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punkssavior · 6 days ago

Text

turnbuckle bunny.

alternatively; ‘all yours’

cm punk x fem!reader

to celebrate a relationship milestone, punk takes you with him to train at the wrestling gym.

third installment to the tired of you series. links to: part one, & part two.

content warnings: (18+) smut. shower sex. pain kink/blood play (who’s shocked). pnv. choking. pet names. exhibitionism. cockwarming (??)

yes this fic has two titles because i couldn’t decide on whether or not i liked the funny or one or the sweet one more. i’ll let you decide.

wordcount: ~13k

tags!: @theasiaabattoir @freyadronning @wwediamond @nicejacketsstuff @kkd1021 @urgogodancer @itsvxlentine @h0ney-fiction @zoeroxiie @samthefall @hotgothic02 @pureheart3d @tiacordelia02 @postwelcome @xbriexx @roseydoesypoesy @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @gamer-carat @j1nxexe @reigndropp @regalgenocide @xkittypunkerx @ritosparty @peterparkernotfound @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @sky-dreamer @fairiebabey @ouijabug @slutforsmutstories

It had been five months, to the day, since Punk officially asked you to be his girlfriend.

Was it childish of you to want the semantics? To want to be whisked away, wined and dined, and gifted a comically large bouquet of flowers on the night he asked you out? You didn’t think so.

And so, since that day five months ago, on the 18th of each month, Punk did exactly that.

It was fun for the first four months; watching Punk enter through the front door after his late night matches and training sessions with his wrestling boots in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other— withholding some sort of surprise or gift for you that he’d kept hidden in the glovebox of his car. Each month was something new.

Month one was a pair of studs; a dainty set of pearls to put in your new second ear piercings. Punk had taken you to get that done, too.

He’s already had quite the influence on your opinions of piercings and tattoos.

Months two, three and four were necklaces— all in which you still wear every day. Month three was your most favorite of all; a silver braided chain and a heart-shaped locket, with a picture of the two of you inside of it.

You remember it’s there every once in a while, clutching it between your fingers whenever you were having a particularly hard day at work, or simply just bored of the reruns playing on your TV.

Despite it being you and Punk’s five-month-iversary, it was just one of those nights. You were curled up on the couch beneath a blanket after a long day at work, watching an Ancient Aliens marathon. Punk always poked fun at you for indulging in that fake television documentary bullshit— finding the host of it as creepy and off putting as the aliens that they talk about.

You’d stepped into your pajamas the second you got home, knowing that your beau wouldn’t return until much later on. The soft blue glow of the screen and the occasional flashing lights were the only thing keeping you awake and waiting for Punk’s arrival.

Just then, you hear a car door slam shut, and the honk of a horn from outside. You shoot up excitedly, muting the TV and scurrying over to the kitchen island to wait for him.

“Honey, I’m hooooome.”

Punk’s teasing voice rings out before you can even see his face— you withhold your excitement for only a moment longer, not wanting to knock him off balance by pouncing on him in the doorframe.

You hear the crinkling of cellophane, the squeaking of sneakers, and finally you see the face of the man that you love.

“Hello gorgeous,” you purr slyly, colorful petals and foliage catching your eye as you scurry closer. Punk chuckles at your display of affection, holding out his arms for you to skip into them.

You do exactly that, pulling him into a tight embrace that slightly teeters him off of his feet. He wraps his arms around you tightly, planting a rough kiss against your hair.

“Missed me so much that you got up from the couch? I’m impressed. You’re usually out cold by now.”

“Mmmh, nope. Didn’t wanna miss out on my surprise,” you squeak excitedly, stealing a quick kiss from him that leaves his face hanging lazily, dressed in a smile.

“It’s not much of a surprise if you’re expecting it, player. That’s not how surprises work.”

“Well, sue me for being happy you’re home. And sue me for loving pretty flowers that I have the pleasure of keeping alive while you’re out beating people up for sport.”

Punk laughs heartily, finally having the chance to close and lock the door behind him. He steps out of his sneakers, propping them against the wall and dropping his wrestling boots beside them. You take the bouquet of colorful flowers from his hand prematurely as he hangs up his keys, knowing damn good and well who they were for.

“These are so pretty. Where’d you get them?”

“I‘ll never tell.”

“Booo. Lame.”

You give Punk a moment to collect himself— letting him shed his layers of workout clothes and free his hands from wrist tape after a long day of prepping for a match he has this upcoming week. The way that Punk worked amazed you; for his busy schedule left him barely any time to rest. He stayed up late, got up early, and had roughly two off days in an entire three week work period.

A part of you felt concerned for him, but the bigger parts knew that he was a workhorse. There was always something new to prove when it came to him, and there was simply no rest for the wicked.

After putting your new flowers in a vase with fresh water, you sat on the couch patiently, Ancient Aliens was still playing in the background. But you weren’t paying the show any mind. You were far more into the STRAIGHT EDGE tattoo that scrawled across your boyfriend’s midriff. The one you’d seen hundreds of times.

“Like the view?” Punk asks slyly, stepping out of his sweats to only his boxers, balling up the pants and tossing them towards the base of the stairs.

“Always. Get your sexy ass over here before I throw the remote at your head.”

With a quirk of his eyebrows, Punk obliges, striding towards you with those long legs of his and scaling the back of the couch to plop down next to you. He immediately pulls you into his lap, letting your hands sprawl across his pecs and travel daintily towards the back of his neck.

Your hands tangle in his hair as you admire the new beard that dawned Punk’s jaw. He was usually the type of guy to keep his facial hair minimal— only allowing a bit of chin stubble and the occasional 5 o'clock shadow.

But Punk has a hard time saying no to you. Asking him to grow it out was simply just selfish.

“I’m still getting used to this beard. It’s fuckin’ hot,” you hum, blurting out your thoughts as they come.

“Hot? It makes me feel like a lumberjack.” Punk scoffs, lifting his hips in order to get you closer.

“And you don’t think big burley men that chop down trees are hot? C’mon. I know about your little tendencies.”

“Alright, alright, enough out of you, smartass. It was one time and I told you about it in confidence. No need to wave it in my face.”

You open your mouth to speak again, but before you could even take a breath, Punk is pressing his slender, tattooed index finger against your lips, smushing them together.

“Aht aht,” he tuts, “Pump the breaks chatterbox. I’ve actually got something to ask you.”

Your eyes widen, still running aimless lines up and down the side of his jaw to the top of his right pec, “Mmmwhatisit?”

Though your lips were pressed together by the force of his finger, Punk’s face softened at your muffled curiosity. He takes a moment to make sure you’re at full attention, before removing the blockage from your mouth.

“I didn’t get you another surprise this year. No jewelry, or any of that other shit.”

You shrug, a satisfied smile sprawling across your lips as you remember just where you’re sitting. Right on his lap.

“S’really not a big deal, Punky Brewster. You could’ve walked in here empty handed and I still would’ve been trying to bite you through your t-shirt.”

You chomp at him playfully, your teeth clicking together as you pretend to nip at his nose. But Punk just holds his hand out, pressing it against your forehead to block you from getting any closer.

“You’re an animal.”

“Stop holding me back from my truest potential.”

In the heat of it all, Punk seemed to stop, and think to himself for a moment; possibly willing to risk it all and forget everything he was about to say to you. But instead, he shook his head, getting his mind back on track by anchoring his hands to your hips.

“No, no. Stop. I wanted to ask you something. And you’re making it really hard to do that while acting like a feral raccoon.”

“Thought you nicknamed me Bunny for a reason—”

“—Zip it.”

Slightly stunned by his sudden stoicness, you make a fake zipping motion with your hand, pretending to tie your lips up under lock and key. Punk sighs, and you could feel his leg start to anxiously bounce up and down beneath you.

“Since I didn’t get you anything, I was wondering if maybe… you’d possibly want to…on the offhand…try something new together?”

