Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Samoa Joe/CM Punk
Additional Tags: Blowjob, Tooth Trauma, Blood, Masochism, Handjob
Summary: No matter where they find each other, it's the same story. Punk's not satisfied until he's taken everything Joe can give him.
Original Date Of Publication: July 10, 2023
Notes: Takes place after Collision, 7/8/2023
Joe's not surprised one bit when Punk staggers into his locker room and tosses his duffel bag on the floor, barely five minutes after the show's gone off air. But he puts on a sardonic smirk and scoffs all the same.
"Still not enough for you?"
Punk sinks gingerly to his knees in front of him. "Has it ever been?"
He paws at his dick through his shorts. His hands are still wrapped in bloody tape, orange-pink still pooled between his teeth. He lurches forward, but Joe stops him with a hand around his jaw. Huge, spanning ear-to-ear across his chin. Punk moans, half in pain when he squeezes experimentally.
"You haven't been to a medic yet," he states. He knows his rival too well.
"Just a cut lip and a cracked tooth. It can wait." Punk's tongue pokes at his cheek, feeling around the breakage.
Joe raises an eyebrow. "It's gonna hurt like hell."
"Don't tell me you don't want to hurt me," Punk sneers.
They both know each other too well.
Joe's jaw clenches. So does his hand. Punk winces. There's a heavy moment where they both glare at each other again, like time's rewound 20 minutes and they're waiting for the bell to ring again. Each waiting for the other to take the first step, forward or back. To give way. And it's Joe, because Punk's right. He wants him to hurt. He deserves it, winning by roll-up, then strolling in here because he's never fucking satisfied until he regrets showing up to the arena in the first place. Fine. Joe's good at making people regret facing him.
He keeps his grip on Punk's jaw as he stands and pulls off his trunks and shorts, one-handed. Shoves his thumb in his mouth to keep him occupied while he strokes his cock halfway hard. He could let Punk take care of it, let him lick and drool and suck to his heart's content, but the quicker he can get to fucking his face, the better. When he has to tap out from the pain, he'd like to at least be CLOSE to coming.
"Last chance to back out."
Punk doesn't even answer. As soon as Joe takes his thumb out of his mouth, he leans in and swallows his cock down to the root. A little too fast, too eager. He whimpers around it, a little warning sting shooting through his jaw. But his dick throbs in his shorts all the same and he ruts into the heel of his palm as he starts to suck him off in earnest. It's easy at first. Joe lets him take it easy. He's still kind of soft and fits comfortably in his mouth. He can pull away and lap at the head and wriggle the tip of his tongue against the slit the way that always makes him swear under his breath (and tonight is no different). He doesn't have to do the one thing that hurts the most, actually closing his lips around and sucking hard. Not yet. But twisting and tangling itself around the arousal in his gut is a second coil-- anxiety. It's going to hurt, just as soon as Joe gets tired of this foreplay and gives Punk what he came here for.
The harder and fatter Joe's cock gets in his mouth, the harder it is to avoid aggravating his tooth. Bumping into it. Pulling on the exposed nerves with the suction he can barely avoid anymore. He keeps his jaw as wide open as possible and relaxes his throat, and that's the signal for Joe to take charge.
"This was more fun when you had long hair," he chuckles, palming the back of Punk's shaved head like a basketball.
The ease with which he controls him shoots liquid fire through his veins. After 20 years he'd finally managed to get that reaction under control while facing Joe in the ring, but it's returned full-force now. He shivers, eyelids fluttering. A little bit of that anxiety is soothed. Just enough that he doesn't brace himself.
The push is easier than the pull, for once. Punk makes the mistake of relaxing, letting his lips form a seal, and that little sting becomes a shock. A violent shudder rolls down his spine, chased by a low moan. He squeezes himself through his trunks. Jaw slack, tongue out. Breathe through the nose. Nothing he hasn't done before. Focus on the rhythm of Joe fucking his face. Swallow around the tip as he hammers the back of his throat. Nothing Joe hasn't done to him before.
It's just this particular kind of pain that's new. A broken finger, a cracked rib, those are all things he's good at fighting though. The pulsing, zipping flares from his tooth are pure and visceral like nothing else. It can't be ignored. Tears flow freely down his cheeks, cutting through the gruesome mess of blood and spit that splatters fresh with every thrust. Raw nerves from top to bottom. Dragging and ripping from his jaw, rough fabric rubbing the weeping head of his dick.
