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Long Island is a horrible place, but there's a special quality to its awfulness, this bizarro world where MJF is the hero. Max is cheered and Punk is booed; the two things feel inextricably linked even now that they're not feuding.
After the dark segment, Punk would have expected Max to be out celebrating with his loyal fans, sleeping with the best Long Island has to offer - because, yes, Punk reads his stupid tweets even if he'll never acknowledge them. Instead, Punk finds Max waiting in his dressing room, which is supposed to be private and MJF-free. He stands up from the sofa when Punk opens the door, and for the second time that night Punk is unwillingly admiring what he looks like wearing tight jeans and a snug black henley, and not dressed like a car salesman for once.
Punk makes a show of leaning backwards like he's double-checking the sheet of paper with his name on it taped outside the door. Max looks unamused. "Will you just get in here?"
"You really think you're King Shit in Long Island, huh?" Punk asks dryly, though he does enter and close the door behind him.
"Are you kidding? I'm a freaking god," Max grins. "And it's on Long Island, you ignoramus."
It's so ridiculous that Punk has to repeat "ignoramus," back with a laugh. Max runs his tongue behind his lower lip, stonily waiting for Punk to be done. Punk exhales and shakes his head. "Okay, Maxwell, what do you want? You've been trying to get my attention back since Revolution."
Max interrupts with a noise like he wants to protest. Punk lowers his head, his eyebrows up, to give Max a challenging, disapproving look, and Max sulkily quiets.
"So what is it, Max? You want a rematch? You want to give me an early congratulations on becoming champion? You want to be my first challenger? You're gonna have to get some W's first, Maxwell. Rankings matter." Punk slowly moves closer to Max as he talks, his smile stretching broader as Max looks more and more like he's about to spontaneously combust. He stops when they're about a foot apart to see what Max will do in response.
Max takes a deep breath and clenches and unclenches his fists. His eyes dart off to the side and he licks his lips nervously. "I'm bored, okay? You must feel it too." The last part is aggressively accusatory.
Punk cocks his head and looks at Max like he's a mildly interesting insect. "Seems like you're managing to keep yourself occupied trying to duck Wardlow."
Max sneers. "He's nothing. A minor inconvenience. He'll be back to personal training and taking money to bang bored housewives soon."
"Okay," Punk chuckles derisively.
"I'm so much better than him it's just sad," Max says, and he sounds more irritated than braggadocious about it. "He can barely talk at all. I'm not sure he's even literate."
Punk thinks Wardlow has proved pretty capable, but it's admittedly true he's not on Max's level promo-wise. Admittedly to himself; he's not admitting shit to Max.
Max takes a step forward and closes half the distance left between them. "And you're having random, stupid match-ups." His eyes are blazing, trying to slash and burn their way right through Punk. "Back to beating the easiest opponents. Back to hugs and handshakes afterwards. You're such a good guy." He spits the words out like they taste disgusting in his mouth.
Punk meets his gaze and keeps his expression neutral. "I have a title match," he says evenly."
"That's - who gives a shit? Against Hangman. He's the single worst champion we've ever had," Max says, getting worked up enough to start making agitated hand motions. "And I hate Moxley and Jericho."
"Are you trying to get me to tell you you're the prettiest girl at the dance?" Punk smirks, even as he's subtly checking out the way Max's arm muscles are flexing under that tight shirt.
Max growls in frustration and runs his hands through his hair. Punk has a growing suspicion about what Max is trying to express, and seeing him struggle with an actual human emotion is fascinating. "No, I'm asking - fuck you, I know I'm better than him - I'm asking how do you go back to-" Max blinks and looks stumped.
"Aw, Max," Punk smiles. "Are you just now realizing it's about more than money?"
"Ew. No," Max rebuffs immediately. "But it was…different." He gestures between them, and then rushes to say, "You're a terrible person, and a cheater, just - absolute scum of the earth."
