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huxleyenneTitle: Only You Can Set Me Free (Read on AO3)
Rating: G- General Audiences
Type: Fic
Size/length/word count etc.: 1,307
Prompt: Denim![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
100ships
Fandom/Ship: World Wrestling Entertainment - CM Punk/Roman Reigns
Notes: Also written for the prompt "WWE, CM Punk, "Cult of Personality" - Living Colour" viafic_promptly.
Warnings: Thinly veiled politics and philosophical drivel set to the aesthetic of buff men kissing.
Summary Talk is cheap. Men Kissing™ is forever.
Permanent residents of the spotlight, their private moments were few and far between. They had mere hours after their time in the ring before going their separate ways, filming their own paths through stardom and glory before coming back around to spit on the mic again, never alone long enough to think or breathe for themselves.
They were only what their audience could make of them.
They were the total sum of all words other people put in their mouths, not just their own.
They were artificial personalities fused to real men.
They were living Barbie dolls playing Dress Up and Bang Bang for bored people.
One would think they were on separate journeys, despite being locked together in a hell ride neither man truly asked for. Stardom is never what anyone dreams and is always something an artist merely puts up with, thinking it’s their best chance to show off what they’re truly made of in corporate purgatory.
As seekers of truth, artists make poor mouthpieces. Sometimes, the things they say come off as subtle cries for help.
Gaslighters, on the other hand, are excellent mouthpieces, for they sell the oxymoron that is altered truth.
Roman and Punk had to gaslight the crowd to survive sometimes.
Artists first and gaslighters second, there were times when Roman and Punk could no sooner sell altered truth than they could divide by zero. That’s what happens when an audience is smarter than previously anticipated.
They live and breathe on camera, like Britney Spears, or Jim Carrey. Real men in real bodies trapped inside of fake people, spinning meaningless narratives for spectacle. Celebrities were social media before social media was a thing.
It’s hard to say who they really are at times.
It’s hard, even for them, to say.
They live lives with full agendas, moment after moment, day after day, year after year, while masses of maws for eyes judge and consume them.
But at the end of the rocky road to WrestleMania, Roman felt like he could finally breathe again.
Overall, Roman didn’t mind Phil keeping his World Heavyweight Championship belt warm for him.
Phil riled up Roman’s cousins good, got the whole Internet buzzing about receipts and hypocrisy, and it all looked repetitive and tired in the making, but it got the job done.
That silly old man, with his skin-tight jeans and his salt and pepper beard ran his annoyingly sexy mouth like it was competing in the Olympics. It was almost like Seth and the intoxicating smell leather all over again, but denim was something else. That was the sauce Dean once used to intoxicate Roman.
How did all these freaks pick up on Roman’s lust for certain fabric smells and textures? Where did they find the time?
He hardly had time to keep up with his gray hairs, let alone anything else!
Where do these men find his kinks? How? When?
The smell of denim killed him every fucking night they were together.
He wasn’t even mad at Phil. Truly, he wasn’t. He never was.
Antagonism was Phil’s job, a language in which Roman was all too fluent. The words he was hearing cut deep enough to itch, but not quite enough to bleed.
Not one “I hate you” spoken between them was the truth.
Phil sold Roman a bunch of refurbished bullshit from the used bullshit shop.
He’s corporate, he’s plastic, he’s a politician.
It’s all he was allowed to say. His king was constantly in check because of it, which was too bad. Roman was finally reached the age of forty, where it felt silly to be anything other than assured and proud of what he was, despite what anyone had to say. Regardless of how nasty they were.
Roman knew what uncensored Phil would really say, if he could.
If this were the Attitude Era, Roman would be a fag. He remembers that from his childhood. Remembers being slapped in the mouth for teaching that word to his cousins, too.
If this were the Ruthless Aggression Era, Roman would be a twink. He remembers that from his adolescence and pretending not to commit queer concepts he overheard to memory automatically. He was still not fully aware of himself at this time in his life. He’d just grown strangely uncomfortable with the word “fag” is all.
If this were the PG Era again, Roman would be safe, heck, someone Punk was obligated to sell as “strong” even. Punk failed to do so at the time, because he didn’t know Roman was strong. He just thought the man was an entitled princess, cherry picked and handed everything on a silver platter, for the trouble of having a pretty, girly face everyone with eyes could fall in love with.
Who wouldn’t envy that, at least a little?