Your forehead notches in curiosity, scoffing at Punk’s embellishments and inability to get through his sentence, “New? Like what?”

A nervous chuckle leaves the pit of his throat. Removing one of those hands from your hips to run it through his hair, he sighs, “Well, I have an idea. But— I don’t think you’re gonna like it. Which is why I'm uh, hesitant to ask it.”

“Enough with the theatrics, Princess Punk. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Punk asks, his eyes slightly shimmering with hope.

“Mhm, just about. Unless you’re gonna ask me to go skydiving— I’d rather take a dirt nap.”

“Not skydiving, no. But honestly, I think your hatred for what I’m about to ask you has surpassed your fear of free-falling out of planes.”

Suddenly, your eyes narrow. You were onto him, and he was definitely up to something. You hated how much time he had whilst alone in the gym to sit with his own thoughts and plot against you. It was annoying as all hell.

“Just ask it,” you blurt, taking your hands off of his body and tightly lacing your arms across your own chest.

“Come to the gym and train with me?”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Your hands clam up almost immediately. It was a known fact that you and the gym never particularly got along. There was a brief phase you had in high school where you’d go on mile long runs to sweat off the stressors of being a teenager— but other than that, working out was only something you found yourself doing when you were forced to.

“I really don’t think it’s that big of an ask, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, putting on those dumb, pleading eyes of his, “It’ll be fun. I’ll teach you some moves, we’ll get a little sweaty, and after we’re done I’ll take you to the ice cream shop and we’ll get milkshakes.”

“Don’t try to bribe me with dairy, dickhead. You know how much I hate exerting more physical energy than I’m legally obligated to.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s a peace offering. Consider it a prefaced apology,” you scrunch your nose at him, and he swats your sour face away with his index finger, “It’ll be an ‘I’m sorry for whooping your ass’ milkshake.”

“Now why would I want you to whoop my ass? Did you hit your head tonight or something? C’mon, baby. You should know me well enough by now. I don’t. Do. Workouts.”

Punk sighs, momentarily defeated. He had resorted to rubbing small circles against your cheek with his thumb, trying to do anything in his power to butter you up. But for once in your life, you stood tall. Well, sat tall, with your chest puffed and your arms crossed.

“I understand if the answer is no,” Punk huffs dramatically, running his hand up your chest to rest at the base of your neck. His head cocks, those kelly green eyes still sparkling and pleading, “But it would make me really, really, really happy if you did.”

You were now tangled up in a web of conflict. After thinking to yourself and questioning your capabilities as a girlfriend, you realize that Punk does indeed make a lot of sacrifices for you.

The playing field was mostly equal; Punk has sacrificed many of his favorite songs in place of yours when driving in the car. He stays up late and gets up early just to have your morning coffee on the kitchen table before you even arise.

But then again, you compromised your fear of awkward social situations on the multiple nights that Punk had forgotten his gear, and needed you to barge through a crowd of sweaty wrestlers to get it to him.

“Five months together and we’ve never sparred,” your beau continues, blowing out a dramatic breath, “I think it’s about time I whipped you into shape.”

“You calling me out of shape?” you quip, raising your eyebrow and feigning sarcastic hurt, “I’ll have you know that I— stay active.”

“I should rip those pretty lips right off your face. No, I’m not calling you out of shape. I’m just— pointing it out.”

“Well it’s a shitty observation,” you bellow, your expression suddenly growing timid as you trace the Pepsi logo tattoo on his shoulder, “I’d rather put a bullet through my head.”

“Does the drama ever stop with you?” Punk laughs, taking your theatrical blows straight to the gut and letting them glide off his back, “Look at me.”

Punk cradles your chin in his hand, forcing your gaze back up into those eyes of his. You knew full and well that you were being dramatic, but Punk had grown accustomed to your stubbornness. He tilts his head to the side, almost condescendingly, and trails his thumb against your bottom lip.

“What would be in it for me?” you ask quietly, knowing the answer already.

“Honestly? Nothing. But it’s a day out with me and the days that we do get to spend together are few and far between—”

“—Yeah, and who's to blame for that?—”

“—Me. I’m taking full responsibility for being the asshole that’s always at the gym. Then again, you can’t really complain. You knew what you were signing up for.”

You sigh again; it’s loud and dramatic, demanding attention from the hand of his that sat idly by your hip. Punk does what he does best, picking up on your signs and trailing that hand towards your midriff.

“Can I just sleep on it?” You shake your head, that’s now scrambled up with thoughts and a sliver of guilt for being so hardheaded, “Let me wallow in my suffering before I let you beat me up in a wrestling ring.”

“Sure. Sleep on it tonight. But have your answer by six sharp tomorrow.”

“Six? In the morning? Puuuunk!”

Your whining is no match for him. He was coaxing you with his eyes alone, and you could tell that he wouldn’t give up on this no matter how much you pleaded or negotiated.

“It’s not even that early, Bunny girl. If I was really a sadist, I’d have you up at three and make you run across the Brooklyn bridge to have you at the gym by 4:30. You’d be surprised at the way some of the meatheads at my gym start their fuckin’ days.”

To divert from the pitiful look on your face, you roll your hips against his, feeling his cock take shape almost immediately beneath his boxers. He stiffens when you move, anchoring his hand onto your hip and letting his fingers tighten and dig into your flesh. His eyes narrow at you, the corners of his mouth straightening into a disgruntled line.

“If you’re gonna have me up at ungodly hours of the morning, the least you could do is let me get you into bed first.”

You continue the torturous drawl of your hips, rocking them fluidly back and forth, back and forth. A small grunt leaves Punk’s lips, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he’s snapping his gaze towards where your bodies connected.

“You don’t wanna wear yourself out before tomorrow, don’t you, Bunny?”

“Maybe this will be a testament of my stamina,” you shrug, playfully walking your fingers up his shoulder.

“If I give you what you want, you better have your mind made up by the time your head hits those fuckin’ pillows.”

You freeze for a moment, your lips pushed to the side.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

His eyes widened in pure disbelief, “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Don’t ask me again though, I might change my mind.”

Before you could even grasp the gravity of what you’d just agreed to, Punk is pulling you by your cheeks into a fierce, passionate kiss. He sighs into your lips, murmuring sweet nothings as his back lifts from the couch cushions and takes your entire body with him.

“You’re the fuckin’ best, baby.”

“Best in the world?” you giggle sweetly, teasingly, nipping at his lip ring.

“Don’t get a big head now,” Punk tuts, keeping you steady and sitting on his lap while your legs wrap around his back, “Save that confidence for the ring.”

You pull Punk into a kiss, immediately staking claim over his mouth and tangling your tongue with his. He groans into you, loving nothing more than the taste of you after a long day of training.

“You’re lucky that I like you a whole’ lot,” you breathe out between heavy, dirty kisses, “I wouldn’t do this shit for anybody.”

Just then, as you’re consumed in the moment and the feeling of his lips, Punk stands, hoisting you up with him. You squeak at the act, wrapping your legs around his hips and locking your ankles to keep you steady.

“And you’re lucky that you’re easy to convince, Bunny baby. ‘Cause I’m not gonna go soft on you.”

“Clearly not,” you gesture down to where your bodies connected, teasing him with your double entendre, “I expect to be worked out, stretched out, and worn out.”

With your comment, Punk raises an eyebrow, shifting his hands down to grab your ass and hold you up higher, “You’re still talking about tomorrow, right?”

“Mmh, sure. Whatever floats your boat.”

The kiss continues. Punk is walking you blindly through your shared space and up towards the bedroom. He’s trying his best to keep himself collected, as you can tell by the feeling of his fingertips digging into your skin whilst he moves his assault of kisses down towards your neck. You giggle as he slowly walks you up the stairs with precision and ease, adapted muscle memory from all of the instances where he simply couldn’t wait to put you through the mattress.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” Punk huffs, kicking open your bedroom door.