"Of course," Punk agrees sarcastically. He gets it though, because Max actually is a terrible person, and a cheater, and Punk should be thinking about the championship more than he thinks about Max - about fighting Max again, about staring into Max's eyes while they trade barbs in front of a captivated audience, about wanting another chance to feel the way their bodies fit together. It's not any easier for him to stop than it seems to be for Max, even if he'd like to think he's a little less obvious than Max, who might as well be paying for billboards and airplane banners to announce how hopelessly he's hung up on Punk.
There's a connection that persists, even if it's not one Punk wants, because while Max isn't as good as The Best in the World, he can hang with Punk on the mic and in the ring better than anyone else in AEW so far (Fuck Eddie Kingston). Punks licks his lip, considering. "You can keep dropping my name, trying to get back to that. You can keep trying to bait me and make a fool out of yourself, or…" he trails off.
"Or?" Max prompts, his voice rough.
They're basically in an alternate universe. Long Island Punk gets booed. Punk on Long Island is the bad guy. "You can take it behind closed doors," Punk tells him with a meaningful look. Max searches his face, his brow furrowed, uncertain and a little confused. Punk thinks it might be an act. He's watched Max wrestle some of the horniest matches he's ever seen in his life. He doesn't believe Max isn't aware of it, or that he keeps it all in the ring.
Punk takes the last step so they're nearly nose to nose. This close he feels how magnetic and repellant Max is to him like an actual physical force. He crooks his index finger and uses it to tip Max's chin up. Max seems frozen, hardly breathing. Punk moves his hand to cup Max's cheek, stroking the line of the sad scruff that doesn't deserve to be called a beard. He leans in and kisses him softly, so gentle that it aches to hold himself back. Then, when he pulls away and Max is looking up at him with a dazed expression, Punk grabs Max's wrist and the opposite shoulder, and uses them to twist him around, pulling Max's arm behind his back.
Max gasps, shaken out of his haze. "What the fuck?" He tries to tug free, and when that fails, tries to throw his elbow back. Punk bodies up against him so he doesn't have the range, and wraps the arm he isn't using to pin Max's hand against his spine across his chest. His elbow at Max's sternum, Punk fits his palm to Max's chin, digs his fingers and thumb into either side of Max's jaw and pushes back until Max's throat is bared in an arch and his head is on Punk's shoulder.
The whole time Max will not shut up. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you fucking psycho? I could have you killed. I know people. You're on my turf, dipshit." On and on until Punk bites his earlobe and then kisses the back of his neck above his birthmark. Max stiffens. Punk really thought he had more of a flight response, but maybe that's just up until he's caught.
"So you've been missing me? Our little back-and-forths?" Punk croons mockingly. "Missed making me bleed?"
"Don't pretend you don't," Max snaps, trying to turn and glare, but Punk's grip on his face won't allow it.
Punk chuckles under his breath. "Not so much the blood." He feels Max hear what he doesn't say - what he's not denying, in the way that Max loosens a little in his arms, leaning his weight back. Punk licks Max's ear, and Max squirms, making sounds in the back of his throat like it's ticklish, and also grossing him out. Going back to his earlobe, Punk sucks on it lightly for a moment, before pulling back to speak, letting his breath gust over it. "You want to do this?" He asks, voice low.
Max shivers slightly and nods.
"Here, or the hotel?
Max is quiet and unmoving. Punk takes both his hands off Max, and Max shakes his arm out and turns to face Punk, although he doesn't look at him.
"You want me to decide," Punk says. It's an obvious enough conclusion that he's not really asking, but he still waits for Max's nod. "I'm old," he says, so Max will smile and seem more like his usual self. "I'll pick a bed every time."
The downside to that is the ride over and the whole process of going in separately and getting stopped for autographs and pictures cools things down considerably, and when Punk finally lets Max into his hotel room, Max is looking a little squirrelly.
Punk makes the split-second decision to keep pushing, and tosses his cap on the chair in the corner, then begins briskly undressing, staring at Max as he does, not quite smirking, silently daring Max to keep up. Max scowls at him and kicks his sneakers off, pulls his shirt over his head, and starts undoing his jeans.
