Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: CM Punk/MJF
Additional Tags: Piss-Drinking, Shit-Eating, Vomiting, Coercion, Handjobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, Aftermath
Summary: How did it come to this, that Max was willing to let Punk do anything to him, as long as it meant being near him?
Original Date Of Publication: April 11th, 2024
Notes: None
Max chugs another two bottles of water and stumbles back to the bathroom. They come right back up with half his hand down his throat. It's clear enough that he could drink it again, has been for the past three purges, but he swears he still feels the sick sludge of half-digested shit in his stomach. He knocks his forehead against the rim of the toilet. The cycle repeats with a full miniature bottle of mouthwash. "As many as you can carry," he'd ordered the concierge over the phone. Same with the water bottles-- they'd brought him a whole case, still wrapped in plastic. For the first time in his life, he tipped the staff handsomely.
Punk would be-- it doesn't matter, he's the lowest fucking scum on the face of the earth.
But he would be disappointed.
He didn't say that, but he didn't have to. Punk was so much more tender than he'd ever been with him. He held his hand while wiping his face and looked straight into his soul-- by now utterly soiled and shredded and belonging to him because who else could have gazed at him like that while he was smeared and filled with filth? His eyes were so green and sparkling. The only one still clean. After all, Max had made sure of it. Washed his mouth out just to scrub the last traces of waste from his twitching hole. Not because he was asked to, because... He wanted to. Of course he wanted to. If CM Punk wanted him to lie down on the floor, and wanted to crouch over him just like he'd sat on his chest in the ring, of course Max would let him. And if he wanted Max to lick his asshole, of course he'd say yes. And if--
Another wave of nausea rocks him, makes his head swim and his mouth water. He brings the case of water into the bathroom with him. He's going to be in here a while.
Max didn't mean for it to go so far, but in his head, it felt right. Punk mentioned it sometimes. They watched one of his old matches together once, when he wrestled sick as a dog, and shit himself in the ring. He gave Max a play-by-play, letting him know exactly when he'd lost control of his bowels. He paused to point out the dark smear on the canvas where his ass had been dragged across it. He had a hand around Max's cock the whole time.
"I was jumping and rolling around with my trunks full and soaked. Everything was warm and wet and soft in there."
Punk's hand was, too. Max found himself imagining it and it didn't disgust him as much as he expected, though his face was burning hot and he was frozen in shock at what he was hearing.
"The underarmor really mashed it all around my dick and all. And look--"
Punk pointed again as the ref picked a dark lump off the mat and tossed it away, and snickered.
"Bare handed. Probably threw up in his mouth. Or maybe jerked off about it later."
The first option, he'd presented with clear derision. The second, he seemed to approve of. He sped up his strokes, mouthing at Max's neck.
"What about you? If I fucked you face-down on that stain--"
Max had come right then and there, staring straight at the shiny wet seat of his idol's soiled trunks on the screen. Imagining what it would feel like on his lap, or in his hands. And that was it. Punk had planted the seed in his head, and when he game to reap, Max had been convinced that he wanted it. When Punk's asshole puckered outward like a kiss, Max felt butterflies in his stomach like it would be his first.
Max brushes his teeth until every one is outlined in red and the mouthwash stings his gums. The bitter, rotten taste is gone, but he can't get rid of the phantom weight dropping onto his outstretched tongue. The bodily warmth. The uneven texture. The thick, slow, dreadful slide down his throat-- whole, because he couldn't unlock his jaw, even when Punk had stroked his cheeks with a manic grin splitting his own. He'd felt the same burning-frozen sensation then, and he feels it again now. He was so wrong.
Max had just been so desperate to see him again. He's lost everything else he cares about. His one friend, his title, his own bodily integrity. He'd even lost his greatest idol and most bitter rival. He'd have given anything to have any one of those back, and Punk just happened to butt back into his life first. And Max is different now. It's harder to push people away now that he knows he has room for them. So he let Punk make himself comfortable, take up all the room he could and then ask for more. And more. And more. And they'd already given each other their blood, sweat, and tears, so swapping spit and cumshots just came naturally, as soon as Max found himself wined and dined and groped in the back of an Uber.
It was good. It was everything he never let himself dream of, and didn't want to risk losing again.
"You ever let somebody piss on you before?" Punk asked, out of the blue.
Max snorted. "Dude, that's gross. No."
"Is it?"
His tone was curt. He didn't meet Max's eyes. After a tense moment, he turned and shut off the lamp beside the bed.
"Well, text me or something, if you still want to meet up next week."
Max's chest went tight.
"I will. Sorry."
"Mm-hm."
He almost lost him again. All week, this weighed on him. It wasn't that gross.
Another plane ride, another hotel room. Max knelt in the shower stall, his face so hot that the yellowish stream hitting it felt cool in comparison.
"Open your mouth."
He didn't want to lose him again. It wasn't that gross. He'd watched Punk down at least a gallon's worth of water bottles. The taste was-- it wasn't that gross. Max's body locked up, staring up at Punk. His jaw stayed open as Punk fed him his cock, giving him no other choice but to sputter and drink. Punk looked at Max like something so precious when he held his head down, that it was worth every drop.
He never felt himself boiling, until it all spilled over.
Max feels scraped and scoured, inside and out. His face is raw in spots where he couldn't be sure that he was looking at a streak of uneven spray-tan. The faint burn and knifelike smell of bleach on his breath might have been a step too far, but if desperation got him into this mess, it's only poetic that a moment of desperation would get him out. He's exhausted. How long has it been since he really felt clean? When he thinks back... Maybe it was that first time he got a call from Punk. That first time, when he was a little buzzed-- Punk knew he was, he paid for his drinks-- but still batted his hand away from his crotch in the back of that car. When he felt a chill, like a chasm had opened between them when they'd spent the evening getting so fucking close, and rushed to close it, saying "Okay, just... At the hotel, okay?"
Max's phone buzzes. A new text from "Punker ❤?".
"theres a good sushi place in the city im in next week. ill txt u the address, meet me there."
Max hammers out a reply with hateful tears in his eyes.
"no i wont dont ever talk to me again i never want to see u again fuck u"
Max's thumb hovers over the "send" button.
He erases the text.
He can always make himself clean again. He can't be alone again.
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