“Neither can I,” you reply, a fluttering feeling sitting at the bottom half of your stomach when he adjusts you in his arms, “But if I think about how early I have to get up tomorrow for any longer, I might start crying.”

“Ah, yes, there she is. My stubborn, whiny Bunny. Have you ever thought about your wrestling persona? Because honestly, you’ve got the chops to cut a wicked promo. Everyone would fuckin’ hate you.”

“I’m assuming that’s a good thing in wrestling?” you snap, your eyebrow quickly raising in defensiveness, “it better be, I’ll kick your teeth in if it isn’t.”

Punk chuckles, finally lowering you down onto your bed, “Of course it is. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have said it. But you just proved my point. You’re one of the most quick-witted people I’ve ever met—I really think you’d love standing up there in the ring with a microphone.”

“Don’t turn this into an ass kissing sesh, Punker. Just because I like the sound of my own voice and am sparring with you tomorrow doesn’t mean I want to do it full time. I’m not built for that life, I’m too fragile and perfect. Would you throw fine china in a dishwasher?”

“It’s not recommended, no—”

“—Exactly my point.”

You could feel the teasing energy culminating in the air, Punk unable to hide his catty smile as he ran his tongue across his top teeth. The bottom part of his tongue piercing catching between them.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it if you keep talking like that,” he warns, loud and clear.

“I’m here for it, baby. Get that one last ego boost in before tomorrow, when you actually have to be helpful and patient with your favorite girl.”

“Mhmm, that might be hard, knowing you…” His hands slowly trail up the front of your body, allowing you to lower your back down onto the mattress.

“…But I hope I’ll be getting much more than an ego boost from those pretty lips tonight.”

—

A bedside alarm clock gets your heart rate pumping promptly at 5:30am.

It took you a moment to sit up fully, drowning in grogginess and remnant sleepy thoughts, with your head feeling like a bag full of bricks as it lifted off of your fluffy down pillow.

“G’mornin’,” the casual, yet oddly chipper sound of your boyfriend’s voice snaps your attention to your chest of drawers. He was already stepping into a pair of dark green nylon gym shorts, wearing a pair of compression leggings that hugged his butt in all of the right places.

“Mmh.”

That was, unfortunately, the only sound you could muster.

Punk chuckles at your morning grumpiness, shaking his head while walking over to stand at the foot of the bed. A packed gym bag sat beside his feet on the floor, but it felt silly to roll your eyes at an inanimate object.

“I don’t get my usual? My ‘good morning Punker, ready for me to make your day hell?’. Is my girl too sleepy for her knock knock jokes?”

His teasing tone mixed with the frustration of having to wake up earlier than the sun made you seethe. You huffed out a short, dramatic grumble, and rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm, “Stop it. I’m not in the mood.”

“I hope that’s temporary,” Punk smiles cattily, grabbing your ankle above the blanket, “Because I’m gonna need you to get up, dressed, and in the mood within the next half hour. Up and at ‘em, hot stuff. Chop chop.”

He wiggles your leg playfully, before clapping his hands together, the sound loud and piercing to your freshly woken ears.

“Bossy,” you grumble again, shaking your leg out of his grasp and ripping the blanket off of you.

The cold air from your bedroom hit you like a bus. You understood why Punk was acting the way that he was, as you agreed to be his wrestling protege for the day. But you just wished the day didn’t have to start so fucking early.

You’re a good person. Not a morning person.

As you hobble to the bathroom, you hug your arms to your chest to keep the heat that was once beneath your covers, and curse the existence of blackout curtains.

Although you had put up quite the fight, it didn’t take long for you to get ready. April mornings were still unforgivingly brisk, despite the promise of Spring, so you opted to layer up with a tank top and crew neck stolen from Punk’s collection. You slid into a pair of biker shorts and layered a pair of matching grey sweatpants over top of them.

“Prison break?” Punk’s eyes narrow and float down to your groutfit, eyebrows wiggling, “Is that your court-mandated jumpsuit?”

“Fuck off, I picked the first thing I saw.”

“The world is your oyster and so is my closet, Bunny.”

“One more rich comment out of you and I’m smacking that lip ring off your face,” you growl, sliding past him towards your closet to bust out your beaten up tennis shoes from high school. The only athletic shoe you owned.

“It’s hard to believe that you’re this fired up already. Should I comment on those busted ass sneakers or would that earn me a roundhouse to the balls?”

“You’re skating on very thin ice,” you pinch your fingers, nose scrunched and already bothered enough by the fact that it was morning.

“Oooh, don’t tempt me.”

After you were all dressed and equipped for the day, Punk led you down the stairs with a begrudged wrist tug. He began to speak vaguely about your plans for the gym; dancing around what he was to teach you and how exactly he’d go about it. He also explained the importance of warming up, although he didn’t feel the same towards the heat in his car.

He opened the door for you, not without a kiss to your cheek, and let you slide in. You were still pouting and groaning at just about every quip he had up his sleeve. But that didn’t mean much to Punk. What meant something to him was the fact that you were there with him, when you typically wouldn’t be.

“No breakfast? Coffee? Nothing?” you ask softly, watching Punk maneuver out of his parking spot.

“We could get breakfast if you want. I usually don’t eat ‘till later but— I don’t want you to suffer too much.”

A smile trails his sentence, clearly enthralled by your presence. His persistence and knowledge was almost endearing at this point, so you decided to cut the stick up your ass attitude and try to enjoy the moment.

“Maybe just a coffee. I’m definitely gonna need it.”

As he drives through the already busy Brooklyn streets and makes his way onto the parkway, Punk’s hand moves from the steering wheel down to hold your thigh. You glance down at it, ogling at his tattoos and getting yourself hyped up for the long day ahead of you.

Punk sighs, tapping the hand of his that remained on the steering wheel, “Be honest. Are you actually mad about this?”

“No, I’m not, I’m just— being dramatic.”

“I expected that.”

You shake your head and flick his arm, “I’m willing to make today a good day despite my phobia of workout equipment and sweating. And besides, doing it with you is the easiest part.”

“You think so?” he asks, his eyes flitting to your face in his peripheral view.

“I know so, baby. A full day spent with you is the best gift of all.”

“You’re corny,” Punk scoffs, but you could see the blush race to his cheeks.

“I know.”

The rest of the drive to the gym was ordinary; metal music turned down to tolerable volume, a pointless conversation about why Punk thinks red means stop and green means go, and far too many sexual quips for this early in the morning.

After a quick coffee run at your favorite local Manhattan coffee shop and a half-assed park job in the parking garage where the two of you shared your first kiss, you and Punk set off into the crisp morning air towards the training gym.

“Have you thought about what moves you’re gonna teach me?” You ask from beside him, sliding down to interlock your hands.

“I have,” he hums, “I most certainly have.”

Punk swings your arms as he walks, his sentence trailing off into a whistle. But you eye the side of his face, an eyebrow raised with a demand to know more.

“You’re… not gonna tell me?”

“There’s no fun in just— telling you. You’ve gotta find out for yourself once we get in there and warmed up.”

“Puuunk,” you whine his name, watching the back entrance to the gym appear closer and closer, “C’mon. Just tell me one thing. One move you’re gonna teach me. Please? Pleeeeease?”

“No. I’m standing my ground just this once. You get away with a lot of shit with that cute face and big sparkly eyes. I’d like to keep at least one thing sacred.”

“Maybe you’re not telling me because you’re scared that I’ll be better than you.”

Punk stops in his tracks, just before the entryway of the gym, “Scared? Of my cute little Bunny? Baby, don’t make me laugh.”

“I thought Bunny was an endearing nickname! Not a condescending one for when you feel threatened by my super secret wrestling skills,” you huff dramatically, stomping your foot against the pavement.

No match for your empty threats, Punk slides in front of you, his arms crossed as he blocks the gym door, “I’m not being condescending. I’m just layin’ out all the facts. If you get in that gym and prove me wrong I’ll admit it, but there’s no way that the girl who runs from treadmills is gonna be an instant pro.”

