Warnings - Monster-fucking, AJ As A Giant Spider, Stalking, Biting, Extremely Dubious Consent, Unreliable Narrator, Paralysis, Poisoning, Rape, Disturbing Imagery, Cannibalism, Sexual Cannibalism, Cock & Ball Torture, Gore, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Castration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Summary - 'I said I love you, didn't I? You're The One. The one I've been saving myself for.' Her two fingers slipped into Punk's mouth and curled around his bottom teeth, encouraging his jaw to open wider, all while something pointed and dark slithered between her own lips. 'The one I can finally show my true self to.'
Warnings - Masochistic Cody, blood and injury, human/wolf sex, anal sex, knotting, oral sex, consensual but not safe, porn without plot
Words - ~4k words
Summary - The majestic swan prince Cody is ravaged by werewolf Punk. (That's it, that's the plot.)
Inspired by this Codypunk artwork I did back for my Trick or Treat event. For @stripeydani 😘
The moon shone down, full and round, and glistening on each of the gentle ripples breaking the calm stillness of the lake's surface. Delicate fingers of weeping willow dipped into the water drawing lazy circles that grew larger and larger as they silently pulsed across the pond. In the isolated grove, a flock of snow white swans gracefully glided between the bands of soft shimmering silver, floating on the velvet sky of twinkling stars when one among their numbers drifted away from the rest towards the shore. As it reached the shallows, the full moon above gave out a brilliant glow and a magical transformation took place.
Waves of milky water curled in around the swan as he reared up and beat his mighty wings, raising his head to the sky. His feathers fell away, fluttering down like snowfall, his plumage shifting in size and shape until at last the waves broke with a burst of starlight.
And there, standing among the dapples of sparkling light stood a man.
The lost prince, Cody Rhodes.
The young man glanced down at his reflection on the lake's surface, drawing in breath as he smoothed his fingers over the warm flesh of his cheek and along the sharp contours of his jaw. His eyes dazzled with the hue of a brilliant blue, his skin as fair as moonlight, his hair the colour of a swan's wing.
He took some time to smarten himself up, first by straightening his cravat then fastening the bright buttons on the cuffs of his snow-white military dress jacket, ornamented with generous swathes of gold from the majestic epaulettes designed to resemble bird feathers to the stunning brocades, from the braids draped across one side of his chest to the elaborate embroidery along the cuffs and button band. The sword belt around his waist was made of black gleaming leather, his breeches of the finest white velvet, hugging his toned legs down to the shin-high white boots adorned with polished gold buckles lining each side.
Once he was content with his attire, Cody waded through the remainder of the shallows to take his first shaky step onto the grassy shore. It always took a while for him to adjust to his human form again after spending weeks at a time trapped in the body of a swan. He had been a prisoner for so long on this secluded lake that he had all but forgotten his former life, even the sound of his father's voice or the warmth of his mother's smile.
Shaking off the droplets of water from his boots, Cody noted the rest of his flock and the way they bid a hasty retreat to the far end of the lake. At first, he thought it was his sudden transformation that had spooked the birds until they began to honk and flap their wings with warning and he realised something else was causing their alarm. Cody drew his rapier, honed to a fine point and planted his feet, taking up a fighting stance as he raised his weapon towards the trees encircling the water.
'I know you're there,' he called out to the still night. 'Show yourself.'
It was the eyes that revealed themselves first. Fiery orange eyes that burned from the shadows. The hair on the back of Cody's neck bristled, his grip tightening on the handle of his sword as the blazing eyes slowly drifted upwards and a tall, dark figure rose out of the undergrowth. The light of the silvery moon glanced off two rows of razor sharp teeth.
'We meet again,' Cody stated, unable to control the smile curling at the corner of his lips even though his heart hammered in his chest. 'Let's begin then, shall we?'
The creature bound towards him, faster than Cody could blink. A trill of terror danced up the prince's spine just like it had done that first night he'd encountered the mysterious being. Back then he'd fought with everything he had, fearing for his very life, but now, he played the role and nothing more, letting the beast disarm with him one swipe to leave its owner defenceless. Cody gasped as he was knocked to the ground, landing hard on his back. The monster pinned him down with his entire weight, pushing him into the cold, wet mud. It squelched beneath him, seeping into the pristine white fabric of his dress jacket and breeches and clotting into his feathery hair. He drew in a sharp breath, his senses assaulted with the stench of danger and wet dog.
It was a powerful aphrodisiac, sucking the young prince in.
'You win,' he smiled up at the beast.
