[lol Sorry guys, I accidentally deleted it instead of a different one I meant to delete!]
There was no chance in hell that CM Punk was ever going to get a work out in for the day, or week as long as he was with John Layfield and as long as he was with him there wouldn't be a chance in hell he was going to stop leaning on the next treadmill all day and watch like a horny high school boy gawking at the cheerleaders working out. Again and again he was reminded to stop staring, to go away and do something else.
As it was quickly learned: John wasn't one to take a compliment unless he had been making the compliment to himself, about himself. Every day he had been hitting the gym since he decided he would get back in the ring and put down the headset. He complained every moment of every day, when they would get home he'd look in the mirror and resume complaining that he wasn't getting results fast enough. He showed off pictures of himself from his football days, his time in Acolytes and even things Phil really didn't care to pay any attention at all to.
He sighed when John jumped off the treadmill, announced that he was ready to go back home and snatched the towel out of Punk's hands. He followed eagerly, eyes fixed on his ass with his crooked grin spread across his face before annoyance set immediately in; John just had to bring up the weight thing again, and whatever new product it was he was thinking about creating.
Phil knew everything he was saying was like hearing a pin drop in New York City traffic – nonexistent. He wasn't too sure what it was about John, but he just kept replying that one hundred pounds wasn't really a lot, at least not in his eyes it wasn't; and at the most he loved it, and it was completely alright with him... and kind of really sexy. He shook his head and chuckled under his breath. Most things he enjoyed about him had to go unsaid – or rather... just unheard.
Phil acted as the maid for the rest of the morning, catching the various articles of gym-clothes as they were thrown out from the bathroom door. After throwing them all in the hamper, or more like near or around it, or hanging half out; he sneaked back up to the bathroom door, pushing it open slightly just to get a peek, gnawing gently on his lip ring as he pressed against it, eagerly waiting until John closed his eyes to shampoo; and when he finally did so he silently crept in, being as careful as possible to get the comb from the sink drawer... this trick always worked. His olive eyes glinted with delinquency as he crept a little closer and snatched the towel off the railing... time to learn a new trick.
Proud of himself, he spun it in his fingers and hid it in his back pocket, dashing down the staircase to look busy with the television and his new issue of Revolver. John's voice came bellowing from the upstairs bathroom fifteen minutes later, screaming about the missing towel, and more importantly the comb he absolutely needed to have for his perfect hairstyle.
Punk's eyes lit up as John walked into the room.
John "Bradshaw" Layfield strutted into the room, a thousand times more cocky than Chris Jericho could ever hope to be. He threw his head back, the brown hair tossed from his caramel chocolate eyes, they gently closed, hands slowly ran through the wet locks and back down his chest and sides. Water dripped off every limb and down his jaw. His smile was fierce and when he opened those eyes again they dared Brooks to come and put his arms around him – if he could even get up. Even stepping out of the shower seconds ago, he was completely ready to get himself dirty again. His pink tongue swiveled around his seductive lips, his voice just above a whisper, "You wanna?" he asked, his hand extended to him and nodding his head to the staircase that led to the bedroom.
Punk shook his head, snapping back to reality, blinking fast as he looked down at John's hands, "...I..."
"You want to give me my comb back or not? And my towel while you're at it?" John was sick of asking by now, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist. He turned and stormed back up the stairs the second he received the comb, and didn't turn around to see his boyfriend practically fainted on the couch.
The time had completely flown by for Layfield, who was being helped into his blazer by Phil while he was running around the house, attempting to make a knot for his tie when he shoved the younger man off with out a thank you for his help. His hands rested on his hips, his head down in deep thought as he cursed at himself. "Where the hell are those papers?" he groaned, "Phil!"
"On the table, where you left them," he snickered from the kitchen, the shiny set of luxury car keys glistening up at him and just happened to pocket themselves in his jeans. John flew by him in seconds and he wiped the guilty, sneaky grin off his face and asked him what he was looking for now once he handed the set of files over.
