flaring as his words hit you. It truly had been a long time since you had anyone other than your hand pleasured you. Sex just wasn’t on your mind at the moment with how often you worked. Trying to find someone who fit into your schedule proved to be too difficult, and eventually you just stopped trying.

And Punk noticed your reddened cheeks — because why wouldn’t he, he was always looking for ways to piss you off — which only made his smirk widen. “How long has it been since you last relieved some tension? By how bitchy you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were still a virgin.” That bastard.

“I’m obviously not a fucking virgin, asshole. I’ve just been… busy.” You finished lamely, your cheeks glowing and his little chuckle only worsened that.

“Well no wonder you’ve been as pissy as you have been! You need someone to help you let go.” His words held another connotation to them, which only made you frown and chuckle humourlessly.

“Yeah well the guys I’ve been with have never been able to help me let go anyways, so not really that much help.” You muttered, turning to walk away when you realised what you just admitted to a man you couldn’t stand. You span back to him, your finger raised to point at him and glare back in place. “Repeat that to anyone and I’ll make you regret it, I promise you.” You threatened, but became unnerved by the way he was looking down at you.

“Wait. No one else has ever made you—“

“Don’t rub it in, Punk. You know, you don’t have to be a dick all the time.” He held his hands up in surrender, shaking his head slightly.

“I wasn’t gonna. I’m just shocked. The guys you get with must be bigger assholes than even me.” You creased your brows at him, not understanding his point.

“Guys can barely ever get girls there. All the girls I’ve spoke to say they can count on their hands the amount of times guys have made them cum.” You shrugged, suddenly feeling shyer than you ever had around him before. You didn’t discuss these kinds of details with your male friends, let alone a man you barely put up with.

“No guys just think with their dicks. I always get women there before I cum.” He spoke confidently, and just reminded you once again you were engaging in conversation with the most arrogant bastard you knew.

“You’re the cockiest son of a bitch.” You chuckled in disbelief, and left the conversation before it went any further. Punk cocked his head to the side as he watched you collect your things hastily, clearly affected by his words, and go to leave the locker room.

Just before you opened the door, he spoke. “Not cocky, just factual.” Was all he said before turning back to his own locker. You shook your head, and proceeded to storm out of the room with a new embarrassment mingling with your rage.

You took a long, hot shower that evening when back at your hotel. The mission was for it to dissolve all tension in your body. You shaved everywhere, exfoliated, shampooed, conditioned, washed, even did a stupid hair mask that you were certain didnt actually do anything but smelt good so you included it. Hell, you even oiled AND moisturised your body head to toe. You smelt edible and felt as soft as silk, but your muscles were still tense and your mind still swirled with frustration. Your last resort was to touch yourself. It usually worked to ease the tension in your body, not completely but enough to wind down on especially stressful days.

You got into bed and began lightly tracing circles over your nipples, trying to get yourself a little more sensitive. Your breaths got heavier after a moment, and you used your other hand to dip inbetween your folds to spread around the wetness that had collected there. It felt good, and you continued as usual with soft but deliberate movements that usually had you unravelling in minutes. But as some cruel, sick twist of fate, all your mind could think of was CM Punks’ words in the locker room earlier that day. “I always make women get there before I cum.” It was the way he said it with full confidence. Like he had no doubt in his mind about his capabilities to pleasure.

With his words on the brain, it was like your body refused to accept your small hands over your body. Before today, you didn’t even think about how little sexual activity you had engaged in recently. But then Punk had to put the want for it back in your mind by reminding you on just how pathetically lonely you were. You body was aching with need to go over the edge, but your mind was refusing to allow the release.

After 10 minutes of pointless fondling, you audibly groaned with frustration and dropped your hands from your body. It was as if the tension in your body tripled, and you knew sleep wasn’t going to come anytime soon with you wound as tight as you was. You needed relief. And not one that you could provide yourself.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.” You muttered to yourself in disgust as you hopped out of bed and over to your suitcase you hadn’t bothered to unpack. You fished out a pair of jean shorts and a tank top, skipping out entirely on a bra but pulled on a black thong. You tried dressing as fast as humanly possible, before you had the chance to talk yourself out of your crazy solution, and set off to his room with purpose. He was a few rooms down the hall from you, something you only knew as you checked in at the same time two days prior.

With a deep breath and a lot of mental cursing, you hit your knuckles against the door. The silence of the hall ate away at you, and had you ready to run away before he could see you there. But he was opening the door and peering down at you in befuddlement before your legs could move. “Y/N? Isn’t it a little late for our bickering?” He questioned, leaning on the doorframe. You stared up at him, mentally debating if you actually were going to go through with this. But the feeling of your painfully hard nipples rubbing against your shirt was motivation enough.