The creature loomed above him, the light of the full moon striking his features. Cody could clearly make out the large hazel eyes boring down at him, the snub nose, the pink tongue lolling out of his open muzzle, panting back and forth over the protruding teeth of his underbite. The beast's checked shirt hung open revealing the thatch of thick fur lining every inch of his body with the exception of his clawed hands and arched hind legs.
The wolfman growled deep in his throat, his pointed ears lying flat against his head but his attempts to seem tough were undermined by his short, fluffy tail, which was swinging back and forth like a flag in a strong wind.
Cody tried to laugh but his breath was cut off by the burden on his chest. 'I'm excited to see you too, Punk.' Cody had coined the name himself, a bastardisation of the impish nymph from old English mythology. It seemed to fit. 'Well?' he goaded the monster. 'What are you waiting for?'
Punk threw his head back and let out a shrill howl. The primal noise sent shivers shuddering through Cody's nervous system, making his skin crawl with anticipation. He scraped his lower lip in with his teeth, biting down excitedly, when Punk lifted one arm, brandishing dagger-like talons from fingers inked with faded tattoos.
The creature slashed at Cody's chest, shredding through his military jacket like sheets of paper. Ripping and tearing and tattering through the brocade right through to the undershirt. Cody hissed with joy as the bite of Punk's claws reached his skin, slicing into his flesh with such sharpened precision that it took a moment or two for the pain to hit.
As suddenly as the barrage had started, it came to an abrupt halt. Punk's ears pricked up, his eyes widened and his nose started to twitch with a fresh, intoxicating scent. He looked down at the ragged mess he'd made of Cody's chest, spied the pools of blood spilling from his prey's wounds and his pupils blew until the green disappeared entirely from his irises. Cody noticed the wolfman's long tongue dragging sloppily over his jagged teeth, saw the hunger in his gaze and tried to quell his frantic heart.
'Go ahead,' he whispered softly, tilting his chin back. 'Eat.'
A rabid snarl and the monster struck, lapping up the newly sprung wells of scarlet like a starving stray. Cody eyes fluttered close, the roughness of Punk's sandpaper tongue scraping across his tender flesh so sweet he could cry. Every sloppy nip of his fangs was a tender kiss from his lover, so dear and precious.
While the beast feasted on his blood, Cody took advantage of the distraction and slowly manoeuvred his hands down towards his waist. He'd barely moved, however, when Punk's superior hearing caught him in the act and he snarled down at the rebellious limbs. 'Don't fret,' Cody said with a fond roll of his eyes. 'I'm only undoing my belt and breeches. I know how you struggle with them.'
The wolfman gave a snort through his dog nose then returned to his meal, slurping up the last rivulets leaking from Cody's torso. Meanwhile, the prince unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall from around his waist before coaxing down the waistband of his breeches. The velvet was soaked through, sodden with wet mud which made it cling to his searing skin. Cody shoved it down as best he could from his awkward angle, managing to get it to around his mid-thigh when his wolf-friend's patience ran out. A crabby growl and one singular slash of his talons cleaved the breeches all the way down the middle, slicing them in half.
Cody was now completely naked at the hips. His semi hard cock sprung out of its prison with all the enthusiasm of a pardoned criminal.
'That's it,' Cody hushed out, grinning from ear to ear. 'Do it!'
He was tossed onto his front, face down in the mud. Talons pushed into the groove between his shoulder blades, digging in. Warm, wet dog-breath misted the back of his neck. Punk gave a deep growl that juddered down Cody's spine right to the pit of his stomach. His mouth was agape, his eyes struggling to focus. Being this vulnerable, this... exposed, with a literal monster holding him down? He hadn't felt this alive in centuries.
Punk's wet nose embedded itself between Cody's naked cheeks and breathed in deeply. Filling his lungs with the musky scent of his mate. Cody shivered as he was explored so intimately, his pulse kicking like a mule when Punk finally mounted his lower back and wrapped his strong arms around his waist.
It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been ravaged by the wolfman. Their first time together, Cody had been so naive, blissfully unaware of the nature of Punk's 'anatomy' whilst in wolf form. It had been a steep, sharp learning curve, but also a glorious awakening. A key unlocking a side of him he'd no idea was even there, and every night of the full moon since, he had chased that high like a desperate addict.
Yet, even with all the experience he'd gained, he still jolted when Punk pushed his dick into his unprepped hole. Punk wasn't hard yet but that didn't matter since the long bone in his penis allowed him to slide right in, like a sword point through soft tissue. Cody's hips rebelled instinctually and tried to scrabble away from the intrusion but the talons on his stomach curled in deep, ensnaring him. Powerless, Cody scrubbed both hands through his own mud-soaked hair and pulled, nearly ripping the blonde strands from the roots as Punk began to ruthlessly thrust into him, sobbing with agony even as his own dick began to throb between his legs.