"I can't find my damn keys!"
"...Really? Maybe you should look a little harder, baby," he attempted to put his arms around his boyfriend's much larger waist, he pouted when he pulled away from him, and wondered what it would take to get him in bed faster. Usually he didn't have to chase, one innuendo and they would have been doing it upstairs in bed, or anywhere else for that matter, like they where on the discovery channel.
"Do y'all think I'm getting old?" John asked, looking dead serious at him before rushing to the living room to check the coffee table, the files abandoned again on the kitchen counter. He vaguely remembered throwing them somewhere after he took his Straight Edge God out for breakfast, "Darlin' where in the hell did I put those fucking keys!?"
Phil's teeth bit down hard on his own lips, sucking gently at the small amount of blood he accidentally drew. He couldn't help but drool over John.
John's eyebrow quirked, his twisted grin on his face as he threw the folders over his shoulder and slipped his tie off, an article of clothing getting tossed to the floor with each slow step. Phil could hear each click of the heels on those cowboy boots, they sent shivers down his spine. Finally he had his arms around his tattooed stomach, and his H2O shirt getting torn off and landing somewhere in the sink. Hands frisked his pants for the keys, and removal came by use of teeth. Now, keys just didn't matter, and John threw them to the floor, a low growl emitting from his throat as his fingers slipped through the belt loops on Punk's jeans, pulling him closer... "You had them," he whispered, their lips crashed together in a series of sloppy kisses.
"Look, son, I know you have them," John rolled his eyes, "now hand them over."
Punk shook his head and diverted his glorious visions, "Why... don't you get them?" he asked, wanting desperately for John to do so. He couldn't quite hide he had been totally turned on.
"What in the hell has gotten into you?" he rolled his eyes and grabbed the folders.
"....Fine," Punk snorted and crossed his arms, "Jackass."
"What?" he sighed, running back over and kissing his cheek before taking back off out the door.
"I can hear your big fat ass walking down the hall," he snickered, waiting a couple of moments to get the rest of his snarky little comments out before he just had to follow him down to the garage... and watching John's memory fly off the tracks with stress...
Phil had a smile on his face, the smile that said he was holding back a fit of laughter from watching John search up and down for his car. Didn't he remember he had several reserved spots? "Honey," he finally gave up with a laugh, "I'm standing next to it, not that you would notice."
John spun on his heel and rushed towards the car. "I'm so fucking late to meet this publisher, and you play games. Thanks, darlin'," he rolled his eyes and entered the code in the door. Punk burst out laughing when he was hitting his head on the steering wheel in frustration; and didn't stop until Phil took the keys out from his pocket.
"Does he even realize he didn't take them from me?" he laughed, spinning them around his finger... dropping them instantly on the floor when John got out of the car.
Fingers wrapped around the car handle, body pressed up against it for a moment as he took off the cowboy hat, giving it a quick frisbee toss it to his tattooed beau who could hardly take his eyes off him to even catch it. Phil's heart beat pounded in his ears harder than Ozzfest when John unbuttoned his blazer, shook himself out of it and tore open the white dress shirt. It seemed like a never-ending cat walk as he came toward him. His boots clashed against the racing of his heart, the click echoing down to the bowels of the parking structure and back to the skyscrapers. Fingers rested gently on his thighs and worked their way slowly up before snatching hard onto his arms. "Darlin?"
"Darlin', Darlin'! Are you alright? Baby? Phillip!"
"Huh?..." Phil stared, blinking sparingly with his mouth dropped and finding the only reason he was still standing was that John had been holding him up by his arms. "Yeah... I'm … Fine, I'm great actually..." he regained the feeling back in his wobbly legs, "I really, really can't imagine loving anybody else."
"....Well, that's, good...." John looked puzzled before returning the compliment, along with asking about his current health status, and inviting him along for what Punk was entirely sure was the most boring process in the history of the world.
