#punkofi

I love this ask! When I first read it, I pictured somebody seeing the punkofi tag for the first time and being so confused by it all, however I think you may be asking for my take on the ship, right Anon?

(Please bear in mind this is just me having fun with head canons.)

Punkofi is one of those sweet, steady ships sailing on calm waters. No drama, no turmoil, just love and warmth. The one you call when you need bail. The friend you haven't seen in years and yet it's exactly like it was back then. You're so comfortable with each other that you never have to worry about putting on a front.

Kofi is famously the only man that Punk did not have a disastrous first meeting with, something he's a little disappointed with as everybody else swaps their 'first time meeting Punk' stories and he can't join in. Punk immediately 'took [Kofi] under his wing', offered some encouraging advice and Kofi, a newbie at the time, gladly welcomed it. The pair immediately hit it off, becoming road wives, tag team partners (later champions) and travelling together. Sometimes they even got into scrapes together too, like being constantly pulled over and even nearly arrested.

There's a lovely harmony between their natures. Punk (especially back then) is all passion and rage, while Kofi is much more easy-going and mellow. Like fire and water, they balance each other out.

Neither one has ever had a bad word to say about the other and they have done nothing but want the best for each other. Despite Kofi being the one who concussed Punk during the 2014 Royal Rumble and accidentally setting off the series of events that lead to Punk's firing from WWE, Punk has never been bitter towards him about it (he even complimented his friend's athleticism when he spoke about the incident on that now infamous podcast). Kofi was also one of the few ex-colleagues that Punk publicly congratulated when he won the WWE Championship, bigging up his former tag partner even more by stating that 'it should've happened ten years ago'. In return, Kofi has always spoken fondly of Punk and their friendship, standing up for him even when Punk's reputation took a huge hit in the last few months in AEW.

Kofi remained Punk's road wife even when he upgraded to a bus after finally breaking into the main event scene. I'm sure they've stated that he slept in the bunks (and I'm certain I remember there being a long list of wrestlers Punk would welcome onboard at that time) but one does like to imagine them both sharing the double bed in the plush back bedroom 😙.

But most of all, I like to imagine the drama when AJ and Punk finally got their shit together and started dating. Poor Kofi being tossed out the bed onto the bunks and buying himself the best pair of noise-cancelling ear plugs money can buy! 🤣

I think it says a lot about these two and their bond that when Punk said he had been 'kissed on the lips' when he returned to WWE, that the IWC all unanimously agreed that the perpetrator had to be Kofi! The demand for us to see their reunion was so high that they eventually gave us what we wanted and staged that wonderful segment with the hug and all of our hearts collectively melted. Because while this ship doesn't boast the volatileness of Punkintyre, the emotion of Codypunk or the toxicity of CMJF, it holds a special place in many hearts. It doesn't need anything flashy or gimmicky. It's a healthy, warm, sweet love, second only (at least in this Tumblrina's eyes) to Punklee itself.

Do you ship it?

Reason:

BE UPON YOU

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58506781/chapters/149048434

Kofi Kingston isn’t nervous. He’s bouncing from handshake to handshake, beaming at everybody and throwing out “one love”s. He’s fun to be around, non-threatening in a way that won’t earn him any friends or any enemies.

No distractions.

Kofi Kingston is ready, too. He’s been ready since the day he was born to the sound of Bob Marley. He’s finally going to meet the audience he was meant for, and he’ll put so much energy out there that he won’t have to explain himself any more than the sun does when it rises. He'll light up the arena until it's all reflected right back at him.

Preferably in merch sales.

Kofi Kingston also isn’t real, but nobody here needs to know that. Hell, Kofi’s even lying to himself about it. It’s for the best.