You roll your eyes. He’s got you there. Maybe you figured puffing up your ego to be as large as his would make all the difference. But in reality, you still knew practically nothing about how to do moves, or when to tap out.

You barely knew anything about wrestling at all.

“I’ve been to a few of your matches,” you continue on your tirade, poking a finger into his toned pec, “Maybe I’ve subconsciously picked up on a few things.”

Just then, Punk snatches your petite hand up in his larger one, bringing that extended pointer finger of yours up to his lips.

“Well when you put it like that— I’d like to think that I lead by example.”

You giggle softly, and Punk nips at the tip of your finger with his teeth. He just can’t resist pulling you into him, snaking his arms around your waist to stare deeply into your eyes.

“Surely this is a fire hazard,” you quip, eyes narrow and fueled by the flame of your beating heart for him.

“Who gives a shit? The blockheads in there wouldn’t leave their machines if a tornado swept through the building.”

Punk leans down and envelops your lips into a soft, commanding kiss. You found it hard to pull away after a moment, though it was necessary for your day to continue. A breath catches in your throat when he flees the kiss with a tug to your bottom lip.

“Punk,” you warn, “you better cut it out. We might not even make it to the locker room at this rate.”

“We’re already blocking the doorway. Might as well take the next step— inside.”

With that, Punk steps forward, and fishes a blank white keycard out of his pocket. He taps it on the sensor, the door unlocks, and just like that, he’s swinging it open for you like the gentleman he is. Before entering, you take a deep breath, feeling Punk’s eyes boring into you as you ground yourself.

“Ready to kick some ass, Bunny girl?” he asks sweetly, his arm gesturing towards the inside.

“You fuckin’ know it.”

When you walked into the gym, you were surprised at how empty it was. It was a Sunday morning, and maybe Sundays were considered off days for most training athletes, but not for your beau. He had you up and early before the sun even reached the horizon and packed away in the car like a little stowaway. You could tell that Punk was relieved by the vacancy of the gym, as he immediately made a beeline towards the men’s locker room.

“Alright uh, stay here— I’m gonna scope it out. Make sure there’s nobody hidin’ in the showers or anything so you can get undressed.”

He shoots you with finger guns and the click of his tongue before backing away into the locker room. You wave him off, glancing around at where you’ll be spending your day.

The gym was very open concept, a raised ceiling with large ceiling fans, reminiscent of a brutalist warehouse. Surely it was a reinvented warehouse that was bought out by a company with not enough money to raise its own structures. Off to the side were a few scattered workout machines, and in the middle sat the ring.

You were tempted to step inside it, to bounce off the ropes and see what it was like to feel the adrenaline rush of a thousand little spindles of fiber burning across your back. Something about it was just so enticing, despite your total lack of interest in being a pro-wrestler. But instead of giving into your thoughts, you just waited, with your shared gym bag slung over your shoulder.

“Coast is clear, hot stuff. Come on in here and strip, we’ve got work to do.”

You giggle at Punk’s head popping out to fetch you, scurrying towards the locker room excitedly. You weren’t sure why, but seeing the ring so free and empty of any well-meaning and trained professionals gave you the confidence boost that you sorely needed.

When you stepped into the locker room, Punk was already standing by the sink, admiring himself in the mirror. He had been waiting for you to come in, keen to how he spun around the moment you appeared in his line of sight.

“Hand me the bag,” he demands, his arm outstretched and fingers wiggling impatiently.

“Already acting like a princess. No tiara?” you comment, hooking the bag to his forearm.

“We all know who the real princess is in this locker room. Take off that prison jumpsuit and get the fuck over here. I don’t have all day.”

When you pull off your crew neck, you nail it at his back, shaking your head as you start to step out of your sweatpants. You were now left in a tight fitted tank top, a pair of spandex bike shorts, and a ruthless smile that you couldn’t seem to wipe off of your face.

“Come here. I wanna wrap up your wrists.” Punk’s words are muffled by the permanent marker wedged between his teeth. He motions for you to join him at the mirror with a wiggle of his eyebrows, although his gaze was occupied by the search for his wrist tape.

“Ooooh, wrist tape. Thought that was reserved for the pros.”

“Don’t be stupid. This is my one opportunity to turn you into a mini me, and I will not pass it up.”

You lend him your wrists, and watch as he skillfully finds the ripped end of the tape to start unraveling it. He tears out a large piece, keeping it intact to the roll, and starts to gently, skillfully, wrap it around your wrist and hand.

He does the same to the other, occasionally catching your wandering eyes as they stare at his nimble fingers.

“You’re really good at this,” you comment, your voice soft and silky.

“And you’re kissing my ass. I’ve been doing this shit every day for the past ten years.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying to flirt with the hot guy from the gym.”

“What, is this a roleplay now?” Punk chuckles, ducking down to tear the last bit of wrist tape off the roll with his teeth, “We could do the strangers deal. And maybe later, I’ll let you play doctor.”

“God no,” you huff, catching onto his playful crosstalk, “I take it back. I’m already out of my element as is. The last thing I need right now is to play pretend.”

“Actually, I think you’re wrong.”

He finishes wrapping your other wrist in tape, mastering his methodical routine.

“Wrong? How so?”

“Wrestling is intertwined with playing pretend. If you pretend that I’m not your boyfriend and instead, the thorn in your side that can’t seem to let you win no matter how hard you try, you might be motivated enough to put me away.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, though still deeply infatuated by the sound of his voice, “You want me to pretend to hate you?”

“I’m not saying exactly that but, something along those lines. A bit more of that unbridled Bunny-girl rage might be good for your first time in the wrestling ring.”

You take Punk’s words into consideration. Perhaps it was all just a big game of pretend. Although he seemed to dumb it down in a way that you, someone with the bare minimum knowledge of wrestling, would understand, there seemed to be some truth hidden within.

Once both of your wrists were wrapped, it was finally time to hit the floor. Punk jogged out of the locker room, but you trailed timidly behind.

“Don’t get shy on me now, you were just talking a big game outside that door over there.”

“I was trying to impress you.” You raise your eyebrows, and watch closely as Punk saunters over to a stretching mat tucked in the corner of the gym.

“Lying out of your ass doesn’t impress me, baby,” he pauses his sentence with a grunt as he bends down to move a set of weights out of his way, “Progress does.”

You roll your eyes; he was right once again. He motions for you with his eyes through the mirror, and you join beside him, feeling two feet small.

“Okay, we’re gonna stretch first. We’ll do some individual dynamic stretches, some partner stuff, and then I’ll get you into some high knee laps around the ring. Sounds good?”

You nod wearily, your face already half flushed with dread. “Sounds like I don’t really have a choice.”

Punk eyes you in the mirror, laughing down to the floor before hooking his arm around you and pulling you into his hip.

“Atta’ girl. Such a fast learner.”

And so it began. You were off like a shotgun. The stretches were the tamest part of your workout, though you hadn’t felt those parts of your body being worked out since last night. It was nice to feel looser, agility wise. The partner butterfly stretch was probably your favorite, since the compensation for stretching out your legs and groin was a kiss on the lips.

When it came time for jogging, high knees, and jumping jacks, Punk took it slow. He made sure not to leave you in the dust of his long, muscular legs, and instead kept the pace steady for a novice like yourself.

After your tenth and final lap around the ring, your body already felt like it was teetering on the edge of weakness. It was just sad at this point.

“That… was the warm up?” you puff, resting your hands on your knees with your face to the floor.

“If it got your heart pumping and your legs feeling like they could wrap around the back of your neck? Yes. That was exactly it.”

Punk began to stretch his legs again, grabbing each ankle from behind and pulling them upwards. He watches you as you collect yourself, hoping you’ll look up to see the still unwavering smile on his face.