'Yes, yes,' Cody whimpered, spitting out fleck of mud from his mouth. 'Just like that.'
A memory surfaced, of the kennel master from his father's palace, long ago, explaining that young bitches often panicked their first time mating so they always needed someone on hand to stop them from bolting. Cody was only a child at the time and didn't understand.
Not, until the first time he'd felt the large bulb of Punk's knot growing inside of him. Then he knew!
It hadn't started expanding yet which made Cody whine with impatience even as his tight little passage was stretched with the girth of Punk's long, thick cock. He was practically prodding the prince's guts with how deep it was, the bone keeping it straight and unyielding like a dagger. Punk was not a gentle lover, his animalistic side entirely in control of his faculties under the full moon and he punched his way into his lover's body with rapid drives of his hips. Humping him like a dog in heat, determined to fill his bitch with his cubs. Cody could hear the perverse wet noises emanating from his own rear and knew he was bleeding back there which excited him all the more but he was waiting for the knot. He needed the knot!
'Bite me!' he pleaded with his lover. 'Mark me. Please.'
Punk huffed through his jowls like a wry laugh. He made that sound a lot and Cody often wondered how ridiculous he appeared to this creature. Pathetic and lonely, desperate to feel... anything. But could he be blamed for being this way? The lost prince. The forgotten prince. Trapped on this cursed lake so long that even his captor had long abandoned him.
The sensation of warm breath approaching the back of his neck made Cody's spine tingle. He heard the wetness of Punk's jaw opening, could see the glint of canines in his periphery vision. They tore away the standing collar of his jacket, followed by his cravat until the sloping, tender flesh between his neck and shoulder was revealed, pale as the moonlight, enticing the beast like an exposed throat.
Punk placed his teeth against the soft flesh and dug in as Cody writhed beneath him. It wasn't enough so he began begging. Begging for him over and over to bite. Bite. BITE!
So he bit. Crushing the muscle beneath his powerful jaws until his lover cried out in ecstasy. Blood spurted from the wounds, caking Cody's neck and the fur of Punk's muzzle with splatters of crimson.
Talons holding him, teeth tethering him. There was only one more chain needed to bind them both together. Finally, Cody began to feel that intense pressure at his rear building and knew that the moment he'd been feverishly waiting for had come.
Punk was knotting.
The thrusting slowed down, becoming lazy and sluggish. The grip on Cody's shoulder tightened. Cody needed something to bite on too and all he had left was his own knuckles. He gnawed on the boney nubs as he was brutally stretched from the inside out. Punk's knot swelling inside of him, growing impossibly large and full, straining at the thin membrane of Cody's rectum until he feared that it would burst from the pressure.
But lord above, it felt so damn good! The intoxicating concoction of pain and pleasure so intense that it brought literal tears to his blue eyes. A sob escaped his throat, worming its way between his teeth and knuckles, the former of which had broken the skin on the latter adding yet another leak to Cody's veins. The prince whimpered as the movement inside him ground entirely to a halt and Punk hung lifelessly over his body like a pelt, talons and teeth keeping their vice-like grip on his mate.
And then he came. A gush of warmth filling Cody from deep inside. The prince whimpered pitifully as wave after wave of cum was plunged into him, filling him up. He was stuck tight, unable to get away with that big fat knot stuck inside him, locking them both together. He cheekily swayed his hips to and fro in order to feel the bulbous swelling tugging at the fraught skin of his anus, testing the strength of the bonds that held him fast. At one point he tugged a little too much, almost tearing the fragile rim and he yelped out in a delirious mix of shock and euphoria.
The ache between Cody's legs was growing unbearable. With his ass raised high, and his cheek pressed into the mud, there was no friction to relieve his throbbing cock. Slyly, he pulled his hands under him, slipping them beneath his stomach towards his groin when a fierce growl stopped him in his tracks.
'Please Punk,' Cody implored as the tears slipped from his eyes, carving clean white lines down the layers of mud and grime on his blushing cheek. 'Please let me touch myself. I can't bear it anymore.'
But Punk snarled even more viciously, chasing the hands away again. Cody wept fitfully, the bridge of his nose turning a deeper shade of red as he started to buck his hips in a pathetic attempt to rub his rock solid cock against his own inner thigh.
