Comment fic: WWE RPS, CM Punk/John Morrison, superstition
Punk was licking the knuckles of his hand for the third time when John walked into the otherwise empty locker room. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to cover-up what he’d been doing, and trying to hide his face in embarrassment.
“You’re facing Mark Henry in….” John lowered his sunglasses for a moment to check the clock on the wall, “eighteen minutes and you’re in here cleaning yourself?”
“I wasn’t cleaning myself. I’m not a cat.” Punk turned his back to the other man, pretending to adjust his trunks and hoping that Morrison would let it go.
“You just taste that good, huh?” John sounded amused.
“You’ll never know, will you?” Punk smirked over his shoulder and, after seeing that the other man was still heading his way, he turned his attention to brush some non-existent substance off of his arms.
“I’m sure I taste better anyway.” John slipped past Punk to lean against the lockers that the other man was facing. Strands of dyed black hair obscured Punk’s vision when he tilted his head down trying to avoid John’s gaze, but he could still see John’s fingers drumming on his rhinestone studded pants.
“Seriously, I just walked in on you making out with your hand. Is this some kind of straight edge loophole, where you get into freaky situations with yourself in public or-”
“Come on, I wasn’t making out with my hand. It’s just a superstition thing.”
John straightened up a bit and Punk regretted that he seemed to be even more interested. “Superstition? CM Punk is doing something because of a superstition? I thought luck was for losers?”
“It’s not a big deal. It’s just this thing where you lick your fist before you hit someone-” Punk sighed. “It’s just something I do before some of my matches.”
“You ever do it before a match with me?” Curiosity was evident in John’s voice and Punk peeked up, confused for a moment.
“Probably, yeah.”
“So if you hit me in the face, I probably got a nice mouthful of your spit, huh?” John almost looked smugly pleased with himself, but perhaps it was the giant sunglasses douching up his expressions.
“Whatever gets you off, buddy.” Punk finally straightened up to face Morrison head-on. “Look, it’s just a ritual I kind of stick to out of habit. It’s not like I believe in it.”
“I don’t know, you’re doing pretty well for yourself. Maybe it works.”
“I work. That’s why I’m doing pretty well for myself.” Punk crossed his arms in front of himself.
“Still. Couldn’t hurt.” John licked the back of his own hand.
“Yeah, maybe if you figure out how to do it right you’ll get to win a world title.” Punk laughed, trying to get himself into a more aggressive mindset before his match.
“You’re the expert,” John held his left hand out in front of Punk’s face, like royalty waiting for a peasant to kiss his ring. “Why don’t you show me how to do it right?”
“If I put my mouth on your hand, you’d never let me leave.”
“Maybe I won’t let you leave either way.” John quickly reached out, placing his fingertips on Punk’s waist just to the right of his Straight Edge tattoo.
Punk glanced down at where the other man’s hand rested on his side. “You keep flirting with the wrong people like this, you really are going to need some good luck.”
“You saying you’re the wrong person to flirt with?” John kept his right hand on Punk’s waist, but he started to lower his left hand from where he’d been holding it out, and Punk caught the other man’s arm just above the elbow to hold him in place.
Punk ran a thumb along John’s knuckle. “The right way to do it is you lick right here three times.”
“And what does it do besides get your hand wet?”
“It’s a superstition,” Punk shrugged, “Put whatever meaning on it you wanna put on it.”
“I think…if I lick my hand three time before a match, then you’ll lick me three times after the match.”
“Well, you have a match later. Go for it and see if it works.”