“Consider me… warmed.”

“Yeah?” he teases, running his tongue across his bottom lip and letting it catch onto his lip ring, “You look like you just got hit by a car. Poor thing.”

Your breathing was still labored and choppy, but that didn’t stop you from flipping him off.

“While you’re out here collecting yourself, I’m gonna go get changed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Changed? What do you mean changed? You’re already in workout clothes—”

Before you could even dream of continuing, a tattooed finger is smashed against your lips. “Shhh. You’ll see.”

When Punk walks away, you’re left standing in confusion. In soreness. In feeling worn out and whooped already. You were upset at the lack of sleep you’d gotten last night, though it was nobody’s fault but yours (and Punk’s collectively, since it takes two to tango).

As much as you hated to admit it, you were excited to get to work. Learning wrestling moves that you’d seen done so many times in the last few months, and learning them from someone that you trusted more than your own two feet. The more you stood and listened to the fans whooshing around in the gym, the more that looming pit of anxiety turned into adrenaline.

In the midst of your space out, a long, loud whistle catches your attention. Your body snaps to it, without thinking, and is faced with just about the most glorious thing you’d ever seen.

Was Punk… in a fucking Speedo?

Your jaw hangs open, tongue practically unraveling and falling out of your mouth as Punk stands at the entryway of the locker room shirtless with his hands on his hips.

“Was it worth the wait?”

“Holy shit.”

You were extremely tempted to run up to him and tackle him in wet, sloppy kisses; the sight of him so bare, yet so damn confident in his skin made you want to tear through that small scrap of spandex with your teeth. There were Chicago stars lining the waistband, the garment itself a vibrant shade of canary yellow.

At every match you’d attended in the last five months, Punk has wrestled in basketball shorts. You’d heard him talk about wrestling gear before, recalling the time he told you about his trunks, and how they almost came down to his ankles during one of his less recent matches. You assumed what he was wearing right now to be the trunks in question.

“You look killer,” you whistle, walking circles around him like you were a puny dog barking up a tall tree, “That bikini bottom has got me bothered.”

“Consider this a part of your gift— I never train in trunks. Ever.”

“It is—quite the gift,” you guffaw, shamelessly ogling at the smallest bit of his stomach that spilled out over his waistband, “but I can tell you right now, this is gonna be a distraction for me.”

“You’ll get over it. The same way I do when you’re making pancakes in no bra and a t-shirt.”

“Touché.”

Entering the ring was the one thing you were anticipating since walking in here; and now, it was finally time. Punk slid beneath the ropes on his hands and stomach, twisting into a kip-up that made your insides churn. He leans onto the ropes with a devilish smile, glancing at your figure down on the floor.

“Don’t try that at home,” he jokes, walking to the corner of the ring and holding out his hand for you, “M’lady.”

You blush at the simple action, timidly stepping up the steel stairs that lead to the apron. He watches your every move like a hawk: each step you took, how your spandex shorts complimented your hips and ass, how there was now sweat forming on your chest and pooling towards your sports bra.

You bow your head, feeling the energy of an imaginary crowd chanting your name and buzzing with excitement. A smile spreads across your face as Punk holds open the ropes for you, allowing you to step into the ring gracefully.

“You just nailed that entrance, baby,” Punk smiles, almost sizing you up with his eyes, “They love you.”

“Who, the crowd?” you giggle in return, folding your arms as you watch your lover bounce off the ropes a few times.

“Mhm. Can’t you hear ‘em screaming? They’re yelling ‘Bunny! Bunny, you’re so perfect! You’re the most beautiful girl in the world!’”

He makes fake crowd noises, cupping his hands around his mouth. But you’re so rowdy with anticipation that you smack his hands away, teetering on the edge of losing patience.

“C’mon, stop stalling. Teach me something. I’m fuckin’ pumped.”

Punk raises an eyebrow at your ballsy gesture, “A stark contrast from this morning.”

You run in place, pretending to toss punches at him and shuffling back and forth on your feet, “Oh get over it, you know I’m not a morning person.”

Standing at attention and watching as Punk lazily traipsed alongside you felt borderline embarrassing. Were you too excited about this training session? Maybe so. But now, you were just waiting for anything he was willing to throw your way.

He stays still, arms crossed, occasionally snickering at you trying to provoke him. There’s a flicker of desire in his eyes; you could tell that he hadn’t the chance to appreciate how sexy you look in your workout clothes.

“Swing at me. Go on, do it. I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

“Oh, for the love of God Punk, yes. How many times do I have to say it?!”

Punk smirks, running a hand through his hair. He’s got an air about him now that looms over the gym; in essence, this was his ring. His crown, his throne. You were simply just a court jester.

“Before I do anything, let me let you in on a secret. One little thing you need to know about being in the ring…”

He steps closer to you, his words fanning across your face which makes you drop your clenched fists down at your sides. You were anticipating it, waiting and watching hungrily.

But just then, there’s a wall pulled over your eyes. Suddenly, your feet were no longer on the ground, and your ass was hitting the mat.

“…you have to be vigilant.”

You stare up at him, stunned by the impact of your body giving out in such a way. A heavy breath leaves your larynx, as he just stares at you with a smile.

“Told ya’ I wasn’t gonna go soft on you.”

“Fuck you for that,” you grumble, remaining on the ground and basking in the humiliation of having your feet swept out from under you.

“No hard feelings?” he offers a hand, and it takes you a moment to grab it.

Once you’re back upright, having dusted yourself off and reconfigured your posture, you were back with a fighting chance. Your fists were, once again, clenched at chin level, egging him on.

“If you kick my feet out from under me like that again, you’re sleeping on the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk? Don’t be like that, player. I just said there’s no hard feelings.”

The dance between the two of you continued on. From teaching you basic grappling techniques, simple move sets, and ways to dodge a punch, Punk had you trailing his every move. Eventually, you got him with a good whack to the nose— reminiscent of the punch you’d hit him with on the night you met him.

You watched with narrowed, concentrated eyes as Punk carried on like the punch was nothing, seeing blood pour from his nose, coat his jaw, and drip onto the mat with each shuffle he took.

“Alright, lunge at me,” he says, his voice rugged and eager as your matchup heats up, “Come at me like you mean it.”

“I’ve tried!” you whine, jumping in place, “You’ve dodged everything I’ve attempted!”

“Just do it. I’ll let you hit me. I’ll sell it like you just knocked my soul from my body. C’mon baby, just do it. Show me what you’re made of.”

With a steady grounding breath, you lunge at him. Two wide steps lead you right into his muscular, glistening arms. But a high pitched yelp gets caught in your throat when he ducks down, catches your midriff, and hoists you over his arm.

“Put me down!” You squeal, arms flailing as he spins you horizontally to rest atop both of his shoulders.

“Fight your way out of it. Don’t let me get the chance to finish you off,” he suggests, attempting to help, his words jagged and breathless.

“How?! How am I supposed to get— out of this?!”

You begin to wriggle your way out of his grasp, feeling his arms loosen with each sharp movement you made. He grunts as you fight, though he seemed like he was letting you off easily.

“Knee me in the face. Just’— do it, Bunny.”

“No! Put me down!”

You flail your limbs with equal force to which he was holding you, eventually sliding off of his shoulders and landing back onto your feet. You gasp in shock at your own abilities, and take the first chance you can get to tackle him onto the ground.

A loud grunt rips through your chest, a sound you never knew you were capable of making. Soon enough, you were sitting beside him, with his arm and neck both trapped in a headlock.

“Fuck!” Punk shouts, the wind knocked from his lungs as you hold him. Your confidence came swooping back in like a hawk, giving you the push you needed to extend your leg and press your shoe into his side.

The only thing you seemed to grab onto from Punk’s lesson earlier was a singular submission hold. A signature of his.

The Anaconda Vice.

“Tap out! Tap the fuck out!” you shout at him, tossing your head back as you pull his arm and neck with you.