But then, the claws in Cody's belly retracted, releasing him. He was coaxed up by his shoulder in order to turn around so that he could lie on his back. Cody moved hesitantly, hyper aware of the knot inside him around the size of an overgrown apple. He mewled like a kitten as his body was flipped over, Punk's knot fisting his guts with every slight movement, yanking against the taut membrane of Cody's hole. Cum squirted from the punished rim as they changed position, thick and bloodied, dribbling down his taint and inner thighs, coating them in warm sticky ooze to combat the cold sticky ooze of the mud that covered everywhere else.
Finally Cody resumed his original position, with Punk kneeling between his open legs. The beast lowered himself down over him, his pink tongue flicking out to softly lap at the remains of dried blood on Cody's bare chest, dragging it across each laceration like a dog licking its wounds. The prince's breath came in broken pants, his soiled fingernails digging deeper into the mud at his sides in order to resist reaching for his cock.
Punk's tongue worked its way lower, creeping its way down the groove of Cody's V-line until it came to a halt right before his swollen dick. His hairy hand rested on the pillow of the prince's ball sack then lightly pressed down, claw tips extending out to prick the sensitive skin. Cody chin tilted back, his hips rising up off of the ground, welcoming the cruel ownership of his ravager. Punk grunted humourlessly then dipped his muzzle down.
'AHH! OH LORD ABOVE!'
Cody's hands balled up fistfuls of wet dirt as his cock was enveloped in velvet lips and pointed fangs. The wolfman's mouth was every bit as warm and sharp and dangerous as the rest of him and Cody had to fight the urge to jerk his hips incase he snagged himself on one of the beast's jagged teeth. An impossibly long tongue wrapped itself around his shaft, sucking on it like it was tearing the last chunks of meat from a shin bone, while the ragged edge of Punk's underbite scraped the belly of Cody's dick with every bob of his head.
Once again, Cody was filled with that rapturous blend of pain and pleasure. Lost between worlds, fallen into the black abyss at their core. When Punk's claws raked his balls a little too hard and a stray tooth snagged the bloated head of Cody's dick, he could stand the pressure no more and came with a loud cry, spurting cum both in and around his lover's mouth.
Looking up through bleary eyes, Cody spied Punk's smug grin smirking down at him from above, creamy globs stuck fast to the silver bristles lining his face. In a highly calculated move, the beast's tongue rolled out of his mouth and encircled his lips, lapping up every drop of his mate's seed.
'You're disgusting, you know that?' Cody teased, his voice as ragged as his body. Punk gave another amused snort before moving in to nuzzle his lover's cheek, planting soft licks along his lips and nose which tickled the other man and made him laugh. 'Ok, ok,' Cody chuckled, gently pushing the wolfman away. 'You're also very sweet.'
Punk sat back on his haunches to admire his lover, his oversized pointy ears pricked and a sliver of pink tongue resting idly on his underbite. Cody found himself lost in his large olive eyes.
It brought him right back to their first encounter several months ago, when Punk made his sudden, fearful appearance in the enchanted grove. Cody could still clearly visage the pair of them sprawled on the grass, both blood-soaked and exhausted from their battle. Cody had just run the beast through with his rapier as he'd tried to slash his throat and as they both lay gasping for breath, facing one another, Cody finally got a proper look at his attacker. He observed the ragged brown fur speckled with grey, the lolling tongue, the dripping fangs. But it was the eyes that shook him to his core. Now that the orange reflection had lifted, the green began to seep in. Cody choked as he recognised the humanity in those eyes, mournful and scared, and he realised in that instant that what he was looking at was another cursed creature, just like himself.
Perhaps it was the afterglow of his orgasm, or maybe the lingering awareness that dawn was drawing in fast and he would return to his lonely isolation once more, but before Cody could really think about what he was saying, he blurted out, 'will you come again next time?'
Punk's tongue curled back into his mouth and his ears drooped down low. The sadness returned to those green eyes and it made Cody's heart ache all the more. 'I know,' he tried to smile but it only hurt. 'I hate being apart from you too.'
Because, as similar as they were, Punk and Cody were not the same. For every day that Cody spent imprisoned on this accursed lake, trapped in the body of a swan, Punk walked a free man. Living his every day life; a job, a career, maybe even a wife and family. Cody tried not to think about that side of his lover too much. It only brought the wrong kind of pain.
'But we'll see each other again real soon,' he wasn't sure who he was trying to comfort - Punk or himself - but it at least stopped those long ears drooping quite as much. Punk showed his excitement for their next encounter with another round of nuzzles and licks while Cody scratched the back of the wolfman's ears and cheeks, just like he would have done with the palace dogs once upon a time.
'And hey,' Cody went on, 'maybe next time you could stay longer and- urgh!' He'd been so dazed by his climax that he hadn't even noticed Punk's knot shrinking inside him until his lover abruptly yanked it out. 'You know, you could warn me when you're gonna do that!'
