Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: MJF/CM Punk
Additional Tags: Extremely Dubious Consent, CNC Gone Wrong, Alcohol, Forced Drug Use, Piss, Vomit, Anal Sex, Degradation
Summary: The "Straight Edge Savior" is curious what life's like on the other side of the fence. Only a real scumbag would take him up on the offer to take advantage of him when he's drunk.
Original Date Of Publication: August 13, 2023
Notes: An AEW Kinkmeme prompt fill. Uploaded on my sister's birthday!
Max narrows his eyes. This has to be some kind of prank-- but CM Punk isn't exactly a prankster.
"Run that by me again. What do you want from me?"
"I want you to get me drunk. And then do whatever the hell you want with me."
"You're asking me to date rape you?"
"I'm giving you blanket permission, so no. If that's what you want to do, I'm not gonna come after you tomorrow morning."
'But it's still a date?' Max stops himself from asking. He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. Crosses his arms over his chest.
"Why me? You're gone for months, can't even say a damn word to my face even when you come back, and now you want me to break your holier-than-thou vows?"
"When you put it that way, it sounds pretty romantic, doesn't it?" Punk snickers. "But you said it yourself. You're a scumbag. You're still a scumbag, and no baby blue booboo eyes and dinner dates are gonna change that. You're still shitty little Max, and you still want to see me suffer for my sins, don't you?"
Max rolls his eyes.
"You're bringing your Catholic guilt to the wrong mensch."
"Am I? Wouldn't it be a mitzvah to set me straight?"
Max wants to punch him so fucking bad. Punk's posture is relaxed, smile crooked as always, but there's a steel glint in his eyes. He knows exactly how to twist a knife and get what he wants. Max hates that it's working. His lips press tight, holding back a hundred things he wants to scream at him. He's trying to be better. He has to be better. Maybe... Maybe this way, he can prove that he's better than CM Punk thinks he is. Whatever he wants? Well, maybe he wants to be responsible and just put him to bed when he's had enough.
"Fine," he huffs. "After the show. Come up to my suite."
Punk smiles wider. "Alright. It's a date."
God fucking damn it.
The front desk clerk recognizes Punk. His eyes go wide and his smile is a little wider than customer service politeness, although he reins in his fanboy reaction. More importantly, he doesn't give him any shit when he asks for Max's room number. Just gives him a funny look, like he wants to ask what for, but thinks better of it. Not that he'd get an answer anyway. Punk thanks him with a wink, just to see him brighten up a little more. Probably made his whole year. Who's the mensch now, Max? He even went out and bought the most expensive bourbon he could find at the liquor store, as a thank you for indulging his fucked up little fantasy. The first drink, Punk tries to match Max. The same way an addict says "I can quit anytime," he guesses he wanted to prove he could handle it neat if he really wanted to. He can't. It doesn't matter how tippy top shelf this shit is, it still feels like drinking gasoline. To his credit, Max at least tries not to laugh in his face as he coughs and sputters, but his lips are pressed in a tight line again and he snorts when the liquor dribbles down his chin. After that, he pulls a 2-liter of coke from his mini-fridge and a bottle of rum from his own little brown bag, and starts pouring him rum and cokes while he nurses his bourbon. He's surprisingly easy to drink with, after everything. A couple tender moments and a half-assed face turn really does do a hell of a lot of good for a guy, apparently. Not enough to make him think twice about getting his childhood hero plastered for the singular purpose of "taking advantage" of him, but hey, that serves Punk's agenda just fine. He puts some grainy VHS-to-DVD-to-MOV rips of his favorite matches on the fuckoff huge flat-screen, and keeps refilling Punk's glass as soon as it's empty. And he talks a lot. Mostly complains. Mostly, Max complains about the state of modern wrestling, and longs for good-old-days that he wasn't even alive for. Correcting him and reminding him how shitty things used to be behind the scenes keeps Punk from getting anxious about how foggy he's starting to feel.
Max hasn't been counting how many times he's refilled Punk's glass, but the 2-liter bottle of soda on the coffee table is about 3-quarters empty, and he hasn't had anything constructive to say about the past few matches. He's clutching the empty cup like a ship's mast in a storm, but it's not enough to keep him from slowly keeling over to the side. This whole time, Max has been keenly aware of his progress and absorbing and memorizing all the little quirks that he finds. He might be the only person who's ever seen CM Punk buzzed. And tipsy. And completely sloshed. He got quieter at first, rigid and nervous. Then he seemed to push past some kind of threshold and relaxed again. And that's when Max started learning some very interesting details about his hero.
