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punkssavior · 3 months ago

Text

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.

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.”

#cm punk smut #cm punk fanfic #cm punk x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #cm punk angst #my debut post weeeeee

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