Punk only grinned back impishly, his jaw wide open and his tongue hanging loose, panting slightly. Despite his primal tendencies, the creature knew that Cody enjoyed that part of their intimate routine the most. Mainly because of the element of surprise.
Nothing more was said between them. With one last slobbery lick up Cody's cheeks, Punk scuttled off into the undergrowth again and disappeared among the shadows, returning to... whatever he had waiting for him beyond the grove. Cody watched him go, an emptiness filling him worse than ever, and not just because there was a draught blowing up his abused back passage.
Shakily getting to his feet, he made his way towards the shallows of the lake again. The moon was dipping low and soon it would be time for him to regain his swan form. He often wondered if Punk would come on nights other than the full moon, Cody's bird eyes scanning the curtain of willow around them and honking out his name. Perhaps he could be the one to finally save him from this curse and take him away from this prison forever.
Cody let out a sorrowful sigh and glanced down, finding his reflection once more in the crystal water of the pool. It was a far cry from the majestic prince in snow-white livery that had walked forth earlier. He was now bedraggled and filthy, every inch of him from his blonde hair to his cream boots slathered in layers of thick mud and grime. His beautiful military jacket hung in tatters, the braids and epaulettes torn and twisted. What was left of his velvet breeches draped in ribbons over the top of his boots while all over his body, his once pristine skin was desecrated with long, nasty gashes crusted over with dried blood. His belly bloated with Punk's cum as if he was carrying a full litter of six.
Lifting one numb arm, Cody carefully felt around his shoulder and found the deep bite mark left by his lover. He smiled sweetly, lost for a moment in the haze of endorphins created by the thought of the scraggly wolfman.
In his own, unique way, Punk had saved him. All those centuries of isolation and loneliness, with nothing to live for, nothing to hope for, and then, one night when the full moon shone brightly above, he had appeared and turned Cody's world completely upside down. He brought so much want and desire and danger and emotion into the lonely prince's life that he'd never felt before and was certain he would never feel again.
That sullied mess staring back at him from the rippling mirror was the real side of Cody.
Cody was there. Sitting on a bench side-on to Drew, looking tired and dejected. All the rage and fury he'd displayed earlier in the cage when he'd grabbed at the mesh and snarled at the victorious Scotsman like a wild animal, had dispersed, leaving behind an exhausted, battered shell of a man. He sat hunched over, shoulders stooped, sweat shining on his naked shoulders and blood drying in his hair.
The former champion was on his phone, thumbing through messages, but when he heard the door slam open he looked up and his sad blue eyes found his Winner smirking at him from the far end of the room. Cody put his phone down with a sigh.
'So I guess the belt wasn't enough for you?' the blonde asked, a sharpness to his tone that Drew did not like one bit.
'You know how this works,' Drew shot back.
'I know this wasn't a PLE,' Cody retorted, keeping his composure which only rattled the Scot even more.
'What does that matter?' the Scotsman spat, his face turning red. 'It was a championship match and I won! I have the title, I have the belt and now I get you!'
Cody let out a small huff through his nose, like a wry laugh making Drew even madder. 'Ok, fine,' he whispered softly and struggled up to his feet with a pained grimace. 'How do you want to do this?'
Warnings - Winner's Room, Dub-Con, Non-Con, oral sex, anal fingering, anal sex, rough sex, forced orgasm, coming on face
Synopsis - Despite having mixed emotions about his win over Punk, Roman declares his Winner's Rights.
Punk couldn't even walk by the end of the match.
Roman knew he was finished; knew from the moment he collapsed under the Tribal Chief's weight whilst attempting a second GTS that would have likely put his opponent away had he been able to execute it. Shortly after, Punk made that pathetic swipe that wildly missed its target before collapsing in a heap across the blood-soaked canvas. Done. Spent.
Reigns could have tried for the pin then and there but he was wary. Even beaten down as he was, Punk always had a little fight left in him and so the OTC ran to the ropes, built up some speed then smashed into the older man with a devastating spear that shattered any final shards of resistance in him.
One. Two. Three. And new-!
Yet, even so, Roman was still fascinated when he spotted Punk out the corner of his eye, unable to walk or even stand. Reduced to crawling over the tattered remains of the announce desk, he heaved his broken carcass through splintered wood and tangled wires to reach the far barricade. A woman met him there, tiny with silver hair. She wore his WWE official licensed T-shirt. Beside her was another man that he recognised as Ace Steel, Punk's trainer and mentor.