"That guy... Fuckin' monster when I was startin' out."
He points, wobbly, at one of the men onscreen.
"Y'see how fuckin' hung he is? Fucker kicked me in the gut in the locker room... 'N shoved it down my throat. I pissed myself 'cause he hit me just right, 'n cause I was scared shitless..."
Max's stomach twists. This isn't the first story he's heard of young talent abused backstage. It's not even the first time he's heard a story about Punk. But most of those were just fansite rumors, and most of those were self-indulgent fantasies. He's pretty sure Punk doesn't have the presence of mind to make shit up right now. He leans against Max's shoulder, muggy booze-breath wafting over his cheek.
"... But I was hard as a fuckin' rock."
He doesn't want to hear this. He shrugs Punk away and takes his glass.
"Let's get you another drink, bud."
Max makes the next couple refills stronger. Punk is either too drunk to notice, or he's gotten used to the taste. He sucks them down like it's his job, but they do their job and shut him up. That, and it's hard to talk about his indie sexcapades when he's trying to lick his way into his mouth. And that makes it really hard to stick to the plan and push him away. If he'd known just how handsy he'd get, he would have turned him down (or at least, that's what he tells himself). It's not his fault. Having a drunk slut crawl in his lap and flop their whole body against his would make his dick hard any day of the week. The fact that it's CM Punk, his childhood hero and teenage wet dream and adulthood nemesis (and still wet dream, if he's totally honest), makes it at least ten times better/worse.
He's only human. Punk did ask for this, and he's been provoking him on purpose with his locker room stories. He is drunk enough that he probably won't remember anyway. Max could put him to bed after, sleep on the couch, let him wake up and find him, and just lie and say nothing happened. It's what he does best, after all. He is extremely fucking horny now. Fuck it. Punk owes him this. He can be a good boy tomorrow.
Punk's world has been rocking back and forth for a while now, but he swears he feels his brain slosh around when Max suddenly throws him down on the couch.
"Ayy, song b-- strong boy!" He whoops, arching his back and selling the bump for all he's worth. Just the way he knows Max likes it. It's maybe not a great idea with a belly full of liquid, and half of that liquid being liquor. Flexing like that moves some things around and his stomach churns and cramps up a little.
"Ough. Fuck."
"Yeah? You feel it now, Punker?"
Well, not anymore. He's got more important things to half-focus on. Like two wobbly, wavering images of Max settling between his legs and hovering over him with a cruel smirk on his face. Punk grins back. The devil's still in there. He wriggles his hips and reaches up, squeezing Max's biceps.
"Feelin' somethin', yeah. Issat your shitty little ring orrrr... Your shitty little prick?"
Max scoffs. "You're one to talk, bud."
Before Punk can ask what he means by that, Max pops the fly of his jeans open and yanks them down and-- huh. He could have sworn he was pretty fuckin' horny right now. But it's all quiet on the southern front. Max gives his flaccid dick a little shake.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this whiskey dick, old man? You're a mess. Too drunk to even fuck."
"Nnnnoooo. 'M fine, it's fine, don'... C'mon, Max, 'm fine!"
Fffffffffuck. The harder he tries not to slur, the worse it gets. How does anybody do this? It's not fun anymore, he feels heavy and-- and embarrassed. He whines and pulls at Max's shirt, bites his lip in a way he hopes is sexy, maybe. Clumsily hooks a leg around Max's hip and tries to grind against him again.
"'M sorry, Max... I di'n mean it, your dick is sooooo big, 'n I wannit sooooo bad..."
He can't keep a straight face. His own stupid line makes him crack and giggle, and Max sighs.
"Yeah? Well, I just don't know if I believe that. This little guy doesn't seem all that interested."
Max squeezes his junk again, and he sobs. He can feel himself valiantly fighting to twitch to life, but it's just not enough. He stays soft and floppy in Max's hand as he idly toys with him.
"But, y'know... I might just have something that'll perk him up. Whaddya say?"
Punk nods right away. The motion makes him dizzy. Max pries himself free from his grip and stands.
"You just wait right here."
"Uh-huh."
Punk lets his head fall back and his arms go limp for a bit. He's really, really starting to feel... Not so good anymore. Everything's spinning. He looks over at the TV. Max's tapes are still on, but there's twice as many people in the ring now, and it makes his head hurt to try and make sense of it all. He wants Max back to hold onto. Max is sturdy and stable. Max is returning with a baggie of white powder.
Punk's stomach lurches.
"Max. What's that."
"You know what it is."
"Where'd you get that."