When Punk is down to his boxers, Max is sitting at the edge of one of the beds and working his jeans down his legs. Punk steps in front of him and knocks their knees together. "Lie down," Punk says, waving towards the head of the bed. He keeps his tone casually neutral, but he's still not asking. Max scoffs like he's going to be a brat, but then scoots up the mattress and reclines back against the pillows. He's still got his underwear on - plain blue briefs, tight enough to not show any lines through his pants. Punk lets himself look for a moment - Max, not painted orange, his legs and feet bare, in bed, and then crawls up over him and kisses him before Max starts to fidget.
He doesn't fully put his weight on Max, using a forearm to hold himself slightly up and off-center so he can stroke Max's chest and stomach. He traces the jut of Max's hip bone, the lines of his abs, the tattoo on his ribs. He's made his way back down to the diagonal crease above Max's hip when he realizes Max's hands haven't strayed from his shoulders. "You can touch me," he says. Maybe it sounds patronizing. He hadn't made any effort to not sound patronizing.
"I know," Max snaps defensively, but it emboldens him to press his hands to Punk's chest. Punk sighs with a slight hum to encourage him, and Max runs his fingers up and around Punk's biceps, then back down to his pecs, still a little tentative when he brushes over Punk's nipples. The way it makes Punk groan is entirely unfeigned. Max bites his lip, his expression becoming more determined, and he does it again with more pressure, then rubs Punk's nipples between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. Punk curses softly and drops his head to kiss Max again. He tries to leave enough space for Max to continue what he's doing, but Max wraps his arms around Punk's back and pulls him down.
Punk slots their legs together and presses his thigh to Max's dick. Max's fingers dig into his shoulder blades as he rocks against him. Punk can feel how hard he is, hot through the thin layers of cloth between them. Punk nips at Max's lower lip before asking, "What do you want? I know you've thought about this." It's only mildly teasing, but Max clenches his jaw and looks away, then back at Punk with the stirrings of shame and anger in his eyes.
"You want me to pick," Punk says, trying to sound nice, and not how he actually feels - like a lion who's just been thrown a raw steak. Max swallows and jerks his head in a short nod.
Punk smiles - it probably doesn't look nice, and strokes the line of Max's underwear at his hip, and then abruptly slides himself down, yanking Max's briefs along with him so they're at mid thigh and he's eye level with Max's dick, leaving his hands folded around the waistband and slipping his thumbs through the leg holes so he's got a good grip of fabric on either side.
Max's gear is tight enough, and Punk has been pressed against him enough times during their matches that he could have already given a fairly accurate description of the size and shape of Max's cock. He eyes Max's crotch, deliberately impassive, as he takes in the things he didn't know - how when he's hard his cock curves towards the left, how he's a little wider below the head than at the base. There's nothing for Max to be embarrassed about, which of course Max must know, but Punk still continues to stare for as long as it takes for Max to start shifting self-consciously, and then he finally lets his mouth curl into a grin. He looks up at Max, then waits again for Max to meet his gaze. Max's face is appropriately apprehensive, which makes Punk's smile widen. "Guess you are compensating for something, Needle Dick," he says.
Max makes a very funny expression, thinning his lips and puffing his cheeks slightly, his brows pinched. Punk wishes he could take a picture. Then Max sneers and says, "Har-har," very flatly. He reaches down to give himself one slow squeeze and pull. "You think that amateur and, frankly, embarrassing attempt at negging is going to work on me?"
"You know what? You're right," Punk says innocently. "You're perfectly average."
"You're the one dying to suck it," Max says.
The idea that he's dying to blow Max is so ludicrous it's not worth a rebuttal, so Punk just plays off it. Yes, and - "Before I saw it, maybe, but like everything about you - such a disappointment," Punk sighs with a regretful shake of his head.
Max's thigh flexes under his hand. He opens his mouth to retort, but Punk startles him by pulling sharply on the briefs, snapping the elastic above Max's knees to an indignant noise from Max. Max contorts, trying to reach the underwear, then attempting to shimmy them down to his ankles. He's not at all prepared for Punk angling his head so Max's dick drags against his facial hair. Max yelps and pushes Punk away with a hand to his forehead. Punk ducks right back in and bites his inner thigh to feel the muscle twitching again.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Max glares.