Punk hauled himself up until he was dangling over the padded edge of the barrier and the woman embraced him warmly, holding his bloody cheeks in her hands. Roman watched as she spoke to him, words he couldn't hear but he could decipher their sentiment clearly judging from her proud, beaming face. She was lavishing praise on him, the old man who had lost the match and his title. Reigns scoffed inwardly when he noticed her hand smoothing back Punk's sweaty hair and planting a kiss on his crown.
And something stung bitterly inside of him.
Roman turned and took in the sight of his own family smiling up at him, and finally it all made horrible sense. Why Punk had said the other night on Raw that he was jealous of him. Roman came from a long distinguished line of wrestling royalty, the latest heir to the throne. From a young age, he had been taught the importance of family and he had borne the burden of being the chosen one to carry their legacy forward. He was already installing that same mindset in his own kids, simply by having them here witnessing his triumph that night and perhaps one day they too would bear that burden if they chose to follow in their father's footsteps.
But Punk... he had no family. The woman there had taken him in at fifteen when life at home became too hard to bear and he had nowhere else to go while Ace Steel had been something of a surrogate father or big brother to him, a guy who had stood by him through thick or thin over the years.
Nobody had been there to guide Punk through the intricacies of this business or fight his corner or smooth things over when things got difficult and tempers flared. He'd had to fend for himself, figure out this cut-throat industry on his own.
He hadn't been born into this world like Roman; he'd chosen it. The same way he'd chosen his family.
And he had no children, which meant that Punk's 'dynasty' began with him and would die with him. His legacy would live on instead with the next generation of talent he'd influenced and nurtured.
Roman felt something inside him squeeze like a clenched fist. Did he... actually feel sorry for CM Punk?
No. Impossible.
Which was why the moment they both made their way backstage, he approached the veteran. Punk took one look at Roman's grim, solemn face and knew instantly what he wanted. Without saying a word, he followed the newly crowned World Heavyweight Champion, stumbling on creaking knees that these days were mainly fragments of bone and muscle held together with wads of duct tape. His breathing was laboured, his battered face wincing at every step until they arrived at Roman's private locker room and locked themselves inside.
Despite those ruined wrecks of knees, Punk sank down onto them, head bowed, awaiting his orders. Roman pulled a chair across and slumped onto it, spreading his brand new shiny belt across his waist in full view of its former owner, whose side plates were still screwed on tight. Punk didn't steal so much as a single glance at it, his glazed olive eyes instead fixed onto the floor just below Roman's boot.
The Tribal Chief got comfortable then paused. The entire room filled with the silence until they both felt like they were drowning.
Finally, the OTC broke it by clearing his throat. 'Take off that stupid shirt.'
Punk grasped the bottom of the black shirt he'd received from a fan on the ramp. It had a picture of his own face on it sporting cute dog ears and a snout along with bright pink letters stating 'CM Punk is babygirl.' Carefully, he tugged it up and off before tossing it aside.
Once again, things came to a momentary standstill.
'I haven't done this in a while,' Roman admitted, drumming his large fingers against the arms of the chair.
Punk's eyes drifted up briefly. 'Me neither,' he replied. 'Been having some respite since Seth got injured.'
Even during his time off, Roman had heard rumours about Seth and his so-called Vision running rampage backstage, weaponising the Winner's Room to impose their dominance over all the other talent. Punk, from what he'd heard, had been a constant target. That fist clenched inside him again and Roman pushed back against it. 'I don't wanna fuck you, Phil,' he snapped.
The sudden vitriol in the younger man's tone stunned the veteran. 'Good,' he gave a bone-dry laugh, 'I don't want you to fuck me either.'
'I just want you to acknowledge me!'
Punk lifted his head up this time, his hazel eyes narrowing at Reigns. He still had splatters of dried blood in the crevices around his nose and eye-bags, his forehead was badly bruised. The two of them had gone to war out there, Punk had probably given Reigns one of the all-time matches of his career, an instant classic. 'You want me to acknowledge you?' Punk asked, the many lines on his crimson brow furrowing.
Roman was about to bite back with some retort when the older man beat him to it.
'Didn't I do that already?'
The Tribal Chief's mouth went dry. He snapped his lips shut and sniffed loudly with irritation.
'Look, I'll admit that I hate you,' Punk went on, taking advantage of his Winner's stunned silence. 'I hate you and everything you'd had handed to you in this business. But I can't deny what you've accomplished. You held the WWE Championship for over one thousand, three hundred days, you've main-evented Wrestlemania eleven times now.'
Roman grunted and turned his face away. He couldn't stand to look at the sordid little man.