Your head was spinning, Punk’s breathing was erratic; neither of you could believe the position you were in. You had seen him do this move before. All of the pieces may have finally been falling into place.

“Tap out you fuckin’— son of a bitch, c’mon!”

You feel your vocal chords shred with each hurtful word, you could see the blood and sweat just raining off of Punk’s face, his stubborn ways of life not letting him give up without a fight.

Through grunts, whines, and a practically dislocated shoulder, you and Punk’s eyes meet. There’s a fire between them that holds so much emotion, so much tension, so much pain.

“Let me have this! Let me win! For the love of fuck, tap out!”

“Tighter.”

You barely catch his hushed request through the sound of shuffling bodies. “What?”

“You fuckin’ heard me.”

You follow his command, stiffening your bicep and squeezing him into the crook of your elbow with another loud grunt.

“That’s it. That’s the stuff,” he nods quickly, sweat flicking off of his hair and onto your arm, “Keep fuckin’ going.”

Eventually, your grunts turned into full on shouts. You wouldn’t be surprised if someone walked in the gym and thought the two of you were getting mauled by a lion.

“Tap out!”

“Tap the fuck out!”

Ding ding ding.

The imaginary victory bell rings out in your head the moment your boyfriend’s palm starts violently smacking against the mat. He groans as you release him, the two of you collectively sighing and rolling onto your backs.

That wave of adrenaline from earlier had peaked the moment you’d successfully gotten him into a submission hold; and now, you were just simply basking in the aftermath; blood, sweat, heavy breathing and all.

“Holy shit,” Punk comments, wheezing through the two words between breaths, “I didn’t think you picked up on that.”

You roll your head over to face your lover, who was staring at the ceiling in dismay with a hand tucked between his black locks.

“I’m a good selective listener. The submission stuff seemed the most fun to me.”

“Fun?” he forces out a chuckle, “You think that shit’s fun?”

“It was fun to do it,” you shrug, sprawling out like a starfish and letting your hand drape across his chest.

“Can’t teach a pillow princess shit. You know there’s a difference between submission and submissive, right?”

“Please, I’m not a fuckin’ idiot.”

Punk laughs dryly, clearly beaten up by your little sparring match. But you just as well. There was thick air that hung above the wrestling ring, it was brooding yet wildly energetic— a palpable tension between you.

“You alright there, champ?” You speak to the ceiling.

Punk doesn’t reply.

Your lips pull to the side as you attempt to sneak a glance at him through your peripheral. His abdomen kept a steady rhythm of up, and down, up and down, catching his breath and seemingly processing the hell of a match you’d shared.

Just as you attempt to speak again, you feel your entire body being pulled by two strong hands.

“Shit!” you squeal, somehow managing to end up straddling Punk’s hips while still in your exhausted daze.

“Bunny, baby,” Punk pants, his eyes jaded and gloomy, “that shit was hot.”

“What—?”

Before you can process anything about what had just happened or where your bodies had ended up, Punk’s hands run down to the small of your back, and simply just rest there.

“You have any idea how fuckin’ sexy it is to have my own move done to me? How goddamn gorgeous you looked while screamin’ at me to tap out like a little bitch?”

You shake your head, still too much at a loss for words to even think about clapping back.

“My own fuckin’ move got me all hot and bothered, baby. All because of you.”

“I don’t—” your own thoughts are interrupted by a jagged thrust of Punk’s hips. They lunge upwards, and you feel the shape of his growing erection through the two layers of spandex that separated you.

“Feel that, Bunny? Feel what you fuckin’ do t’ me?” Punk whispers, his neck craning to let his lips meet your chest and dance towards your collarbone.

“Punk,” you whine out, finally able to digest the magnitude of this situation, “We’re in the middle of the ring.”

“Like I give a shit?” he huffs, his arms snaking around you like the anaconda he emulates, “I never knew such a sweet little thing could get so fuckin’ nasty.”

Just then, a catty smile sprawls across your face. You didn’t quite understand what your lover was on about. But after careful consideration of his words and the feeling of his cock prodding your pussy through your gym shorts; your head seemed to screw on right where his was.

“Didn’t have faith in me, did you?” you tease, taking advantage of your position and rolling your hips against him.

“Of course I had faith. Baby, I’d a’ let you tear my arms off if you kept up. But fuckin’ Christ, the way you saw your opportunity and immediately went for the kill? Talk about a murder-suicide.”

One thing about Punk, despite how much he teased you about acting like a lust-sick fool— was that he was equally as smitten.

He runs his hands past your back to cup your ass, gazing at you through those sea-glass eyes of his. You swore he hadn’t blinked in a few minutes.

“I’m glad I’ve been a good protégé,” you smile warmly, running your hands across his chest and dipping down to collect his lips into a tender kiss, “I had fun with you today.”

Punk returns the kiss, and it’s soft at first. Savoring the taste of you on his tongue while taking a moment to let it all linger. The feeling of your body, slick with sweat and pressing against his. The gentle thudding of your heartbeat, that seemed to pick up the moment your lips connected.

But just as you’re under the guise of this being a sickeningly wholesome moment, Punk’s hand snaps to your throat, squeezing the sides of it roughly enough to force open your eyes.

“Cut the sappy shit. I want a rematch.”

You gasp as the reignition of the kiss knocks the air from your lungs, wondering if you should prepare for more sparring, or something else along those lines.

“A— a rematch?” You pant, interrupted by Punk sinking his teeth down into your bottom lip, “But— we’ve been at this for hours.”

“Weren’t you saying yesterday that this was all a ‘testament of your stamina’? Where’d that fiesty girl from a few minutes ago go, hm? Did I knock your head around a few times too many?”

“You’re being such an asshole,” you giggle, pressing your lips down onto his chest and tasting the saltiness of his perspiration, “and my God are you sweaty.”

“I’m sweaty? No shit.”

His sarcastic giggle seemed to propel him forward and due to your current position on his lap, took you with him. He lifted you gracefully, with precision and ease, causing your heart to skip a beat and a small little gasp to get caught in your throat.

Punk anchored his hands on your ass to stand upright. You were now tight against his body, with your ankles locked behind his back and your hands clasped around his neck, holding on for dear life.

“Yeah. You’re fuckin’ sweaty. It’s gross.”

“Y’know, you make a compelling point there, Bunny girl. I guess you didn’t seem to pick up what I was puttin’ down as far as a rematch goes. How about we wrap up our in-ring business and take this to the showers?”

You aren’t even granted the opportunity to respond before Punk is walking you towards the ropes. He sets you down gently, and holds open the top rope to allow you to step out onto the apron. The second his feet hit the actual gym floor, you were back in his arms, and your lips were reconnected like magnets.

“You sure there’s nobody else here?” you pant, your hands unable to decide which part of his back to claw onto.

“Just trust me, would you?”

The feeling of his hands cradling the backs of your thighs was already getting you worked up— the roughness of his fingertips combined with the feeling of scratchy, unraveling wrist tape was a sensory overload. Surely the same went for Punk, since your taped up hands had been crawling across his back since the second he picked you up in his arms.

You heard the gentle squeaking of his wrestling boots guiding you into the locker room, noticing the second they hit the tiles as he rounded the corner. You were so wrapped up in kissing him, letting his tongue twirl with yours and explore your mouth while trusting him to blindly, yet softly, place your ass on the counter top.

Kissing Punk never gets old. No matter how many times you’d lean in to sneak one over the center console of his car, or the plethora of kisses he’d steal one from you to shut you up before bed. Each time was special. It was like the ground rolling under your feet while fireworks lit up the sky above.

Fireworks. Butterflies. Anything that flutters about and paints the world around you in vibrant colors. Whether that world is the comfort and privacy of your own apartment, or the sweaty, dimly lit training gym.

Everywhere Punk kissed you felt like home.