"Turn around," Punk says, laughing silently against Max's skin. "Your ass is actually worth my time." He lifts his head so he can get Max's reaction, and isn't disappointed in the least.
Max looks torn between outrage and excitement. "Why? What're you gonna do?" He asks, his eyes narrowed.
Punk smiles toothily. "Turn over and find out." He sits up to give Max room. Max glares for a few seconds more, and then huffs like it's an imposition and flips onto his front. Punk maybe sighs a little in appreciation, but so what? He's an ass guy. And Max isn't paying attention for the moment anyway.
In getting settled on his stomach between Max's legs, Punk's shoulders force Max to spread them wider, which Max doesn't react well to, tensing and then trying to bend his knees as if attempting some sort of backwards leg lock. Punk puts a steadying hand on Max's lower back. He doesn't say anything because he thinks if he tried Max would just take it as taunting. He rearranges himself so his elbows are planted on the outside of Max's thighs instead, and then pushes in so Max's legs are under his arms, his knees tightly pressed to Punk's ribs. The tension drains from Max's muscles, and he turns his head to watch Punk from over his shoulder, so Punk tries not to look too ravenous as he fans his fingers out, a hand on each side of Max's ass.
"You're such a freak," Max says scornfully, having clearly recovered.
"Because I like ass?" Punk laughs.
"Because you look like you're literally going to eat it. Like, cannibal eat it."
So he'd failed at the not-looking-ravenous thing then. Punk grins and bites him, a little too hard maybe, but where he's got the most fat to cushion the hurt, and then drags his tongue over the same spot. It gives Max goosebumps, so Punk has no choice but to lick him again to feel the change in texture. "If you think this is weird, I have some stories that would give you nightmares," Punk says with a lecherous smile, and Max flushes angrily, like Punk is making fun of him.
Punk slides up so he can press the full length of their bodies together. Only after he's done it does it occur to him that it could be read as a reassuring gesture.
His chest to Max's back, he puts a hand on Max's jaw to turn him into another kiss. Max is surprisingly good at it, better than Punk was at his age, though of course he'd thought he was God's gift. He'd expected Max to avoid it, or to get overbearing trying to dominate, but he follows Punk's lead and parts his lips for Punk's tongue and lets Punk coax him into chasing it back into Punk's mouth. Punk breaks it off almost reluctantly, but it feels of the utmost urgency to ask, "Any objections to me giving you a rim job?"
Max makes a strangled noise and tucks his chin so he's facing the mattress for a moment before he turns his head to the side again. "Not as long as you understand you're not getting one from me." He's grasping so desperately for cocky, but his face is so red. Punk wonders if that's why he goes so heavy on the fake tanner.
"No problem," Punk says, and kisses Max's shoulder before he grabs a pillow and moves back to his previous position. Max coughs like he's swallowed his spit wrong. He's so unbalanced by Punk being nice that it almost feels mean, which is more fun for Punk than it should be. Max keeps his neck craned so he can see Punk, and does fold his legs up at the knee and lock his ankles behind Punk's back like he'd tried earlier. It feels like a nervous hug. "Ever gotten one before?" Punk asks casually.
Completely at odds with his body language, Max's gaze is withering. "Look at my ass. What do you think?"
Punk doesn't try to hide his amusement. "If I had to guess? You've probably had a lot less sex than you want people to believe, so you tell me."
Max scowls. "And why, exactly, would you think something so idiotic?"
Punk smiles, which makes Max look even more irritated. "Just a hunch," he says, knowing it will drive Max crazy.
"Well, you're wrong," Max sniffs "I've had sex, like, so many times."