'You beat me out there,' Punk went on and pointed at the belt around the Champion's waist. 'You won that from me, fair and square, and what's more? You did it all on your own! No cousins, no Bloodline. Just you. And that's all I wanted from you.' The veteran straightened out his rusty back with a grimace, pulling his chin up proudly. 'So it wasn't my night tonight, big deal. I gave everything I had until there was nothing left in the tank. But you did, and that's why you beat me. You were the better man tonight... and with that said, Roman Reigns...'
At the sound of his name, Roman looked back, finding Punk slowly lifting his finger high up into the air above his head, his face set and serious.
'...I acknowledge you.'
The OTC pursed his lips, furious at whatever mind-games were at play here. Nothing was ever what it seemed, especially not between him and CM Punk of all people.
'Good,' he said around the heaves of a long, ragged sigh. His hands went to the belt of his wrestling pants and unbuckled it, before yanking open his zipper. 'Now acknowledge your Winner.'
Punk's shoulders slumped. He look tired but even so, he shuffled over on those ragged knees and settled himself between Roman's large thighs. Reigns leaned back, resting his hands on either arm of his chair and in doing so, forced Punk to dip his own hand into the folds of his Winner's pants and entice his cock out. It wasn't hard, so Punk had to rouse it with a few firm strokes until it showed some signs of life, then wasted little time in slipping it between his open lips.
The moment he felt the damp warmth of Punk's mouth around his cock, Roman let out an involuntary hiss. He tensed up, fists clenched, ready for any trickery from his notoriously rebellious trophy but Punk was as much a veteran of Winner's Rooms as he was at being in that ring and he knew what was expected of him. The moment his masterful tongue massaged the sensitive skin of Reigns dick, Roman sank back into his chair with an obscene groan, a rumbling through his entire exhausted, aching body.
'You like that?' Punk asked. Teasing the Tribal Chief. He could tell by the tone of the veteran's voice alone. That, and the fact he'd had the audacity to interrupt his Winner's pleasure to do so riled Roman up again, but not enough to fully stir him from his stupor.
'You shouldn't be able to talk,' he snapped.
'I'm a great multi-tasker.'
'Don't talk!'
Another wry chuckle sounded from below and Punk lunged in once more, sucking Reigns' cock back into his mouth. The younger man hissed again, his eyes fluttering shut and his head lolling back on his rubbery neck as Punk bobbed his head back and forth, driving the OTC dick in deeper and deeper until it was practically lodged down the back of his throat.
Roman never liked tossing a compliment the older man's way, but he begrudgingly had to admit that Punk was very good at this. Incredible, even! The way his tongue seemed to cradle his cock, masterfully sliding up and down its underbelly, pinging off every receptor along the way or how he controlled the muscles in his throat to open up and swallow him down without setting off his gag reflex was very impressive. It was a stark reminder to the younger man that Punk had done this countless times before, enough to hone his skill to the highest level.
As Reigns sank into his chair and allowed his pleasure to take over, lightly pumping his hips into the older man's mouth, his mind wandered, remembering some of the high-profile losses that Punk had had over the years. Randy Orton. Undertaker. Brock Lesnar. The Rock. Triple H. Drew McIntyre. All men with notorious reputations, all men known to viciously impose their Winner's Rights.
Roman, himself, had been on the wrong side of a match decision with many of those same men and experienced those very Winner's Rooms but looking back, he couldn't help feeling that most of them had gone easy on him. Knowing and respecting his familial connections, they had treated him more sweetly than others for fear of incurring the Anoa'i Dynasty's wrath.
Once again, Roman was cruelly reminded that Punk had not been offered the same luxury. At best, he may have had Paul Heyman negotiating the treaties of his assaults for a while, but Heyman was a double edged sword. Roman knew that first hand too. The one he'd once called his Wise Man had sat in the corner of many a Roman Reigns Winner's Room and watched with sadistic glee as the Head of the Table tortured and ravaged his trophies. He would have probably been there in Punk's Winners Room too, giggling in the corner and badgering for the poor loser's wrestling boots to be removed.
Heyman had turned on Punk, just like he always does when he tires of his latest project, and most likely sat pride of place in the Beast's private locker room after Summerslam '13, grinning from cheek to cheek as he watched his 'best friend in the world' being ripped in half by his brutal attack dog.
Roman frantically shook the thought from his head. What was wrong with him tonight? What was with all this guilt, all this... pity? For CM Punk? A man who had caused him nothing but grief for the past twelve years. Whose taunts and jibes from the sidelines, from podcasts and interviews and backstage shows on Fox, had relentlessly followed Reigns until the very sound of a 'CM Punk' chant made him sick to his stomach?