He wound up giving the keys back, and after being walked to the elevator he knew he'd have to go collapse on John's side of the bed for the day, and maybe now that he was gone for a while, he could actually go work out.
Punk laid face down on the couch, face first into a large pillow, and another slammed on the top of his head and two crushed on the side. His head pounded from the yelling and complaining coming from the other room, the feeling of chairs colliding against his skull wasn't anything to having to listen to John Layfield's voice nonstop. A bursting fit of swears erupted from the room, and Punk growled and tossed the pillows aside – he didn't care if John was on the phone. He needed to get some sleep, because the entire city knew he hadn't gotten any last night.
The light was brutal, and every step felt like he was about to throw up, but he quickly figured if he was going to vomit, then do it on John's desk. He heard the phone hang up as he made his way down the hall, at least now he wouldn't have to embarrass him in front of who ever he was on the phone with. Now, he was just standing in the door way, his eyebrows raised slowly when he realized just how hott it was to watch John work.
John looked up from his desk, his arm swiftly sliding across the entire thing and throwing everything on it to the floor and his cell phone behind him. He looked down at his hands, glancing and smirking up at Phil as they worked tie tie off. The buttons of his suit burst as he ripped the dress shirt and blazer open. Punk could hardly catch the cowboy hat in his suddenly disabled arms. Slowly, John got up onto the table, crawling towards him with that sparkle in his eyes.
"Are you listening to me?" John's voice was aggravated, "I'm working, here. Phil!" his arms came uncrossed and a light smack brought Brooks back down to planet earth.
"Oh god, I want to," he could barely breathe, and was smacked a little harder, "Ow! What the fuck, John?!" he yelped, his fist meeting hard into the older man's jaw, "Son of a bitch!"
"I'm not the idiot blacking out every five minutes here! Don't fucking touch me, either. Go do what I told you and I'll get you when I'm fucking ready," he couldn't believe that not a word he said had been listened to, "You can sit by me tonight. I told Vince."
"I'm going to Smackdown?" Punk couldn't have been offered a million dollars to pay attention to anything John was talking about, he was too busy trying to get busy with John, his arms wrapped around his belly and kissing over the area he hoped didn't end up bruising.
John kissed back, and Phil was shoving him up against the wall, pressing himself hard against his plush body, every desk fantasy he had replaced with them doing it on the table in front of the other two commentators and the entire arena. Voyeurism was just fine.
The plane ride to the show exhausted the two of them, the mile high club was the best club around, and it served things a lot better than liquor. The limousine to the hotel bored Phil to death, he laid across what he could of John's lap, and his feet were pretty much hanging out the window – classy.
The "Do not disturb" sign was always fast to go up, and even faster tonight. John dragged Phil to the shower with him, and had his way against the cold tiles with his younger man. When they finished they didn't stay too dry for long.
John showered, and Phil day dreamed and played with the hotel video games since John locked the door and told him to stay out, for someone who was so obsessed with himself, he sure was insecure about being naked in front of him.. "At least when he does loose the weight he won't act like that anymore, and maybe I could get a little more action under water..." Punk told the Kirby video game.
Phil dropped the controller on the ground, the hard crash echoing in his ears when he watched John exit the bathroom, he found himself back against the headboard and falling into the pillows as John crawled toward him on the bed – this was a hell of a lot better than on a desk. Their lips met for a small peck, when JBL rose back up and took the towel off, the only thing he had been wearing in the first place, and not around his waist either.
He sat up on the bed, eyes barely on the game when John walked into the room. Eager wasn't even a word close to what he was feeling. Layfield however, was not. He went to the bed with out even a glance at the boy and dove under the sheets alone. Phil threw the game aside and took his shirt off, the television went off seconds later and he made his way under the sheets, cuddling up close to John.
His pierced lips opened to ask the question when he heard him start snoring. With a heavy sigh he shrugged it off and kissed his cheek, grabbing the little amount of sheets left for himself and staying cuddled close by with hopes that they would wake early.