Unfortunately, that fantasy of ‘feeling at home’ was but a daydream. You were now perched onto an oddly clammy granite countertop, feverishly making out with a man who had just spent three and a half hours kicking your legs out from under you and having a damn good time doing it.

“Did you really have fun today, Bunny girl?” Punk’s words knock into your teeth, he was too eager to get his sentence out before fully pulling away.

“I did, surprisingly. Don’t think I’ve worked out like that since I was in PE class but, I digress.”

Punk chuckles, his thumb right there to catch your eyes that dropped down to his torso, “I thought you told me you do things to ‘stay active’? Was that— a lie?”

His expression feigned hurt, though you could see right through those big green eyes in a heartbeat. He was teasing you, he always did.

“Okay, I may have bent the truth. But I’d never lie. I’ll have you know that I walk to the foot of the driveway to grab the mail like, every day.”

“Training for a marathon, I see,” he puffs sarcastically, his wandering hands driving you a bit insane with the way that they cradled your hips, “But seriously, I’m proud of you. And I’m really happy we did this.”

Sincerity was a rarity, coming from Punk. But in the odd moments in which he let that big heart of his show through that tough, blistered exterior, you could almost see the glimmer in his eyes. The fluorescent lighting of the locker room seemed to give him a bit of an angelic halo and the only thing you could think about at this moment was how happy you were to be here.

“I am too. Sorry for uh, being a whiny brat about it.”

“I said it once and I’ll say it again, I wasn’t gonna go easy on you. You took that shit like an absolute star.”

“Did I really?” You were smiling so wide that it actually started to hurt your face.

“Of course, baby. You’re a fuckin’ champion.”

You smirk at the compliment, finding it hard not to shy away and blush, “Your champion?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Best in the world?”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves now, don’t you think?”

In the ways he does best, Punk shuts you up with a kiss. You expected not to be talking for much longer— as the promise of a shower was still up for grabs. He wasted no time in upholding that promise, reaching down to thumb the elastic of your sports bra. A silent plea, permission to tear it off of you.

“Go for it,” you read his mind, catching that catty smile of his out of the corner of your eye.

He peels you out of your bra, freeing your breasts and allowing himself to cup them as he kisses you. The action pushes you backwards, a soft moan trapping in your chest when he starts to thumb at your sensitive nipples

“God, that sports bra is a nightmare. It’s tight as hell,” Punk comments, ignoring the way you squirm beneath his touch.

You decide not to answer, wondering if your hushed little moans were enough to communicate with him telepathically.

It seemed to be enough after a few moments of tender loving care, as he was now making his way towards your shorts. That spandex was uncomfortable, especially after working out in it for hours in a building with very little air conditioning.

In a frenzy of undressing, quick jabs and plenty of laughter, the two of you were fully bare. Punk had switched you over to the wall towards the shower, with your back pressed firmly against the cool tiles.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, do I tell you that enough?” Punk murmurs, his breathing heavy as his lips travel down to your collarbone to shower it in love bites.

“You tell me plenty, Punky Brewster. Keep it up.”

You could feel him grinning widely against your chest. His lip piercing cool to the touch, despite the heat surrounding the scenario. Cool enough to jolt your entire body the moment he wrapped his lips around your stiff peak.

You moan through a sigh, your leg seeking refuge at the notch of his hip as he pulls you in closer. He was always one to pay attention to detail, and right now was no exception.

“Punk,” you groan, your hand lacing into his jet black hair and pushing it out of his eyes.

He hums around your breast, taking his opportunity to snake his free hand down between your bodies and attach his index finger to your clit. Slow, aggravating circles around the sensitive bud bring an electric shock down your spine.

Both you and Punk were impressed by how wet you were already.

“Unreal,” Punk hisses, his face finally coming back up to meet yours and tower over you once again, “un-fucking-real.”

You raise a wobbly eyebrow, barely able to manage your facial expressions as he works away at you with his fingertips, “Hey, you started it.”

“And you let it continue.”

Without warning, Punk plunges two fingers into your soaking wet heat, causing you to gasp and your knees to buckle. His viridian eyes were like daggers, unintentionally claiming your soul.

“So fuckin’ wet for me baby. God, you’re a dream. Is what happened out there what’s got you all worked up?”

You stammer, begging your brain to let you have just one final quip. But your mouth betrays your plea, unleashing a low grumble instead as his fingers pick up pace inside of you.

“Oh, my sweet Bunny girl. Can’t even answer my question, can you? You’re so goddamn needy.”

“Punk,” you whimper his name like a song, “please.”

“Please what, hm? You’re a big girl with an even bigger mouth. I know you can say it.”

Your attempt to speak is ripped away from you the moment Punk finds his rhythm. Your rhythm. His fingers pumped deeply, hitting that sweet spot with each snap of his wrist.

“Oh, I see. My Bunny wants to get fucked doesn’t she?”

A quick nod of your head was all you could muster.

“Really?” he answers you, despite your lack of words or any sound at all, “Right here? You wanna get fucked in the locker room where I tape up my wrists and get changed? In the gym that I’m at every single day? So that every time I’m in here I’ll remember those sweet, desperate eyes of yours?”

You nod again. He understood.

“Well, I’d never deny my baby the pleasure,” he scoffs, though the situation was anything but funny, “You always end up getting what you want at the end of the day anyway, don’t you?”

Punk’s last comment seemed to resuscitate you; you were now not only able to speak, but you were able to think clearly, despite your first orgasm of the day on the horizon.

“That’s— your fault,” you breathe out, narrowing your eyes as the sound of your arousal is now audible, “You— you spoil me.”

“Oh, trust me. I know,” he replies, a sly smile on his face as he picks up on the signs of what was to unravel at the hand of his fingertips, “I never said I was complaining.”

You slam your lips against his; albeit a bit roughly. He lets out a huff, abruptly pulling his fingers out of your pussy.

You squeak. That wasn’t what you asked for, nor expected.

But you also didn’t expect Punk to pull you into the shower and press you against the wall by your neck.

The sequence of events left both of you breathless, now in a silent battle of whose eyes could make the other one fold. A flutter of your eyelashes seemed to do the trick, as you watched Punk melt before you.

“Want me to be rough?” He asks gently, his hand still clamped around your throat while the other caresses your cheek. Quite the juxtaposition.

“Do whatever you please. I’m yours… All yours.”

You kiss him again. You just couldn’t help it. He moans into your mouth and drops his arms to your waist as you run your hands across his broad chest, still slick with sweat. The passion between you was undeniable, you could kiss him for an eternity, though that wouldn’t fly in a moment like this.

Punk pulls away, laughing softly as he guides your body away from the path of the shower head. He turns the nozzle, letting that first bout of water splash against the tiles. You could feel already that it was too cold, pooling at your feet as he reached over to adjust the temperature for you.

No jokes about how you like your showers hotter than the surface of the sun, no teasing. Just you and Punk in comfortable silence as the water thrummed against the floor.

“How is it possible that you could switch from a condescending asshole to a cuddly teddy bear in a matter of seconds?”

Punk’s eyebrows raise, his hand feeling out the water as his body glistens.

“I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you, y’know.”

“I hope you mean that in a good way,” you smirk, “Because personally, I like you better when you’re not being a dick.”

“But you also like it when I am. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Punk takes your hand and guides you into the warm stream, the water falling over your heads like a storm and trickling down into your eyes.

“I guess I’ve got a bad poker face,” you smile, changing the subject, “Is this an okay time to tell you that I’ve always wanted to be kissed in the rain?”

“It is. Now, is that separate from your lifelong dream of kissing me in the shower, or—?”

He laughs again, and snakes his hands back down to where they rested on your hips, but you just sigh in awe of him, “You’re not very imaginative.”

“Meh, I’m more of a realist. But if kissing me in the rain is what you want, you bet your sweet ass you’re gonna get it.”

He pulls you back in, his lips are salted from sweat, yet inherently sweet in the way that he kisses you. The water runs between your bodies as you press yourself into him.

