Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Max Caster/MJF
Additional Tags: Extremely Dubious Consent, Date Rape Drugs, Anal Sex, Memory Loss
Summary: MJF learns not to accept a drink from anyone obsessed with getting in his pants. Or maybe he doesn't.
Original Date Of Publication: July 17, 2023
Notes: An (extremely loose) AEW Kinkmeme prompt fill.
"See, Maxie, this is why you should be straightedge."
Maxwell. Can't.
He can't. Period.
His head is a thousand pounds. His hands feel like mittens. There was a cup in one of them at some point. It's on the floor now, amber liquid soaking into the cheap carpet. The carpet feels funny under his feet. He curls his toes, uncurls, curls, uncurls, giggles to himself. Helpful, so helpful and sweet, Caster (oh yeah, he's here too) threads his fingers through Maxwell's hair and lifts his head up.
"How we feelin', pal?" he coos.
"Mmmgood. Feel good."
It was scary to be weighed down by his own skin, but. But. But Caster's here. Holding him up. Lifting him up with a shoulder under his armpit, and he's so
"Strombg. You're so fuggin', wow."
"Aw, thanks, Maxie. You ain't half bad yourself."
The world flips, and so does his stomach. And then he's laying down and it's so soft. It feels good, like the carpet. But he can touch with his hands. And Caster's touching with his hands. Touching him. Under his shirt. His hands are so big, moving, tickling, Maxwell giggles again and it's into Caster's mouth because now he's kissing him. Kissing.
He's not supposed to be.
"Mmgh. Don'..."
He's not supposed to kiss him, because... Because...
"You don't wanna kiss?" Caster pouts, sticking out his lower lip. And it makes Maxwell so sad, all of a sudden, because he does, but he can't, and even worse, he can't remember why.
"Mmmno, I wanna..." He whines. He's so confused. Nothing makes sense right now.
"You can, yknow. You wanna touch me, too?"
Maxwell nods, but his hands are still big, fat, fluffy bricks. And there's still something nagging "bad, bad, bad, bad" in the back of his head. But Caster's shirt is off now, and his chest looks so good. Caster helps him, he's so helpful, he takes his hand and puts it on his chest so he can squeeze and stroke. Squeeze. He's squishy, and then he flexes and he's firm and Maxwell's jaw drops open, and now Caster's the one giggling.
"You like that, baby?"
"Wow."
Now that his hands are up, it's easier to keep them up. Flat against Caster's body, mirroring his moves, because that feels right. His knees get hiked up and Caster shoves his hand between them, pawing at his dick. It feels so funny, floppy, soft.
"Aw, I fucked up the dose. Sorry, Maxie, I didn't mean to."
"'S okay." Whatever he's talking about, Maxwell doesn't want him to stop. His hands are so warm, and he feels good and warm and tingling. Caster smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth, then sticks his fingers in there. Maxwell's tongue is all fat and sloppy, unconsciously wriggling around and between his fingers.
"Yeah, you're right. We're not usin' it, anyway, huh?"
Maxwell shakes his head. That feels like the right thing to do. It makes Caster grin again. His mouth is empty for a second, then Caster's tongue is in it, and he mewls pathetically as his now-wet fingers slip between his legs and in his ass. And it's so easy. Should it be this easy? They probably shouldn't be there. Something's telling him they're not supposed to be. He wriggles his hips, though, and Caster curls them just right and--
"Mmmf, fuck--"
Maybe it's okay after all. It feels good. Everything feels so good, so slow, so warm, so wet. Maxwell squeezes his thighs around Caster's waist and arches his back when his cock slides home. The alarms in his head go off again, but Caster drowns them out with another kiss, sucking at Maxwell's rubbery lips and tongue.
"Fuck, Caster... Mmmgod--"
"Yeah? Want it harder, Maxie?" Caster pants.
"Uh-huh."
Maxwell's back twinges as his knees are pushed up, up, practically next to his ears, and he's folded in half. Caster plows into him, deep and hard and with no resistance whatsoever. From his belly button down, Maxwell feels like-- like soup. Like liquid heat. Like waves and ripples are moving through him with every slap, slap, slap of Caster's pelvis against his ass. And it's so good, good, good, he's whining and babbling senselessly, his head lolling back and eyes falling shut, and---
Fuck. Even with the curtains drawn, the morning light filtering through is like a railroad spike through Maxwell's skull as soon as his eyes crack open. He groans, rolling over to escape the puddle of drool on his pillow. Everything hurts. His back is killing him. His match last night wasn't that bad, was it? He doesn't remember taking any particularly hard bumps, at least. It was a pretty run-of-the-mill match. But since they happened to be in New York, Caster had invited himself to his suite with a bottle of bourbon and a Dr. Pepper for himself...
Maxwell's phone buzzes.
Oh yeah, that's what woke him up.
What the hell? He's used to being inundated with Twitter notifications, being the face of AEW and all, but this is pretty ridiculous for the first thing in the morning.
When he sees what he's been tagged in, his face goes pale. Then wrathful, fire-engine red.
"Celebrated another win with the boyfriend last night! He's so sweet when he's tipsy!"
Attached is a photo of Max Caster making a YouTube clickbait-worthy surprised face, while Maxwell, clearly plastered , has his mouth latched onto his neck. The photo ends just below their shoulders, but that's enough to show that they're both shirtless, in the very bed that Maxwell just woke up in.
He's going to kill him. He's actually going to kill him this time. A text from Tony pops up ("I think we should talk about your behavior in public and on social media and how it reflects on the company.") and, yeah, he's definitely going to kill Caster for this.
Fucking taking advantage of him to take a stupid picture like this.
He's lucky he didn't take it any further than that, or else Maxwell would make it hurt, too.
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