Some thought the PG era would never end.
Now they were in the [REDACTED] era, and Roman will circle back to being a fag at this rate, since everyone is dying to be nostalgic for the 90s for whatever reason.
If that was true, it might as well be true.
Which is exactly why, when they’re backstage behind closed doors, Roman and Punk kiss in secret. They lock in and swap spit like it’s going out of style. They claw at cotton and denim, pull hair, nibble on each other’s tongues. They go hog wild, because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, and love is their only vacation.
There was no point in resisting or brushing off the rumors, when this was all the time they had to be themselves and claim the love and lips of another man who understood, who didn’t want to be alone either, carrying this burden inside. A burden they couldn’t explain to the audience without invoking the ire of the people who owned them.
They were cults of personality. They had no freedom, except in love, which they kept secret to protect it, like Roman once did with Seth and Dean.
Roman felt no guilt over this. He gave the world more than enough of himself, both who he was and who he projected himself to be. Managing both sides of himself were two full-time jobs, even if the crowds didn’t see it, many of whom didn’t appreciate it. He chose this life, so there was no point in complaining. He just took his stolen kisses with Phil and called it a day.
Punk felt some guilt over this. He felt that he made a poor champ for queer people by hiding in the closet, and he knew performing social justice wasn’t helpful to anyone, but it’d been a central part of his character so long now that he’d be remiss to let that side of his caricature die now.
All good characters have an ugly side, right?
Aside from hiding, Punk didn’t think there was anything to be ashamed of honestly. In fact, he wanted to go as far as to say “fuck labels!” and have mixed orgies with men and women, like they do in certain dystopian literature. He wanted to kiss Roman Reigns because he fucking felt like it. The guy was smoking hot and it was hard to get a piece of him. Punk took his stolen kisses with Roman like they were the last he was ever going to get.
With the likes of Seth and Cody prowling around, Roman’s kisses weren’t guaranteed forever.
But Punk would be damned if he wasn’t going to get his fill, after having to trudge through miles of muck to satisfy sycophants.
Every job has its ugly side, too.
So men like Roman and Punk kiss and pleasure each other in private to take the edge off, to feel something real, if only for seconds in stolen time.
It doesn’t always feel good, but once they turn their minds off, they’re almost there.
Rating: G- General Audiences
Type: Fic
Size/length/word count etc.: 1,307
Prompt: Denim
100shipsFandom/Ship: World Wrestling Entertainment - CM Punk/Roman Reigns
Notes: Also written for the prompt "WWE, CM Punk, "Cult of Personality" - Living Colour" via
fic_promptly.Warnings: Thinly veiled politics and philosophical drivel set to the aesthetic of buff men kissing.
Summary Talk is cheap. Men Kissing™ is forever.
Permanent residents of the spotlight, their private moments were few and far between. They had mere hours after their time in the ring before going their separate ways, filming their own paths through stardom and glory before coming back around to spit on the mic again, never alone long enough to think or breathe for themselves.
They were only what their audience could make of them.
They were the total sum of all words other people put in their mouths, not just their own.
They were artificial personalities fused to real men.
They were living Barbie dolls playing Dress Up and Bang Bang for bored people.
One would think they were on separate journeys, despite being locked together in a hell ride neither man truly asked for. Stardom is never what anyone dreams and is always something an artist merely puts up with, thinking it’s their best chance to show off what they’re truly made of in corporate purgatory.
As seekers of truth, artists make poor mouthpieces. Sometimes, the things they say come off as subtle cries for help.
Gaslighters, on the other hand, are excellent mouthpieces, for they sell the oxymoron that is altered truth.
Roman and Punk had to gaslight the crowd to survive sometimes.
Artists first and gaslighters second, there were times when Roman and Punk could no sooner sell altered truth than they could divide by zero. That’s what happens when an audience is smarter than previously anticipated.
They live and breathe on camera, like Britney Spears, or Jim Carrey. Real men in real bodies trapped inside of fake people, spinning meaningless narratives for spectacle. Celebrities were social media before social media was a thing.
It’s hard to say who they really are at times.
It’s hard, even for them, to say.
They live lives with full agendas, moment after moment, day after day, year after year, while masses of maws for eyes judge and consume them.
But at the end of the rocky road to WrestleMania, Roman felt like he could finally breathe again.
Overall, Roman didn’t mind Phil keeping his World Heavyweight Championship belt warm for him.