"Right, because that's the kind of thing a sexually active adult would say," Punk says, and then bites him again, on the other side of his ass to even things out. "Incel," he says. It's too hard to keep a straight face, so he turns his head and rubs his beard against the crest of Max's ass. Max makes a very entertaining series of angry and offended noises, and Punk can't not laugh. "Why are you so easy to wind-up?" He asks, resting his chin on the patch of skin he'd just chafed red so he can look back up at Max.
"Why are you such an asshole?" Max retorts.
"Speaking of," Punk leers at him.
"Oh my God," Max grumbles. "The insults are bad enough, but puns? I will leave."
"Hey, no one's forcing you to stay," Punk says, and then thinks for a moment he might have pushed Max further than his pride will tolerate, before remembering that Max is actually completely shameless and spineless. "Lift up," he directs, patting Max's hip, very generously sparing Max having to admit he's not going anywhere. He slides the pillow under and then gives Max another pat, on top of his ass this time, to tell him he can lower himself again.
Once Max has adjusted himself comfortably, Punk holds Max's ass spread. He doesn't give Max time to get anxious, just leans in and starts. The first touch of his tongue is pinpoint, with the tip dabbing lightly right at the center of Max's tightly clenched hole. Max's muscles all contract, his legs squeezing Punk's sides, his hands clutching at the sheets. Punk softens his tongue and starts drawing corkscrew circles as Max's breath picks up. It doesn't take long for Max's spine to curve and his hips to tilt up needily. Punk is very good with his mouth. Even if Max has been eaten out before, Punk is confident he's never had it as good as Punk's giving it to him.
The circles turn into short, fluttering laps. Punks starts pushing in with little darts of his tongue, groaning when he's finally worked Max's rim too wet to keep him out any longer. Max gives a sharp, startled, "God," that's nearly loud enough to be a shout at the first swipe of Punk's tongue actually inside him.
Punk's been hard for awhile and ignoring it, but the fabric of his boxers is sticking unpleasantly where the head of his cock is wet, so Punk pauses and untangles himself from Max so he can get them off and toss them on the floor. He wraps a hand around himself, throbbing at the way Max is staying in place for him, his eyes glued to Punk like he wants to beg for his mouth back.
Instead of laying flat again, Punk rolls onto his hip and pulls his knees towards his chest, his weight on his bottom thigh and his upper body propped up with an elbow. He pushes Max's knees under him, so his head is down and hips are higher, and then grabs Max's ass again and pulls his buttocks apart, wriggling his tongue back in, leaving his own dick to bob free and untouched.
Max seems twice as sensitive after just that short break, trying to ride Punk's face, an ongoing stream of "fuck"s coming out of his mouth, gravelly and shredded. It's a kind of victory for Punk to know he's setting a bar no one else is ever going to measure up to, and to make Max so desperate to come he starts saying "please," without even being asked. "Fuck, Punk, please. Please." Punk is just that good at this. He wraps his arm under Max's stomach, and pulls him up enough that he can get his hand on Max's cock to reward him. It only takes a few sloppy strokes for Max to finish, his cum dripping over Punk's knuckles and into the crevasses between his fingers.
Punk doesn't pull his mouth away immediately, taking advantage of the laxness that follows Max's orgasm to thrust his tongue deeper. He's gone a little numb, but he can still feel Max pulse around him, so slick with Punk's saliva that it's perversely, filthily like a kiss. His own need to come spiking, Punk scrambles to kneel up, awkwardly walks his knees to the outside of Max's legs and uses them to push Max's thighs closer together, then leans over him. "Give me your hand," he orders. "Either one." Max reaches back and Punk slaps Max's hand down onto his ass, covering it with his own for a moment to press Max's fingers where he wants them.
"Hold yourself open," he says, forceful with impatience. Max throws him a resentful look, but too bad for him it just turns Punk on more, especially when Max, despite it, still obediently does what he's told and grips his ass cheek, pulling so Punk can see how spit shiny he is there. His hole has already drawn back into a tight pucker, as though Punk hadn't just been tongue fucking him, which, beyond making Punk want to do it again, doesn't matter, because Punk just frots against him. He takes a few longer thrusts to drag through the wetness and spread it farther along the crack of Max's ass, his precum making the glide even more slippery, then focuses on rubbing the underside of his tip right against the little dip of Max's hole. The drag of that tiny, tight ring of muscle on his cock is so good he's seeing stars. Punk straightens up slightly and finishes himself with his hand, coming harder than he'd expected when he realizes he's stroking himself with Max's cum, and with more than he'd thought he had in him, splattering across Max's ass, over both cheeks and down between them.