“Can I come in? I wanna talk to you about something.” You asked, shuffling on your feet awkwardly. This felt so weird. You never were like this with men. You were a confident woman, but this was fucking Punk of all people. Why couldn’t it have been someone you actually got along with? You were sure a different man on the roster must know their way around a lady too.

“You want to come in my room?” He questioned, brows furrowed and eyes analysing. He did a quick sweep of your appearance, and noticed your reddened cheeks and pronounced nipples. If you were any other woman, he would be certain you were wanting a one night stand. But this was you, so clearly your appearance had to just be a coincidence.

“You know what, don’t worry.” You groaned with annoyance, regretting knocking in the first place and turned towards your room. Punk reached out and grasped your forearm, stopping your movements and held the door open more.

“Stop being dramatic and just get in.” He rolled his eyes and let go of you in favour of entering his room. You caught the door before it slammed and resumed your mental berating of yourself and now him too but still followed after him.

Once the hotel door closed behind you, and he was staring down at you quizzically, your mouth ran completely dry. How the fuck was you going to go about this? In the only way you knew how, of course, and that was through arguing.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” He raised both his brows and crossed his arms whilst staring down at you.

“Again? What have I done this time?” You ran a hand through your slightly damp hair before moving towards him and poking his chest.

“You ruined my only chance at relaxing tonight. You and your stupid cockiness. Honestly, I’ve never met such a self obsessed, arrogant bastard in my entire life!” You huffed, your entire body tingling with unreleased tension. His confusion remained visible, and seemed to be trying to figure out just what he did exactly to anger you so much. “Oh my god, and an idiot too clearly! You just had to go running your mouth about your ability to make a woman cum and now my stupid body will not just do it!” You pretty much shouted at him despite being close enough to whisper.

It took him a couple seconds to process exactly what you were saying, but once he did his signature smirk fell on his face as well as a low chuckle. “You came here to yell at me because you can’t get yourself off?” His tone had shifted now. To something inbetween taunting and suggestive. His question sent blood to your cheeks as you stuttered over your words.

“I just— I— well—“ He openly chuckled at your stammering, and bent a little so you were now eye level.

His olive eyes scanned your face quickly, from your pouted lips to creased brows and flushed cheeks. “Or did you come here for something else?” He murmured sinfully, his hot breath hitting your face like a caress. Your own breath caught in your throat at the proximity and his low tone. You couldn’t believe just how much his words igniting something deep in your core, and tucked your bottom lip under your teeth.

“I don’t know why I came here.” You responded surprising softly, your eyes falling from his face and to your feet as you shuffled on the spot.

His fingers gripped your chin as he directed your stare back to his, a devilish look on his face. “I think we both know why you came here, Y/N. And if you ask me nicely, maybe I’ll be able to help.” He cocked his head to the side as he stared down at you, smiling wolfishly. Your entire body shivered, which only widened his grin. You clenched your thighs with a groan.

“Please Punk? I can’t sleep like this.” You gave in, the fluttering of your vagina becoming too intense to ignore. He straightened up with a cocky look, and nodded towards a closed door.

“I would have liked more begging, but I’m not evil. Come lay down.” He lead the way to his bedroom, and didn’t wait for you to follow. Despite your deadpan stare you gave him, he knew you were going to follow after him and climb to the centre of his bed. He laughed a little and shook his head. “No, lay by the edge.” He instructed as he kneeled down on the carpet beside the bed. You stared back at him with confusion for a moment, just long enough for him to get impatient and pull you where he wanted to by your ankle. You squealed as he positioned you in level with his face.

“You sure you wanna do this?” He checked whilst gripping the plush flesh of your thighs. Just the sensation of him holding you so tightly sent a jolt to your centre, and you had no doubts in your mind.

“I’m sure.” Your admission was all he needed to begin peeling your shorts and underwear off your body in one, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. Anxiety tried creeping in as you felt his breath on your vagina, having never been this close to someone’s face with your pussy before.

He began by pressing a light, testing kiss to your inner thigh, just a couple inches from your centre. The sensation pulled a hum of pleasure from you before you could swallow it, and you could feel the smirk of his lips against the next kiss he placed just slightly higher up. After a couple teasing kisses to your thighs, a beat of nothing passed before he licked a long, slow stripe from your hole to your clit. The unexpected pleasure forced a loud moan from you, and you covered your mouth right away from embarrassment.