Kofi Kingston wouldn’t mind that he’s about to go out for his TV debut without a single person to talk to. When Kofi Kingston decides to get some warm-ups in, he’s got his headphones on to hype himself up with his own theme song, and he isn’t worried about whether it looks like he’s really in the zone. Kofi Kingston counts through his push-ups without feeling any particular relief in getting to stare at the floor and avoid eye contact. He does not project an anxious ignore-me aura that practically screams “kick my head in backstage and get away with it”.

He must’ve slipped up, though, because a pair of wrestling boots does enter his field of vision with unknown intent, just around head-kicking height. Kofi looks up, slowly, nervously, pulling his headphones down, and then he sees the ECW championship.

“You’re new here, right?”

Kofi throws Kofi Kingston back on- not like a coat, like a switch- and his smile is radiant as he jumps to his feet, and his body language is laid-back, and his accent is terrible.

“Blessings, mi fren!” he bursts out and claps a hand around Punk’s. “Mi tell yuh, mi a huge fan, fi real! A whole heap a honor ta meet yuh!”

“Cool,” Punk answers on a delay, like the word had to work its way through all the windings of his brain behind his narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. “You wouldn’t happen to be nervous at all, would you?”

“Nah, nah,” Kofi replies, quickly. “Nuh worry, mi nah nervous none at all.” He pounds a fist against his chest. “Pure good vibes!” 

“Okay,” Punk replies, slowly. “You seem all amped up, anyway. I’ll leave you to…” He gestures, vaguely. “...get ready.”

Kofi nods, hopping from side to side like a boxer in the ring. “Appreciate it, mi bredda. One love, every time!”

Punk nods, too, but doesn’t actually leave him to (dot dot dot) get ready. He just kind of looks him up and down, visibly thinking.

Then he seems to shake it off. “When you walk out there, just remember,” he says, quietly. “They’re all there to see you. You know? This is your time.”

Kofi tries to say something, but, for whatever reason, the words get stuck in his throat. He just keeps smiling and nodding, but feels kind of stupid about it.

Kofi's match goes really well. His entrance song might not be real reggae, but it does hype up an audience, setting up expectations that he gets to deliver on with time left to show off. 

“Alright.” Punk pats him on the upper arm. “Good luck, man.”

---

Punk, meanwhile, has to defend his belt against the united front of Chavo, Vickie and Edge. Kofi likes to think of himself as an optimist, but it seems kind of inevitable that they'll get what they want, sooner or later, when they're basically running the show by themselves.

It's not great form, but he leaves before the main event's over, before any backstage fallout, so he can get dressed by himself and get the hell out of there. With every step he takes towards the exit, the regularly-spaced overhead lights start to sting his eyes a little more, like he's been awake for way too long. They’re bright and cold, creeping up his back like the darkness of a cellar.

He's walking fast by the time he pushes the doors open and steps out into the parking lot, into the cold night air, and it's instantly much easier to breathe. He shakes the tension out of his shoulders, massages his cheeks- He's been smiling so long, his whole face is sore.

He sits on the curb for a moment of relative peace and quiet. Remnants of post-fight adrenaline buzz under his skin, competing with exhaustion. There's already fans swarming at the gates, trying to get autographs, but they're probably not there for him.

Not yet. 

Somebody like Punk's in a different sphere. Already an established star, already in serious competition, already worth sabotaging. He’d have no real reason to hang around a newcomer, anyway. He's got his own problems to worry about.

The door is thrown open behind him with such force that it startles the Jamaican right out of him. He barely scrambles out of the way. “What the fuck?” he hisses.

Punk’s too busy kicking a trashcan over to hear his little slip-up. He swivels around and, when he notices him sitting there, tries to stop on his heel.

“Oh,” he says, sways on his feet, plants himself, and pushes his hair behind his ear like nothing ever happened. “Hey there, Kofi.”

Kofi’s got his hands raised protectively. It's pretty clear what must've happened. “Listen,” he says, “Mi sorry ‘bout…”

“Are you with anyone?” Punk cuts him off. He’s kind of tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, really overselling his curiosity.

