A soft smile spreads across The Wrestling God's adoring lips, gently inhaling the scent of his tattooed lover's neck, strands of jet black hair falling against his nose as it drifts over the soft skin waiting to be shaved in the morning. His love remains fast asleep as the city lights surrounding from the window carousel around in caramel chocolate eyes – he doesn't need the lights to find the tattoo hidden behind his lover's ear.
Carefully, he pushes himself up on the mattress and sets to fixing the tossed around sheets in an attempted distraction from staring at the younger man; he knows he doesn't like when he stares – especially when he's sleeping. Struggling to refrain, JBL sits back up and allows his eyes to lock in on his prized obsession, his manicured fingers brush the fallen tresses of freshly dyed hair away from his face... his husband always looks perfect; and he tries not to think about how bad it makes himself feel.
John chuckles under his breath, trying his best not to be audible, it's something he's never been good at - he's from Texas, and naturally loud. He can't see it, but he's sure his love has started drooling onto the pillow through his snoring. Five minutes have passed, and he's sure he hasn't blinked once even though his mind races with thoughts about the past, present and future.
Off guard, he nearly falls back off the bed as Punk's palm collides with a hard smack to his face, groggily announcing that if the older man couldn't stop staring he'd end up sleeping on the couch.
Punk's smile is like a lighthouse in the dark room, hazel eyes just as spectacularly dazzling in the dark as they are at dinner across from candle light and wine glasses full of soda. John says nothing, and chuckles when Punk raises his Vanilla Ice styled eyebrows and expects a cricket or two to begin chirping just before John's hands clasp around his waist and pull him into his lap.
Euphoria spreads through every inch of his body and provides the thought that he might have become addicted to the way his Texan can make his skin tingle and his cheeks flush amaranth. He purrs through pierced lips as hands advance up his un-inked back, finger tips caress in gentle wisps ascending and descending over his spine.
In one soft, swift moment, John's fingers rest on his lumbar; he's glad the boy hasn't opted to get a tramp stamp. Punk blushes venetian, and focuses down on John's unclad chest pressing against his own body covered in only a small camisole that John had purchased him – complete with his beloved design of the rib cage upon it. Staring down at his chest does nothing to help his blush that is now accompanied by a resisted dirty smile, he rests his own tattooed hands on the collar bones of his wrestling god and burrows his sultry smirk into his breasts.
For a few moments, Layfield rests his chin on the top of the young man's head, letting the shampoos scent inveigle his senses. Another chuckle comes from his large belly and one of his hands free from the magnetic attachment on the spinal cord; his fingers push his own bangs from his eyes before they carefully pick up his Chicagoan's chin; he loves gazing into those beautiful eyes that light up only for him.
JBL's gaze lowers, focusing on the metal ring through those perfect lips. His own eyes close slowly as he presses their lips together, savoring every second of it while the breeze from the window drifts over their skin. Their kiss deepens, and they stake their own prohibition against turning anything into a purely sexual display – something they've always been connoisseurs of. They know that they'll go to the grave together as their friends are corralled in the divorce lineup.
John's sure that if he opened his eyes the room would be spinning; kissing CM Punk makes him need a shot of whiskey that he can never have - or would ever want.
Layfield almost wants to go back in time to talk with his bar-brawling, cigar-smoking self and attempt to convince himself, with out getting knocked into a coma, that he'd end up with a sexy, younger, heavily tattooed goth... boy from Chicago... after divorcing his wife – having still not scored a successful date with the man of his dreams until three months after... If he wakes from that initial coma, he wonders how his self would react, aside from disbelief, to the fact that not only had he married the man, but stopped smoking his beloved cigars and hasn't touched a drink of alcohol in years.
Pierced lips part slightly, his voice a soft, slow whisper between small instant series of kisses to ask what his lover was thinking about. He doesn't feel distracted, but Punk always knows when so much as steak crosses his line of thought even if for a second – it makes him wonder if his Gothicism has given him some witch powers to read his mind.
When he doesn't respond right away, Punk's black coated fingertips trail down John's sides, sending tremors through his upper body, he grins against his lips when John lets out vacillated breath before recapturing their kiss.
Maneuvering himself to kneel slightly suspended above him, The Straight Edge star is trying his best not to giggle at the fact that he can still make John Bradshaw Layfield dizzy and lightheaded with just a kiss; he'd taunt him for it, if only his lips didn't give himself the same exact feeling.
The Texan leans back, letting his trophy husband go and using his arms to keep himself propped up, and his deficient knees to help Punk from falling over. Under his breath, he confesses that the one thing on his mind was nothing other than his Gothic beauty – who narrows his eyes at this, and informs him for yet another countless time in their four year marriage that under no circumstance was he considered to be a Goth. As always, it doesn't register to John's set in definition.
John moans softly into Punk's mouth, shifting their weight onto his left arm while Punk's warm breath ghosted over his skin like butane, sending several more tremors throughout his body for the wonderful feeling of every last tattoo pressing against his own unadorned flesh.
Every night Bradshaw is thanking God that he's managed to have everything he's ever desired in life – and that he has thrown in the bonus of Mr. Money in the Bank's hatred to wear any type of pants. He knows hating himself is a small price to pay to have everything he loves.
His strong hand unravels the tattooed one from his neck, and his lips set to making a trail of feathered kisses from black painted nails up to his lips. His fingers tangle up into the long black hair, their eyes close yearningly, pulling him hard into an explosive, passionate kiss while his other arm collapses their bodies into the sheets. John can feel the boy's cold stainless steel nipple rings through the stretchy cotton of his shirt – he exhales hard at the touch and tosses his head back.
CM Punk takes the quick opportunity to burrow his face into Layfield's chest and rummage about for a couple of seconds, listening to his lover's hearty laughter that reverberate their anatomy.
They lay still for a few moments, and Punk nestles into his chest, his pierced ears gently resting over his heart; listening to the beat reciprocal to cardiac arrhythmia. Worried; he picks his head back up and looks over John – he assures him that he's alright and he rests back down on his chest and enjoys the fingers combing his onyx hair.
Caramel eyes flutter open to the windows as the breeze rolls over his skin, taking in the view of the city – his city, bright and lit up. His head turns back, finding the pillow and locking his eyes with Punk's. Their smiles are faint and adoring, their lips unable to refuse the magnetic connection that presses them together again.
Punk rolls off, snuggling tight to John's side before whispering aloud "Fuck it," and laying himself back on his husband, using his stomach as a pillow; it almost makes John feel better about his weight. The Texan sets to fixing the luxurious sheets over themselves, sneaking a peek at the other man's round, beautiful ass. He sighs softly, kissing him once more before starting their "I love you more" fight until Punk yawns, and tells John to shut his big mouth.
John smiles, and tries not to laugh. His fingertips stroke through the long black strands of Punk's hair, and protectively watches over him until he's fast asleep... and wins the fight by factually proclaiming in a soft whisper that he loves him the most and waits for his insomnia to disperse.