Ungefug

Dean Ambrose comes swaggering up to him in the locker room, just as CM Punk is pulling off his left boot. Few dare to enter into that miasma but Dean takes no note of it. He’s special like that.

“Hey,” he says, his hands in his pockets, leaning back leisurely.

Punk looks him up and down. Dean is wearing the mandatory WWE backstage dress code: slacks, shirt and suit jacket. Punk has never seen a wrestler make it look as sloppy as Dean does. It’s frankly endearing, he looks like a wet poodle.

“Hey,” Punk replies and returns his attention to his other boot. 

Any other time he’d enjoy talking to Dean, for Dean to speak to anyone is rare enough and Punk thinks he likes Dean, he’s seen him wrestling, although he’s not sure Dean feels the same because he’s mysterious, to put it nicely. It’s just that right now Punk just wants to get under the shower, get to his hotel room and then cry a bit, jerk off, maybe at the same time, and go to sleep.

Punk pulls off the other boot. Dean doesn’t move from his spot, and while Punk gets out of his kick pads and knee pads, quite aware of Dean’s feet just at the edge of his vision, Dean’s just standing there, doing nothing, breathing.

When Punk finally looks back up at him, an annoyed what?! on his lips, Dean is holding his phone in his hand and he asks, “Can I have your number?”

“Uh, sure,” Punk says. 

He doesn’t normally do that, doesn’t want to end up in some group chat with the boys, but Dean has taken him by surprise. Punk wipes his hand and takes Dean’s phone off him.

As soon as Punk hands Dean back his phone (Punk’s number saved as first name Punk, second name Best in the World), Dean just walks off without saying another word, not even a thanks. Something’s wrong with that guy.

When Dean messages him later that night, Punk is already lying spread out on his bed in his generous hotel room, wearing nothing but his socks and boxers. He showered and he cried but he hasn’t jerked off yet and he’s got his phone in hand, in the process of locating his favorite video, the one where the guy getting plowed moans like he’s being flayed, which is when Dean’s message pops up, giving him a fucking jump scare.

— is this punk?

Punk has the sudden vision of Dean holding one of those old fashioned telephones from back when speaker and microphone were separate pieces and in his vision Dean’s shouting into the wrong piece, going hello, hello, who is speaking, is this Punk?

— Yeah. Hi, Dean :)

Dean replies after what seems like an eternity.

— cool

Then radio silence. 

Punk tries to pick up the conversation again, because what the fuck is wrong with that guy?

— Anything you wanted to talk to me about? 

— just bored. no tv in this room… minibar empty… can I send you a dick pic?

Punk stares at the screen of his phone in disbelief. It’s got to be a joke. Dean’s fucking with him. It feels like a honeypot and he’s not going to step right into it. 

After some careful deliberation, choosing just the right phrasing, he replies:

—Why would you ask me that?

— it’s rude to just send someone a dick pic without asking first

— That’s not what I fucking mean! Why would you send me a dick pic?

— thought you might like it

Punk starts typing an angry rant. He sighs. Backspaces all of it. Okay, whatever, he likes dicks and even antisocial Ambrose has clocked him. No point playing hard to get.

— ok, send it. :3 

After sending that utterly damning message Punk demonstrates to himself how little he cares about receiving photographic evidence of Dean’s dick by opening his browser again for that video he’d been meaning to watch before Dean got him all distracted, but it doesn’t take Dean long to respond.

The photo Dean sends him is indeed a dick pic, but a picture of Dean’s dick it is not. Punk is not acquainted with Dean’s genitalia but he assumes it’s not five shades darker than the rest of him nor does he really think he’s got an elephant tattooed on it, or rather an elephant’s trunk, the rest of the elephant is tattooed onto the body of the man that is definitely not Dean and it’s so big, both the trunk and the face which is scaled accordingly, that the elephant’s ears cover the whole belly, and that’s definitely not Dean’s belly nor is it his hotel room in the background.

— That’s not your dick.

The written words don’t quite convey his surprise, anger and… disappointment?

— no

— Then why did you send me that?

— thought it looked funny

Okay, it’s definitely disappointment that Punk is feeling now and it’s hitting him like a cold wave of insecurity crashing at the shore of his miserable body. For a brief moment Punk thought Dean Ambrose was coming onto him because he’s so fucking irresistable the kid saw him all sweaty after a match and immediately thought, I need to tap that. 

Punk puts the phone down and stares at the ceiling, despairing for some long seconds, until he realizes he’s being utterly ridiculous. He bites his lip, calls himself names under his breath, picks up his phone and tries to be less of a cry-baby about it.

He ponders the dick pic again, attempting to see the humor in it. Yes, that is a funny penis, it’s got so much foreskin on it, it really looks like an elephant’s trunk, but it would be much funnier if Punk hadn’t got himself mildly excited for something else. Well, more than mildly excited. He cups his crotch, checking in on his arousal, and finds a solid erection. Turns out he was really looking forward to jerking it to Dean’s dick.

It’s either the lack of blood in his brain or his hurt pride that makes him do something stupid next.

— Dean. Send me a photo of your dick. Hard. With your hand for scale. Get your balls on it.

He licks his lip and after a brief moment of hesitation, he adds:

— Send hole too.

Dean’s reply comes faster than Punk expected, given Punk’s complicated instructions.