Punk lets his eyes roll back and gags wetly around Joe's shaft. Usually, around this time, he'd be nestled in a nice, stupid corner of his head where he can just get off on being used. Warm and cozy. This is something else new, this unrelenting presence of mind. He's locked out mentally, and locked in physically by the wide hand gripping his skull and forcing him all the way down, squashing his nose against Joe's pelvis. He squirms on the floor.
A switch flips, all of a sudden, and panic overrides. Almost unconsciously, he grabs Joe's hips and digs his nails in. Keeping him buried deep in the back of his throat. If he pulls out again, he's going to fall apart. His throat spasming, his lungs burning, he can stand that. But he can't handle the agony in his broken tooth. It's too much. Finally, Punk can't take any more. He sobs and slaps Joe's leg, three times.
Joe pulls out of Punk's mouth quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. Making him yelp like a kicked puppy.
"You're not good enough," he growls, switching his grip to hold Punk by the throat while he jerks himself off. "You've never been strong enough to take what you ask for, and you never will be."
Punk gazes up at him, painted red from nose to chest, maybe reverent, maybe too dazed to even understand what he's saying. But his chest heaves with another sob, "P'ease," and that's close enough to a prayer.
Joe shoots across his face with a grunt, striping his forehead, his swollen, bruised cheek, his gaping, bloody mouth. He lets go of Punk's throat, and he slumps on the ground. Punk slumps on the floor while Joe comes down. He's blinking slowly like a cat, absently licking his lips clean. Still hard, tenting the front of his trunks.
Joe rolls his eyes. "Come here."
He hauls Punk's limp body up, into his lap. He's trembling, panting against his shoulder, drooling blood all over him. But as soon as Joe tugs down the front of his gear and gets a hand around his dick, he bucks into it.
"Jesus. Are you 41 or 14?"
"Be'r hobe 'm for'y one, ol' man," Punk slurs.
Joe scrapes his thumbnail across his tip in retaliation, earning him a shaky "oh, fug--" and a jerk of Punk's hips. Never enough. He always wants more. Can't even take a regular handjob, he needs the tight grip and rough calluses, the nails raking down his spine and digging into his hip to keep him perched on Joe's thigh. He needs everything to be punishing.
"Bi' me, fug, 'm a'mosh dere," he begs, and Joe obliges. The second he sinks his teeth into Punk's shoulder, the man goes rigid and he releases between their sore, sweaty bodies. Joe doesn't let go until Punk does. Not until he's limp against him again, and he has to stand up with him balanced on his hip like a baby.
He drags a folding chair out of a corner and kicks it into the shower stall. He sits Punk down, and he's already recovered enough to wrinkle his nose at him like a petulant child.
"You've lost a lot of blood and you're still half in shock from pain. I don't trust you not to slip and kill yourself, old man," Joe sneers, pulling his gear off piece by piece.
He lets the spray hit him straight in the face for a couple seconds before scooting him back. Can't be too soft on him. And his face was filthy anyway. Punk sputters and mumbles some attempt at swearing under his breath. He catches the soapy cloth Joe tosses at him, thankfully able to wash himself at least. He's extremely ginger with his face, wincing every time he has to scrub at his swollen cheek. Joe snorts.
"This is the worst idea you've ever had. I don't think they're gonna be able to repair that one anymore."
Punk shrugs. "Ain' da firsh dime you cosh me a toof."
"Mm. Can you make it to medical on your own?"
Punk cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. He's stopped shaking, and his eyes are clearer, if tired. He rises to his feet slowly, keeping a hand on the back of the chair. He seems stable enough.
"I 'hink 'm fine."
"Good."
He steps out of the shower, taking the chair with him. Joe takes his place. He looks like a crime scene. Bloodstained in far worse places than Punk was. He hears the door open and close, not even a goodbye. Whatever. He's got more than teeth missing in his head, but it's not Joe's responsibility to chase after and babysit him. Punk wouldn't want him to. He wants the same thing from Joe, every time, win or lose. Punishment.
He'll be back, eventually. He always comes back.
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