“Like wh-”

“Are you riding with anyone? Like, is it just you, alone in your car?”

Kofi swallows. “Nuh worry yuhself- Mi good by miself-”

“Awesome.” Punk claps his hands together as he straightens up. “You’re with me.”

Punk’s the type of guy to carry a collection of beat-up CDs from rental car to rental car. Kofi couldn’t tell you exactly what’s blaring out of the speakers, but he could learn, maybe- Maybe that's something they could share- He really does like dancehall, he’s been listening to Welcome to Jamrock for years on end. If Punk's a music-minded guy-

And then he’s already leaving. And Kofi’s already following him.

---

Just then, he turns down the volume, giving him a sidelong glance. “You looked great out there, you know.”

“T’anks.”

There’s a restless energy to Punk, not to mention the impressive size and color of his eyebags, that makes it really easy to picture him smoking three cigarettes at once. It's kind of a shame that he doesn't, really.

“D’you know why I picked you up, Kofi?”

“Um.” He’s idly working his hands in his lap. “Nah really.”

“We’re both young guys,” he says, eyes on the highway. “We both worked our asses off to get here. No nepotism. No football scholarships.” He raises his voice as he lowers his foot onto the gas. “We’re both rising fucking stars. And you know what?”

“What?”

“That's threatening to people who are on the way down. And you know who’s in charge?”

“People on di way…?”

“Down!” He smacks the wheel with it. “Precisely. So we're gonna have to stick together. We're gonna have to use all the leverage we can get, ‘cause you can't earn respect from those people.”

Man, Kofi almost says. I just wanna wrestle. Keep my head down. But he nods, instead, because he's quickly learning that it's very easy to let Punk carry on a conversation, which suits him fine, and because he might be learning other things, besides.

“When I was in your shoes,” Punk starts, and stops, and swallows. “When they tell you that you need to earn it- You've earned it already. You could crawl a thousand fucking miles over broken glass and it wouldn't matter. They'll find a reason to hold you down. Remember that, Kofi. Don't play their games.”

Kofi says nothing. Maybe he should've workshopped his character for situations beyond matches and meet-and-greets. 

Punk has to be the one to perk up. “You said you were a fan?”

Not majorly. But everybody knew him. “Fi sure. Mi see yuh pon di indies an’ all dem tings.”

Punk nods, silently, for a while. He picks back up with a sudden inhale. “Well, I wasn't always as level-headed-”

“Yeah.”

“Don't ‘yeah’ me!” he almost laughs, with his eyebrows drawn in offense, but his mouth curled with amusement. “Jeez. I'm being humble, here.”

“Sorry.”

“I wasn't as level-headed as I am now, but I was never wrong. You do any partying?”

“Nah, nah,” he replies, quickly. “Mi a lightweight, yuh nuh. Nah worth it.”

“Okay. Okay.” He opens and closes his hands around the wheel. “If you do- Just don't expect me to pick your wasted ass up, man. I'm done dealing with that shit.”

They keep going down the highway. Nothing to be seen but the lit-up stretch of road and approaching headlights. Drums recorded in someone's garage fade into the background until they almost sound like rain.

Kofi doesn't think he's slept in a moving car since he was a kid in his parents' backseat. He drifts in and out of consciousness, sometimes soothed by the memory, sometimes aching with homesickness. Always with a horrible crick in his neck that forces him to change positions.

“I'm just gonna keep driving,” Punk sighs, looking well and truly tired. “You can sleep, if you want.”

---

When the white noise of the motor stops, he's startled into a state of pure and utter nausea. He doesn't know where he is. He barely knows where his limbs are. There's a click and a hiss, and the air changes, and not for the more comfortable. His head drops into warm hands, and he finds the attached arms to hold on to, and the rest of him is shivering.

“We made good time,” the guy at the end of the arms says. “I'm sorry,” too, and “I know you had a big day.” 

