Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Max Caster/MJF
Additional Tags: Rimming, Sweat/Scent Kink, Handjobs, Prostate Milking, Anal Sex, Felching, Ass-Sniffing
Summary: Max Caster is needy, persistant, and goddamn filthy. And MJF is the (un)lucky object of his desire.
Original Date Of Publication: June 20, 2023
Notes: Inspired by a photo of Max Caster making a suggestive gesture next to a sign reading "NO BALL PLAYING OF ANY KIND"
He has to stop doing this.
"Wow, that match really got you riled up, huh? Fuck, look at you."
He has to stop doing this.
"You taste so good, daddy. All this meat just for me."
He has to-- fuck. Caster's got his entire sac in his stupid big mouth and Maxwell can't think anymore. If he used his mouth like this all the time, he'd be a lot more tolerable. He's better at gargling balls than rapping, anyway. Maxwell closes his eyes and tips his head back with a sigh, and Caster echoes it, vibrating all the way up the length of his cock. He's drooling and sloppy, cleaning up every trace of salt and sweat from Maxwell's match with long swipes of his tongue. The excess saliva soaks the front of his trunks where they're tucked neatly under his balls, and lubes up Caster's hand as he lazily works his shaft. It doesn't get his full attention yet. His focus is just on the taste and smell of Maxwell, as soon after a match as he could possibly catch him.
He's gotten worse lately. The more Maxwell's given into the creep's pleading, the more depraved and risky his demands have become.
Okay, full disclosure: Caster started intercepting him before showering a while ago. And it didn't really take that much persuasion (boiled frogs, y'know) to get from just sniffing his neck or hair and fucking in the shower, to this (Caster's nose pressed into the crease of his thigh and huffing the sour-musky scent of him like he can't live without it). But the point is, it's starting to get risky, grabbing and ushering him into less and less private areas to get his fix of MJF crotch stink. For fuck's sake, this isn't even a room with a door. Just a little alcove made up of crates at the end of a hallway.
"Maxie~ I wanna eat your ass so bad. Please?"
Maxwell's head falls forward and he cracks his eyes open, trying not to look around at how exposed they are. Caster's gazing up at him so innocently, he could believe he's asking for a balloon at a carnival, and not for permission to bury his face in Maxwell's unwashed ass. If it was you, you wouldn't be able to say no, either. Especially while he's twisting his spit-slicked hand around the head of your dick like he's polishing a doorknob. Caster's own cock looks heavy in his other hand. As Maxwell watches, he squeezes and pulls up the length of it, milking a drop of precum from the tip. The floor between his knees is littered with shiny wet dots already.
He really can't say no. But he's not gonna give him the satisfaction of an enthusiastic 'yes,' either and make him completely insufferable from now on, either.
"Fine, whatever."
Caster beams, and drags a prop trunk over, scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn't pay it any mind, but it makes Maxwell's hair stand on end. He's the champion, he can do whatever the fuck he wants, whatever. But he's not gonna be caught dead doing it with Max Caster.
"Knees up here," Caster instructs, patting the top of the box.
"Don't tell me what to do."
He does it anyway.
The position is fucking embarrassing. The box is too small to get on his hands and knees, so he has to arch his back and brace his hands on the wall instead. Pushing his butt out, with his legs spread open. At least he still has his knee pads on. He can feel how the edge would be digging in, otherwise. Caster pulls Maxwell's trunks down just below the swell of his ass, and immediately claps both hands on his prize. He squeezes his cheeks together and swipes his nose up between them like a credit card, inhaling deeply. Maxwell shudders.
"God, you're fucking disgusting," he spits.
Caster just giggles and kisses his tailbone.
"You love it, though. You love when I'm a nasty little freak for you."
"I love when you shut the fuck up."
"Wow, impatient! I'm trying to savor the moment, but if you want me to eat you out that bad--"
Fed up and horny, Maxwell blindly grabs a handful of Caster's hair and all but shoves his ass back into his face. Caster's fingertips dig into his soft flesh, and the fucker moans, meeting him tongue-first. Maxwell bites his lip to hold back his own grunt. This really is the best use for his mouth. Plush lips and hot, wet tongue, sweeping up and down his crack. He pulls him apart with both hands, spits on his exposed hole, and works it into the tight ring. Licking with broad, flat drags. Curling the tip to tug him open. Caster purses his lips and sucks at his rim, wet and noisy and filthy, and Maxwell breaks. He groans open-mouthed and claws at the wall.
"Ho-oly fucking-- God, Caster--"
Caster smiles and hums happily against Maxwell's perfect little pucker. Gradually, it relaxes and lets him in. That tongue feels so fucking long. Longer than it should be. His face is mashed flat between Maxwell's thick ass cheeks, jaw open as wide as possible to fuck him with the squirming muscle as deep as he can. It can't be more than a couple inches. Not deep enough to hit his prostate, but then that's what his hands are for. One around Maxwell's cock, jerking him straight up and down. The other fondling his balls, his thumb pressed against his taint and massaging from the outside. Every movement is fluid and perfectly coordinated. A well-oiled machine.