“Move your hand.” He instructed with an authoritative tone. “When have you ever tried keeping your mouth shut? And now you do? When you’re making noises I actually wanna hear.” He tutted teasingly. You went to sass him back as you always did, but the words disappeared from your mind as his tongue circled your clit. It was unlike anything you had ever felt before as he leisurely explored your pussy with his tongue. There was no rushing in his movements, but a precision that had your toes curling. The coolness of his tongue piercing sent a shock through you every time it connected with you, and any frustration you had when entering his room was slowly but surely dissolving.

As he gently sucked on your clit, you whined and instinctively grasped onto his long hair, tugging as you did. Realising your actions, your hands jumped back to your sides. “Shit— I didn’t mean to—“ You tried apologising but he repeated the sucking motion whilst staring directly up at you. “Oh fuck—Punk that feels—“ you struggled to form coherent words as he worked what had to be some form of magic on you. He dragged noises out from you that you never knew you could make, and had your entire body shaking in minutes.

But your breaking point was when he slid a finger inside you and curled it. You had never felt anything like it. You didn’t know that cumming could feel this amazing, and you hadn’t even fully got there yet. “Feels good, huh?” He grinned at you momentarily before diving back in and adding another finger.

You nodded rapidly, your thighs trembling around his head as your moans came out higher and breathier. “So fucking good— please don’t stop— please Punk.” You were begging for him to take you there, but also never wanted this feeling to ever end. A coil tightened in your core as his fingers and tongue repeatedly hit the perfect spots. It wound so unbearably tight that you couldn’t help the pleas leaving your lips as well as the way your eyes watered from the sheer intensity.

The coil snapped so suddenly, that the noise that came out of you had to be loud enough for any surrounding rooms to hear. He continued lapping at you through your orgasm, not stopping until you were pushing his head away from the sheer sensitivity. He leant back, and wiped his mouth and chin with his hand and grinned smugly at you. You laid on his bed, trembling for a minute and trying to catch your breath after the most intense orgasm you had ever experienced.

“Still an arrogant bastard?” He taunted with wiggling eyebrows. You propped yourself up to look down at him, a lazy grin on your face.

“The biggest I know.” You smirked, and actually laughed as he rolled his eyes. You took a moment to assess yourself, and noticed all of your muscles had actually relaxed for the first time in months. You weren’t stressing over work, or your ongoing fights with Michelle McCool. Hell, you weren’t even thinking about how punchable Punk was as he stood up and looked down at you. “I’ll give you it though, I haven’t actually felt this relaxed in a long time.” You confessed, flopping back onto his bed with a content sigh. You’d regret that though, of course, because if anyone out there needed their ego inflating, it definitely wasn’t CM Punk.

“It was nice to hear something other than threats or insults coming out your mouth.” You rolled your eyes at him, feeling less delirious not you had calmed down and climbed out of his bed. “Until next time?” He questioned with a smile, your thong dangling from his fingertip. You snatched it back and pulled that one along with your shorts, a scoff leaving your mouth.

“This was a one time deal, Punk. A moment of weakness from myself, I must say.” You buttoned your shorts and rolled your shoulders, enjoying the lack of rigidity in your muscles and hummed contently.

“Oh of course.” He nodded sarcastically, a shit eating grin on his mouth that still shined with your wetness. “Good luck with that, sweetheart.” He winked before gesturing to his door. You arched a brow at him confusingly.

“So you’re not gonna bitch about me not returning the favour?” You asked in disbelief, slowly backing towards the door whilst he leant against his bedroom doorframe, watching with amusement.

“I’m sure there will be more opportunities.” He said simply, a knowing look in his eyes that you despised.

“In your dreams maybe.” You pulled open his door, quickly checking no one was in the hall before turning back to him. “And thank you.” You blushed a little as you awkwardly thanked him, and left before you had to experience his penetrating stare and smug smirk any longer.

PART 2 IS ON MY PAGE

[thematthewmmurdock]

Random HC I have about Jack Abbot. This man loves his wife. Like loves his wife. You are his everything. There for him when he was going through his shit...and then when he was going through his shit again. A steady lighthouse in the sea of fuckery that is his life. First thing he does when his shift ends is put his wedding ring back on. First thing he does when he gets home is kiss you silly. He could be dead on his feet and cross-eyed from exhaustion, and he's still gonna find you when he walks through that door. Press his lips sweetly to yours and hold you so tightly, you wonder if he'll ever let go. And he wouldn't if he had a choice. Just stay with you forever. But duty calls, as it always does. And he'll answer that call every time, like he always has. You love that about him. But he'll always come back. And he'll always greet you with a smile and a kiss. Because Jack Abbot really fucking loves his wife.

[bullet-clubs-bitch]

He knows what he’s doing