It leaves Punk embarrassingly out of breath and sweaty. Max also hasn't released his grip, which makes it even harder for Punk to breathe normally. He reaches out and presses his hand as flat as he can against Max's asshole and starts rubbing his cum over and into Max's skin. Max bucks his hips and gasps, "I gotta - I need to-"
Punk laughs. "Did you get hard again?"
"Yeah," Max says, pushing up on his hands so he's on all fours. He swivels his neck to glare at Punk. "I'm not fucking old," he spits disdainfully.
"Well, go on," Punk tells him, amused. He keeps running his fingers up and down at a steady pace, leaving Max to jerk himself off. He thinks about telling Max to turn around so he can watch, but he's feeling lazy and relaxed from coming, more than content to continue playing with Max's ass. Punk switches the angle of his wrist so he can massage circles around Max's hole with his thumb, and Max groans, the sound of him fucking his fist getting louder and faster. Punk pulls his hand away and smacks Max hard between his ass and thigh. "Fuck," Max bites out. Punk slaps him higher up, right over one of his earlier bites, and Max pitches forward as he comes again.
Punk shamelessly puts his hand right back on Max's ass, stroking where he'd slapped. He sort of wishes he could even that out by spanking the other side a couple times, but now that no one's dick is hard it feels more like he should ask first, and he's not going to ask while Max is hiding his face in the pillow and taking big, shuddering breaths. Punk pets Max's ass for as long as he can get away with it, until Max's breath has evened out and he sits up.
Max looks at his hand and wrinkles his nose with a disgusted, "Ugh," then gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom without acknowledging Punk once. Punk hears the sink, and then Max pissing, and then the sink again. "Hey, flush, asshole," Punk yells to him. Max sticks his hand out the bathroom doorway, his middle finger up, making Punk laugh.
Punk stands and stretches and then swaps places with Max when he comes out. He wipes up and brushes his teeth, taking some extra time because he's curious to see what Max will do - if he'll get dressed, or try to make a hasty exit, but Max is just sitting at the end of the bed they'd been in, still naked.
If Punk was really a bad guy, he'd make fun of Max for hanging around after Punk's done with him, call him pathetic for hoping to cuddle, maybe just tell him to fuck off. He might even throw Max bare-assed out in the hall and then toss his clothes after him. Or not give him his clothes back at all. Punk has been a bad guy. Punk has done all those things. He doesn't particularly feel like doing any of them now, not even to Max.
Punk climbs in the other bed, looks at Max and says, "Are you gonna stay over there with all the jizz, or are you gonna come over here?"
Max's face does something Punk has only seen a handful of times, and only ever in quick flashes, where he looks even younger than his actual, already young age, and which always, and very unfairly, considering what a little monster Max is, makes Punk feel like a prick. Max switches beds and shoves himself under Punk's arm and rests his cheek on Punk's chest, entitled and self-assured and putting them back on much more familiar ground. Punk's hand lands on Max's waist, only because that's the most comfortable spot with how Max is wedged up against him. He reaches his other arm out to turn off the light.
Like the dark has given him permission, Max suddenly says, "You better beat Hangman." It's suspiciously close to nice by Max standards.
"Planning on it," Punk chuckles. "But why do you care?"
"I don't want to have to live with the shame of fucking someone who lost to Adam fucking Page," Max says, and Punk can feel Max's smirk against his collar bone.
"I'm sure knowing I have your support will carry me to victory," Punk says wryly, though not actually entirely untouched by the sentiment. He wonders if Max purposefully said fucking, as in present tense, as in ongoing. He decides he'll have to test that while he's still got Long Island as an excuse for any bad behavior.