Maxwell rests his heated face against the cool, painted brick wall, drooling out of the corner of his mouth. Just gone, mentally, at this point. Pudding brain. If he wasn't already on his knees, they'd be pudding too. He can't be bothered anymore by Caster's wet snuffling in his crack when the hard tip of his tongue is working his hole in a circle. He's only bothered when it all stops. Caster kisses up Maxwell's spine, followed close by a trail of goosebumps. And then his swamp ass breath is wafting in his face and he's whining in his ear.
"Can I fuck you? You're so loose and wet back here, it'd be so easy..."
He sinks two fingers into Maxwell and they do go easy. And as pissed as he is about being called 'loose' and having Caster pant his own jock-stench right in his ear, he's still got pudding brain, and his boner could cut diamonds. Caster hooks his fingers and jabs his prostate dead center, and he sees stars for a second, moaning hoarsely as a dribble of clear pre is milked from him. Some roadie idiot's gonna have to clean up this mess.
"Pleeeease, Maxie? I'm probably not gonna last that long anyway..."
Caster couldn't be more pathetic if he got paid for it. Which makes Maxwell even more pathetic for how he nods and pushes back when he taps the fat head of his dick on his asshole. Caster lets out a giddy, fucked up little giggle and kisses the nape of his neck. And, yep, takes a deep, noisy sniff of his sweaty hair. One of the last parts he hasn't given a disgusting, slimy tongue bath yet. Maxwell jerks his head back, bashing into his nose.
"Ow!" Caster squawks. "Oh, you're really gonna get it now, Maxie."
Maxwell gathers enough of his braincells off the floor to almost snap at him to hurry up. Almost. But then Caster does-- slams the full length of his cock into him in one stroke-- and he drops them all again. And he has to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from howling. He's good and open for him, soaking wet. But even with so little friction, Caster's thick, and it's like pulling a muscle. A crampy kind of soreness just barely mitigated by the hands on his dick and balls. The worst part is that it feels so fucking good-- bone-deep satisfying like a hard workout, and electricity zapping from his sweet spot, up his spine. He can feel it in his fingertips. The most annoying person in the world is also, unfortunately, one of the best lays in the locker room. He fucks Maxwell with long, smooth strokes, grinding up when their hips meet. Squeezing his prostate between the stiff bulk of his cock on the inside, and two knuckles on the outside.
Maxwell's eyes roll back. It's so much stimulation all at once, he's not even sure when-- or if-- he comes. It feels like a constant high, just pulsing with every thrust from Caster. He's vaguely aware that he's being loud now, but only as a spectator. It's not like he can control it anymore, or any other part of his body. He just knows that there are punchy, guttural sounds coming from his chest, muffled by his fist, and Caster's babbling as usual.
"Fuck, you're so good, so fuckin' good on my dick, god--"
And yes, Maxwell is good. Maxwell is the best. He's the best at everything, and he's the best at getting fucked out of his mind in a backstage corridor at a stupid arena in a garbage city, obviously. It feels good to get the recognition he deserves. Makes him whine and nod along dumbly. Makes him tilt his head to give Caster more room to kiss and mark up his neck. He starts rocking back, and true to his word, Caster really doesn't last very long after that. It's barely a minute before his hips are stuttering, slapping a few more times against Maxwell's "sweet, perfect" ass, then going still. His dick twitches and gushes inside him. He finally takes his hands away from his groin, smearing sweat and semen up his stomach and chest and hugging him from behind.
"Goooddddd, Maxie..." Caster sighs happily, nuzzling up behind Maxwell's ear. "...I wish I could crawl up inside you and live there."
Maxwell groans and wriggles in his grasp, shaking him and his softening cock loose. Leave it to Max Caster to ruin a moment with his big dumb fucking mouth.
"Get off me, fuck off, don't talk to me ever again."
Caster kisses the nape of his neck.
"Aw, baby, you don't mean that... At least let me clean you up first."
For a second Maxwell actually believes Caster's going to do the right thing. For a stupid, gullible, idiotic second, he actually believes there's a single shred of decency in the man. Stupid. Stupid! No, what he meant was 'let me shove my tongue in your asshole again,' because of course that's what he meant. And all of Maxwell's squirming can't dislodge the vicegrip on his hips, holding him still while Caster licks his own cum out of him (disgusting). Entirely for his own sick pleasure, too, because Maxwell sure as hell can't get hard again right now. There's nothing fucking left for him to give. He feels raw like a ripped blister.
Once he's had enough-- or rather, when they hear Anthony wandering around and calling for him-- Caster gives Maxwell one last kiss, and pulls his trunks back up. The absolute least he could do. He jogs away all cheery and satisfied, but it takes a minute for Maxwell to recover. His knees hurt. His legs are cramped and tingly. They wobble under him when he finally manages to stand up. He's all wrung out. The first step he takes, he shudders. Everything's so slimy and slippery. He's acutely aware of his ass cheeks sliding against each other in a way he's never been before, and it's horrible. Same with his dick and balls, tucked back in his trunks again but shifting around as he staggers to his private dressing room.
He desperately needs a shower. And he absolutely has to stop doing this.
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