"Same place Tony does." Max rolls his eyes. He opens up the bag, licks the tip of his finger, and dips it in. He makes a face when he tastes it."Man, TK's getting scammed and he probably doesn't even know it. Whatever. It's good enough for you."
Punk shakes his head.
"I don' wannit."
Max chuckles, and climbs back on top of him before he can sit up.
"The puppy eyes are real cute, Punker, but you said whatever I want. Now quit moving."
His arms are pinned to his sides, with Max sitting on his hips. He carefully taps a messy line out on the back of his hand, then straightens it out with a finger. Punk turns his head away when it's shoved in his face. This is too far.
"Come on. Don't be a little bitch."
"'M not doin' it!"
He starts struggling again, and manages to knock most of the powder off of Max's hand before he can pull it back. Max's face twists up in rage. That's the only warning Punk gets before he's slapped across the face. "Dizzy" doesn't cut it anymore.
"I'm not fucking asking," Max spits.
Stars dot Punk's vision as he watches Max rub the remains of his ruined line into his gums and lean down, one hand vise-like around his neck. He finally got his wish-- Max on top of him, locking lips and swapping spit-- but he's overwhelmed by the sharp, bitter, chemical taste. His heart starts to race and-- is this what it feels like? He can't breathe. He gets the tip of Max's tongue between his teeth and bites down, iron mixing in and creating a disgusting new flavor. As soon as Max flinches and sits up, Punk turns his head and pukes over the side of the couch. This isn't fun anymore.
"You sloppy old fuck, you're paying the cleaning bill for this fucking room," Max snarls, dragging Punk off the couch by the collar of his shirt.
He spits in his face too, for good measure. And because it's probably not a good idea to swallow a mouthful of powdered dish detergent. Another genius idea from Maxwell Jacob Friedman; by his reaction, Punk didn't know the difference. He probably thinks he just committed his greatest cardinal sin. If his head was screwed on straight right now, he'd probably be planning on whose piss to get tested in his place. Instead, he's bent over the toilet, retching and heaving and pathetic like Max has never seen him before. On his knees, panting, with his back arched like this, it's almost like...
"Can't you do anything without looking like a whore?" Max grits out, slotting in behind him.
"No-- don', I--"
Punk flinches and protests weakly and Max ignores him, snaking a hand around his waist and grabbing at his crotch. A sick little jolt zips down his spine and settles in his stomach when he finds his cock hard and his jeans completely soaked through. Hot and dripping between his fingers, and now the smell hits him, lurking just below the rank stench of rum-vomit. His hero can't get any lower than this, hugging the toilet, drooling and snotty, literally piss-drunk and whimpering. Punk hiccups and burps noxiously a couple times, tears trailing down his red cheeks.
"God, if the boys in the back could see you right now," Max hisses in his ear. "CM Punk. Straightedge. 'Better than you.' Wasted, coked out, covered in his own puke and piss, and fucking getting off on it."
Punk shakes his head, but the hard line in his pants is unmistakable. His dick stands up straight and proud when he peels the wet denim off his legs. At this point, Max can't be sure whether it's a placebo effect, or if he's really just so fucked up that being covered in his own filth makes him hard. Either way, he's either too horny or too sick to struggle anymore, and-- oh, fuck-- even his ass can't resist him anymore. A little bit of spit and he opens right up on Max's cock, still spewing his guts up.
"Mm-M'bax, urlgh--!"
"Oh my god--"
He was loose going in, but when he heaves, his whole body clenches down. He feels like every wet dream he's ever had, and it makes up for the impending nightmare of having to clean this all up afterward. More than once, a wave of nausea hits at just the wrong time, when Max pulls him back, and he can't just close his mouth and hold it back. It ends up spurting between his lips and dribbling from his nose, and the violent coughing fit that ensues after sprays more putrid fluid all over the once-clean porcelain. Max groans and shoves his fingers in Punk's mouth.
"C'mon, don't fight it," he pants, talking half about himself, and half about the nausea. He fucks his slimy, scalding-hot mouth with his fingers, the lingering acid irritating a papercut he'd forgotten about.
"Just let it all out and you'll feel better."