Kofi groans as he leaves his upper body to him, limp, and tries to maneuver his legs out of the car. He stumbles into him, eventually. His eyes burn too much to open.

“Nex’ time you need to jus’... pop some sleeping pills n’ call it a day, man.”

“...Huh?”

---

Kofi's next awakening isn't any more gentle. Much less so, in fact. Somebody claps their hands right in front of his face.

“I am… not going to do that.”

---

“Quick! Waffles or pancakes?!”

“Pancakes!” he blurts out, kicking the blankets away. “What?” He frantically looks around the room, expecting to see a fire, or maybe a flood. “What is it?”

No emergency to be found. Just Punk, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of the most frightening grins he's ever seen. Which, it quickly occurs to him, is the emergency.

“What's going on?”

“Well, first of all,” he says, slowly, like he's savoring it, “The breakfast buffet’s already closed, so I brought you some. And secondly…”

Kofi freezes. It finally occurs to him.

He kind of knew it was a bad idea. Still, he thought he'd last a little longer.

“Okay,” he says, even though it isn't. “Listen…”

“I just want to know why. I'm just fascinated, Kofi. If that even is your real name.” 

“It's just…”

“Are you, like, a pathological liar, but for accents? Is it like a compulsion?”

“Don't…”

“Do you ever switch it up? Are you British on the weekends?”

“Man, shut up!” he finally snaps. “You got me! So what, you think you're funny? You're gonna gloat about it?"

"Well," he says, and is then cut off by Kofi grabbing a pillow and swinging it at his stupid face as a method of punctuation.

"That was a premeditated ambush, that was sleep deprivation, that was enhanced interrogation! None of this is gonna be viable in court! You got nothing!” 

Punk cowers behind his forearms. When Kofi lowers his weapon, he's just laughing back there. Like a jackass. Making him wish he could laugh with him, like a jackass. "I'm sorry-"

"With your damn pancakes, too. Like I might as well ruin my cut if my character’s done."

"I'm sorry," Punk says, struggling to calm down. "I'll shut up- Look-"

He mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Kofi takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why should I tell you anything, anyway?”

Punk thinks for a moment. Then he points at his mouth, waiting for Kofi to wave a hand and break the spell.

“Speak.”

“I'm taking your side no matter what,” he says, kind of bafflingly, voice still light. “But I do want to know what's going on. Maybe you need help with some deep, unresolved emotional issues.”

“It ain’t like that,” Kofi mumbles. “This is just business. It's just selling a product. It's just wrestling, man.”

“Yeah? What're you selling?”

“A character,” he says, morosely. “It’s just a character. He stands out. The kids love him. I’m not the first guy to play it up in the ring.”

“But why- Kofi, do you not realise how weird this is?”

You’re the one being weird, he wants to say. What’re you looking at me like that for? All wide-eyed. And why aren't you kicking my ass, anyway- But Kofi doesn’t really want to fight- He wants to befriend him so bad it's borderline embarrassing- He pulls up his legs, and the blanket, too, just to have something in his hands, and sighs.

“That music hits, and the flag, and the beach, and they’re already primed, you know. They can’t help it, they already wanna see what I wanna be, this laid-back guy who’s always got a big smile on his face and stands up for the little people, and then I can just give it to them-”

“So you’re selling a stereotype.”

“So what!” He claps the back of one hand into the other. “There’s always gonna be stereotypes! You just need to use them!” He drops his hands into his lap. “You can’t just let people look at you and think whatever they want.”

“And so you've been living a stereotype, just, 24/7?”

"Of course not. Just around fans. And wrestlers.”

“Wow. Kofi…”

And he can already tell that Punk likes to think of himself as a mentor figure, as a role model. He’s gonna bust out another well-meaning motivational quote. You need to be real, Kofi. You need to believe in yourself, or else who's gonna believe in you?

And Punk puts a hand on his shoulder. “Kofi,” he repeats. “I think you might be a genius. You have to keep this up forever.”

Kofi blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”