Your mind was racing with thoughts— but as there was a lull in the pacing of the kiss, you figured, what better time to speak your mind.

“Punk?” you whisper, grabbing his attention in an instant.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Punk’s eyes widen, his mouth slightly ajar. You were kicking yourself for speaking so out of turn but in a way, it just seemed so right.

“Bunny, baby….,” he scoffs, pure disbelief, “…Holy shit, I love you too.”

You weren’t lended a moment to process what had just been said— Punk was hoisting you up by your thighs to hold you, spinning you around to press you against the wall of the shower where the water could still reach.

The smile hadn’t left either of your faces, it was evidently clear.

“I’m kinda mad that you said it first. Had this whole spiel planned and everything—”

“Oh my God, you absolute bullshitter!” you chuckle at his sarcastic whining, unable to control your hand from brushing through his wet locks, “you can’t even decide on what you want for dinner most nights. No way you had something planned.”

“Nah, you’re right. Maybe I’m just bitter that you stole the moment,” he admits, biting his cheek.

“Well, you snooze, you lose. Now we can say it whenever, Punker. No holds barred.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t even take that into consideration,” he wipes an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead, “Mind saying it again?”

You roll your eyes in protest, still being held up by his body flushed against you. The contact of wet skin on wet skin was making you antsy. Hell, the admission to loving him combined with your current position was making you more aroused than you were before.

“Fine, how’s this; I love you. So much. Now can we cut this conversation short and can you just— fuck me, please?”

Punk grumbles, taking your face in a handful. His eyes glimmer when they look at you, an expression of pure adoration, “God, I love you more.”

The next few moments spent with Punk had given you severe whiplash; first, he was kissing you tenderly, letting his hand wander across your hips, to your tits, to any place within his reach. Then, he was leaving little nips and bruises across your chest, painting your flesh in dark shades of purple where only he could see.

But suddenly, in the midst of all the whining, moaning, and the sound of water smacking against the tiles, Punk was scooping up your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“You ready for me, baby?” He asks, his voice gravely and eager.

You nod confidently, “Mhm.”

Just then, with as much core strength as he could muster, he keeps you pinned against the wall with your arms raised above, and lines his cock up with your entrance.

You glance down at where your bodies were connected, biting your lip and stifling a high pitched moan at the way he pumps himself a few times to prep.

He slides into you slowly, his thick shaft stretching your walls comfortably and drawing a long and loud sigh from your chest. You couldn’t help but smile, your eyelids fluttering closed as he pushed himself deeper.

“Mmmh, s’ fuckin’ big,” you mumble high bouts of praise, the feeling of him a bit overwhelming at the start.

“Yeah? You look so pretty takin’ my cock, Bunny.”

His hips began to snap; it was evident that he was losing all sense of control when it came to being inside of you, but he tried his best to take things slow. He wanted to savor this moment with you, despite the rough and tough flirting and the obvious desire to split you in half like a log.

“Fuckin’ shit, Punk,” you whimper out, your wrists feeling tender now as his hand kept them hostage.

Punk listens closely to the sound of your pleas, using them as means of communication as your mouth was quickly occupied by his thumb.

Your eyes shoot open when he slides his thumb into your mouth, cupping your chin and forcing your gaze into his jaded eyes.

“Look at that face. That gorgeous, gorgeous face…”

You suck gently on his finger, widening your eyes double their original size as he continues to thrust into you. It was getting unbearable— all of the emotions and feelings swarming around you had left a swirling feeling in the pit of your stomach. You were smitten, love sick, drunk on the way he admired the explicit scenes of your lips wrapped around his thumb.

He picks up the pace, you moan around him. You were thankful that he’d taken the liberty of using his own hand as a muzzle for your desperate sounds.

Tears began to form in your eyes at the pressure of his cock hitting that sweet spot with each thrust; the shower water still trickled down your forehead, swooping off the bridge of your nose. But Punk just smiled at the vulgarity of your face before him, watching remnants of leftover mascara run down your cheeks and paint them with streaks of charcoal.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod.

“I thought so, my girl.”

He slides his thumb from your mouth, antagonizing you with the pace of his strokes and watching with wide eyes as a string of your saliva follows.

“Gonna cum for me baby? Make a mess on my cock?”

Punk takes the hand of his that was once entrapped by your lips and rests it on your waist, allowing himself to thrust his hips with even more force. You yelp at the change of pace, your ankles locked around his back.

“Please. Please. Please.”

The most you could do was beg now, the both of you panting heavily at the other’s disposal. You clench your walls around him, pinching your eyes shut at the wave of pleasure that slowly started to build at the bottom of your stomach.

To speed things along, Punk reaches between where your bodies meet and attaches a finger to your clit. You were already squirming, the vulgar sounds happening around you clashing together like the sounds of a symphony.

It almost felt as though you were too busy writhing around to look at him.

“Look at me. Fuckin’— look at me.”

He reads your mind. Your wish is his command.

“Let me see that face while you cum for me, Bunny. Such a good girl...”

One last deep thrust of his hips had you doubling over in ecstasy. Though you couldn’t move very far due to the restraint of your wrists, you felt stars begin to fog your vision as the two of you chased your orgasms in tandem.

It was a fleeting moment; one simple gaze into his eyes made you melt. He grumbles, watching you unravel beneath him, shifting himself impossibly closer as he remains buried inside you.

“Punk, holy fuck,” you whisper, your voice fleeing the scene.

“You’re fuckin’ absurd. ‘Got me all messed up in the head. God, I could look at you for hours.”

What was once a moment fueled by lust and passion had turned rapidly into tenderness— there was something so special about being this close to Punk. Feeling this close to Punk. Your body was sore, and limp, though thoroughly satisfied. You hadn’t a thought nor complaint in the world about what it would feel like waking up tomorrow.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” Punk comments, finally releasing your wrists and keeping you pinned to the wall with his body alone.

“I’d like to hope so. It’s what you signed up for.”

He smiles at your wit, bringing him back to that typical snarky expression that he wears so well. You were still in a daze from getting your lights fucked out.

After a few minutes and a plethora of stolen kisses; Punk slides out of you gently, letting your feet drop to the tiles. He steadies you with a helping hand, knowing full and well that your knees could give out at any moment.

The rest of your shower with Punk is amorous and unspoken. He had taken on the task of running out to the locker room while naked to grab all of his shower necessities from your gym bag.

He bathed you delicately, running the plush washcloth up and down your body like he was polishing a piece of fine china. You smiled at his gentleness, returning the favor moments later as you washed his hair.

After your shower, Punk set you up nicely on the warm up bench with a fresh towel and a pat on the ass. You were sure that your hearts were still fluttering after saying ‘I love you’. It was now just a matter of when the spell would break.

“You alright back there, player?” Punk glances at you through the mirror, stepping into a clean pair of briefs.

Your towel is hugged to your chest, “I don’t think I brought a change of clothes.”

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“What?! It was early! My brain doesn’t start working until like, 1pm.”

Without another word, Punk chuckles, and reaches into the gym bag. He pulls out a pair of boxer shorts and a lacy bralette of yours, still keeping your gaze in the mirror as he tosses them behind his shoulder.

The clothing lands at your feet. He smirks at his own reflection.

“I know you a lot better than you think, Bunny girl. I’m always one step ahead.”

You didn’t think such a simple thing would bring heat to your cheeks— but you were simply obsessed with the way he thought of you.

You were in love.

Once you were changed back into the clothes that you’d worn on your way in, freshly showered and well-taken care of, Punk gathers your shared belongings and slings them over his shoulder.

“Still want that apology milkshake?” he smiles, extending his hand. Another quip. But for some reason, that spell still had yet to be broken.

“You bet your sexy ass I do.”

#cm punk fanfic #cm punk smut #cm punk x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #cm punk #not proofread #definitely some continuity errors oops

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