Punk moans pitifully. He's still hard, somehow, and wet with god-knows-what at this point. Some nasty combination of spit and urine and vomit and precum that Max wishes he didn't have to clean off him to cover his tracks. He wishes he could make him wear it like a trophy forever, ashamed whenever he feels it sticking to his skin and matting his hair, remembering that he's everything he hates. A drunk, a crackhead, a brainless ring rat slut that isn't even any good to fuck unless Max curls his fingers down his throat and makes him gag and tighten up. A freak that comes at the same time he drenches Max's hand and wrist with one last surge of rum-and-coke flavored vomit. He wishes he could come inside him and make him keep that inside him, too, but there's no way in hell he's gonna wash an old man's asshole out. Max throws him down on the dirty bathroom floor and straddles his chest. It's strikingly familiar. He remembers having this same image in his head the last time he was in this position over him-- imagining himself with his thumb hooked in his jaw and furiously tugging his dick, aiming for his gaping mouth and wriggling tongue. Punk's gaze is unfocused and far away, something else Max has seen before. Behind a glistening, dripping, crimson mask. The same intoxication and ecstasy. He's not as straightedge as he thinks, he just doesn't get his fix from a bottle. He gets it right here, from use and abuse, from a man beating him as low as he can possibly go and streaking his face with cum. As if he was just waiting for a cue, sensing that he's no longer needed, Punk's eyelids droop closed and he finally sags limp on the floor. Out for the count. And the fallout of what Max has done is his alone to clean up and cope with in crushing silence. He can try to be good again tomorrow. He can do it. Punk asked for this. It doesn't count. He can still be good tomorrow. Nobody will know.
Pain. Everywhere. Not enough to wake Punk up (it was the door opening and closing that did that) but too much to let him fall back asleep. Mostly his head. It's been a long time since his last hangover. It's a damn good reminder of why he doesn't drink. Last time, though, he's pretty sure the rest of his body didn't hurt this much. He sits up laboriously, every single joint of his spine popping in sequence. His abs ache and the faint taste of stale vomit 'enhances' his morning death breath.
"God, this sucks."
Max scoffs from the sofa. "You don't know the half of it, bud."
His mouth is full of egg, a collection of styrofoam takeout boxes spread out on the coffee table in front of him. Punk's stomach growls, gnawingly empty.
"As soon as I get home, I'm getting snipped. I'm done cleaning up piss and puke in this lifetime-- you're fucking welcome, by the way."
"... Thanks. Uh-- where are my clothes?"
He was about to get out of bed, but as soon as he moved he became very aware of the sheets on his bare skin. And notably, only his side of the bed has been disturbed, save for a missing pillow on what would have been Max's side. Max points a plastic fork to the bathroom.
"Piss and puke," he repeats. "I took your room key out of your pants and grabbed your suitcase, but I threw the shit you were wearing in the trash."
Punk slips on another t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers before joining Max on the couch. Not before scaring the shit out of himself in the bathroom mirror, though. Christ. Bloodshot eyes and dark circles, like a cartoon. He swishes and gargles some water, hopes his teeth don't suffer too much from being coated in acid all night. The hash browns and omelet settle his stomach. The whole scene-- sitting side by side on the couch, eating breakfast while some morning talkshow drones on the TV-- it's jarringly domestic. The missing pillow is wedged between Max's hip and the arm of the couch.
"You slept here last night?"
Another scoff. "Worst mistake of my life. I slept like shit and my back's fucked. That's the last damn time I try to be chivalrous."
Punk chuckles at that. It's so out of character, but he can picture it: Max carrying his unconscious body bridal-style and tenderly tucking him into bed before curling up on the shitty hotel couch. Probably bitching under his breath all the while.
"So, any other highlights from last night? Embarrassing blackmail photos to share?"
He elbows Max, and Max just shrugs.
"You're living proof that alcohol doesn't make anybody more fun to be around. Just more obnoxious."
"Seriously? Come on."
Max rolls his eyes. "You bragged about sucking some jobber's dick and pissing yourself at an indie show, like that's some big accomplishment. Congrats on keeping the gimmick consistent, I guess. What do you want from me?"
"I want you to tell me what you did to me last night."
No more beating around the bush, no more flirting. Max sets down his fork and fixes Punk with a stony look.
"I did whatever I wanted. Like you told me to."
The hairs on the back of Punk's neck stand up.
"Yeah? Like what?"
Max studies his face. The smile spreading across it. It's a little manic, he can feel it, but he's feeling a little manic. The suspense is killing him. After a pregnant pause, Max smirks and turns away again.
"Keep it in your pants, you fucking narcissist. The most action you got from me is a sponge bath. Again, you're welcome."
"... Thanks, Max."
So that's it.
Max is just gonna pretend that nothing happened.
A chill rolls down Punk's spine, but he doesn't let himself shiver. He doesn't want Max to suspect anything. He thinks he doesn't remember last night. He seems pretty fucking confident in his nice little story, too. Too confident. He can't help but wonder how many others have heard it before.
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