Phil riled up Roman’s cousins good, got the whole Internet buzzing about receipts and hypocrisy, and it all looked repetitive and tired in the making, but it got the job done.
That silly old man, with his skin-tight jeans and his salt and pepper beard ran his annoyingly sexy mouth like it was competing in the Olympics. It was almost like Seth and the intoxicating smell leather all over again, but denim was something else. That was the sauce Dean once used to intoxicate Roman.
How did all these freaks pick up on Roman’s lust for certain fabric smells and textures? Where did they find the time?
He hardly had time to keep up with his gray hairs, let alone anything else!
Where do these men find his kinks? How? When?
The smell of denim killed him every fucking night they were together.
He wasn’t even mad at Phil. Truly, he wasn’t. He never was.
Antagonism was Phil’s job, a language in which Roman was all too fluent. The words he was hearing cut deep enough to itch, but not quite enough to bleed.
Not one “I hate you” spoken between them was the truth.
Phil sold Roman a bunch of refurbished bullshit from the used bullshit shop.
He’s corporate, he’s plastic, he’s a politician.
It’s all he was allowed to say. His king was constantly in check because of it, which was too bad. Roman was finally reached the age of forty, where it felt silly to be anything other than assured and proud of what he was, despite what anyone had to say. Regardless of how nasty they were.
Roman knew what uncensored Phil would really say, if he could.
If this were the Attitude Era, Roman would be a fag. He remembers that from his childhood. Remembers being slapped in the mouth for teaching that word to his cousins, too.
If this were the Ruthless Aggression Era, Roman would be a twink. He remembers that from his adolescence and pretending not to commit queer concepts he overheard to memory automatically. He was still not fully aware of himself at this time in his life. He’d just grown strangely uncomfortable with the word “fag” is all.
If this were the PG Era again, Roman would be safe, heck, someone Punk was obligated to sell as “strong” even. Punk failed to do so at the time, because he didn’t know Roman was strong. He just thought the man was an entitled princess, cherry picked and handed everything on a silver platter, for the trouble of having a pretty, girly face everyone with eyes could fall in love with.
Who wouldn’t envy that, at least a little?
Some thought the PG era would never end.
Now they were in the [REDACTED] era, and Roman will circle back to being a fag at this rate, since everyone is dying to be nostalgic for the 90s for whatever reason.
If that was true, it might as well be true.
Which is exactly why, when they’re backstage behind closed doors, Roman and Punk kiss in secret. They lock in and swap spit like it’s going out of style. They claw at cotton and denim, pull hair, nibble on each other’s tongues. They go hog wild, because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, and love is their only vacation.
There was no point in resisting or brushing off the rumors, when this was all the time they had to be themselves and claim the love and lips of another man who understood, who didn’t want to be alone either, carrying this burden inside. A burden they couldn’t explain to the audience without invoking the ire of the people who owned them.
They were cults of personality. They had no freedom, except in love, which they kept secret to protect it, like Roman once did with Seth and Dean.
Roman felt no guilt over this. He gave the world more than enough of himself, both who he was and who he projected himself to be. Managing both sides of himself were two full-time jobs, even if the crowds didn’t see it, many of whom didn’t appreciate it. He chose this life, so there was no point in complaining. He just took his stolen kisses with Phil and called it a day.
Punk felt some guilt over this. He felt that he made a poor champ for queer people by hiding in the closet, and he knew performing social justice wasn’t helpful to anyone, but it’d been a central part of his character so long now that he’d be remiss to let that side of his caricature die now.
All good characters have an ugly side, right?
Aside from hiding, Punk didn’t think there was anything to be ashamed of honestly. In fact, he wanted to go as far as to say “fuck labels!” and have mixed orgies with men and women, like they do in certain dystopian literature. He wanted to kiss Roman Reigns because he fucking felt like it. The guy was smoking hot and it was hard to get a piece of him. Punk took his stolen kisses with Roman like they were the last he was ever going to get.
With the likes of Seth and Cody prowling around, Roman’s kisses weren’t guaranteed forever.
But Punk would be damned if he wasn’t going to get his fill, after having to trudge through miles of muck to satisfy sycophants.
Every job has its ugly side, too.
So men like Roman and Punk kiss and pleasure each other in private to take the edge off, to feel something real, if only for seconds in stolen time.
It doesn’t always feel good, but once they turn their minds off, they’re almost there.
