Some left over prompts from a year (or two) ago!
01. White noise
John is sitting quietly at the table, his eyes browsing over the morning's Wall Street Journal. Feeling completely ignored as he sits down at the table with his breakfast, Punk shifts the chair closer until he's directly beside him, waiting for a mention as he leans closer, chewing his cereal loudly into his ear until John's eyes look up.
Punk's brown optics narrow darkly, crumpling up the paper before him and tossing it on the floor. "...I liked it," JBL speaks up meekly. "No. Your nose wasn't all pointy and didn't make you look snooty enough. I'm going to beat Jeff Hardy at this art bullshit too. Maybe if you get naked I'll draw better."
"Did you get my diet soda, John?" Punk asks, narrowing his eyes at the almost empty handed Texan standing before him, having left fifteen minutes earlier, and to come back with only a soft pretzel and a dumb expression on his face. "I got this here pretzel..." he replies. "Your eating it! It wasn't even for me!" Layfield, ever the quick thinker, sits beside him taking another bite, "Well, Darlin', I have to eat the inside for it to be heart shaped, first."
Punk comes running to Johns estranged screaming. "What did you do?" turns into hysteric laughter at his husband. The desk, the floor, even the ceiling fan and Layfield's hair covered in used-to-be-white paper soaking with black ink flying out of the printer. "...I hate technology," John growls.
Tiredly, John slouches over his laptop, absentmindedly pecking at the keyboard when Punk's scream pierces through the silence. Jumping from his chair and running down the hall at a cheetah pace, Layfield's face finally collides with the bedroom door, and after stumbling back manages to open it in a panic, "What happened?" "...Nothing," Punk laughs, "Why are you bleeding?"
06. Played for a fool
John sighs, pouring the last remaining wine into his glass and staring off at the door again. He sighs heavily, getting up from his table and heading back out to his limo. He knew he should have realized Punk was lying when he said he'd go on a date with him.
Punk sits quietly outside, debating what to do with the countless bottles he's stolen from the place John had figured out to elaborately hide them in. He's gone through every conversation, and every romantic moment together, in his mind that he's ever had with his love. What could he have possibly done to make John think he needed to take diet pills?
Brown eyes narrow at the newspaper, the nagging voice behind him calling his name over, and over, and over, and over again. John sighs heavily, pretending the boy was invisible wasn't at all possible, especially when he opens the paper to find the inside pages cut out.. Specifically, the Finances section.
"John?" Phil asks, looking up from laying in his lap with his Money in the Bank briefcase, "...I've been wondering," he asks, trying his best not to sound offensive for the first time in his life, "It just crossed my mind... that if I never agreed to date you, would I still be in WWE?" John shrugs, "Either way I would have kept tryin', Darlin."
From the paper bag on the island counter, John picks up a can of Whipped Cream, opening it directly and spraying some onto the cookie Punk had stuffed into his mouth as they put the groceries away. Never one to wear pants, his brown eyes wander down to Punk's bare legs, grinning to himself when he knows that underwear was a never. Idly passing by, he shakes the can up, waiting for the opportune moment to spray it up beneath his Chicago Cub's jersey.
11. Odd socks.
The Texan slips on his sandals, unsure why there has been a sudden burst of giggles erupting from his husband's pierced lips since he's walked out of the bathroom. He turns around to question it, chuckling a bit as he's become aware his knee high socks aren't doing much to turn the tattooed man on.
John stares strangely at the object in his hand, twirling it in different directions before tossing it over his shoulder. "Come on, Sugar, we're going out instead." Punk snickers, getting his pants from the chair, knowing that there had been no way his privileged husband could ever make breakfast on his own.
13. Under pressure
Punk had rolled out of bed, with just fifteen minutes of being half-asleep before the phone rang, and minutes later was back out the door with the briefcase that John had forgotten. Unlocked, the case drops open, sending the thousands of papers flying around the NYC streets and all around the Fox News entrance way… His mind settles on taking the few that had stuck in a decorative tree, and going back home.
John moans through his teeth, watching Punk's naked body shift through the drawers, his voice whispering that he'd bought something extra special for John to wear. John perks up instantly at the box until the object has him storming out of the room, "I am not wearing a bra made out of fucking candy necklace … I - I don't know! Things!" He slams the door shut, leaving a very pissed off Punk sitting defeated on the bed... until he returns. "Tell anybody, anybody, even Colt, and I'll kill you myself."
John's eyes widen as Punk's voice travels into the room, announcing instantly that he's thinking about getting his ass tattooed. He bolts up from his desk, the home-office proving to be a bad idea again when he isn't able to reach the door in time for the other men in the room to not get an eyeful of his husband naked and dripping wet.
Almost twenty-four hours of listening to John whine that he was hungry, ask for sexual favors, and everything in between; John had fallen asleep against the wall while his maid opened up the closet door, nearly scared to death from Punk rushing out and slamming it shut behind him. "He stays locked in there," he adds, walking away.
17. Winners and Losers
Punk crosses his arms, staring up and down John before taking the golf club from him, "I can do this shit too," he grumbles, having hated wasting his week off in California, golfing, again. He sets up perfectly, mocking every single way John had perfected his technique. The only thing he doesn't get right... Accidentally letting go of the club, and watching it soar over a cliff into the ocean, with the ball.
John groans, his fingers gently massaging his temples before answering the ringing desk phone that just didn't seem to stop today. He answers it in his best tone to keep a professional on his business line. He barely got his own name passed his lips when the vaguely familiar voices of Punk's friends. He groans, picking up the phone from the desk, and disregarding that it had disconnect when he dropped it in Punk's lap moments later, "Your friends are calling my business line again," he sighed defeatedly. Punk stares up at him momentarily, "You know this isn't … mobil- Nevermind," he laughs, fishing for his own cell phone.