He awoke slightly from his trance and looked down, finding Punk hard at work between his legs. He was doing a good job, too good a job, making the OTC's brain all fuzzy. In an attempt to rip back some control, Roman reached down with one large hand and caressed it through the wet, sweaty strands of Punk's salt and pepper hair then twisted it hard. The veteran flinched, his hazel eyes shooting up to meet his Winner's. They were larger than normal from this angle, more green and they sparkled when the light hit them. Perfected blowjob eyes, complete with the hollow cheeks and the stretched lips. However, there was a slight squint to them, a corner of those lips curling that somehow revealed that Punk was smiling back at him.
Roman yanked on his hair again, eliciting a moan that vibrated through his dick. He liked that. Jerking Punk's head closer, he gave a nasty thrust with his hips, pushing himself further than the veteran had taken him yet. The muffled yelp thrummed though him again, the sweetest ecstasy. Keeping his grip taut, he cranked Punk's head up and to the side, exposing the older man's throat, just so he could see the bloated lump of his own cockhead bullying its way down the older man's gullet.
Enjoying the view, he held Punk in place, taking over as he worked his hips back and forth, fucking his trophy's mouth and throat with deeper, firmer drives. Punk took it all, let Roman use him however his Winner pleased. His mouth open and gaping and hollow. Warm drool escaped the bottom corner of his lips, pooling into the black fabric of Roman's wrestling pants. All while still smiling. Like he was laughing at the Tribal Chief, mocking the new Champion.
The OTC gritted his teeth and glared at the impudent Loser. He'd warned him back in the ring - mock me again, bitch - and as a result Punk now donned the multitude of cuts and bruises and bloodstains that came with not doing as he was told. Yet, it seemed, even now, the veteran had not learned his lesson.
Roman brushed his thumb across Punk's furrowed brow, tracing the mountain range of swelling caused by steel steps and Roman's closed fist. Locating a decent nick in the injured skin, about half the width of his small finger, he lined his thumbnail with the opening and pressed it in.
Punk's whole body jolted from the sudden sting, his hands grasping onto Roman's thighs to keep himself balanced as his Winner attacked him on two fronts. Roman admired the way all the muscles in his trophy's shoulders tensed up, every trap and tendon perfectly defined. Punk in general was more cut these days, a typical sign of the ageing man. Now that he was losing the battle against gravity, he could no longer rely on the natural softness of youth to compensate for doing the bare minimum in the gym - these days he had to work to make his body firm and subtle. It showed most in the areas he never used to work before, his traps in particular and Reigns, enjoying the spectacle of them contracting under Punk's pink, lightly freckled skin, dug his thumbnail in even harder to make his pretty puppet dance again.
Punk let out a desperate gasp around Roman's cock as his Winner scratched the tender skin, making it burst with a fresh stream of blood that trickled down the older man's brow. Like tapping into a maple tree for syrup. Equally as satisfying and just as sweet.
Gagged as he was, Punk pleaded with his hands, squeezing fists of Roman's tights for what the Tribal Chief initially thought was mercy, but when he saw the blown look in his trophy's eyes and the way his hips moved to create some friction in his trunks, he realised Punk was delirious with rapture. He always was a bit of a freak that way. Loved pain. Loved the agony.
Typical child of neglect. So starved of love that they accepted even hurt as a form of affection.
Roman found his gaze locked onto the older man. Watching the fluttering of his eyelashes as he tortured him, the stretched fullness of his grey-bristled cheeks around his thrusting cock, the ragged, filthy fingers fisting the OTC's pants. Rarely had he seen such a more pathetic, beautiful sight, and he began to wonder.
Maybe he did want to fuck CM Punk!
He gave a savage yank on Punk's hair. 'Off!' he ordered the older man.
Punk let his lower lip droop, allowing Roman's cock to slide out of him again. The dark red skin of his rock hard appendage glistened in the light, lovely and wet and ready. Slivers of saliva bowed between its tip and Punk's swollen, abused lips where the tiniest hint of a pink tongue emerged from the corner and ran the entire length, back and forth, tasting the remnants of the Tribal Chief left behind.
'On the ground, Phil.'
It showed that Punk wasn't the least bit shocked by his Winner's U-turn. Those defined shoulders shook as he laughed dryly, his dirty, tattooed hand wrapped in the remnants of grubby tape wiping the mess from his lips as he turned and took up position. Palms and forehead to the ground, ass up. Not moving from his chair, Roman kicked the older man's legs further apart, eyeing up the entire length of Punk's paper white gusset from ass down to his semi-swollen bulge jutting out below like a pitiful excuse for a stalactite. The once pristine fabric of Punk's trunks were as soiled as the canvas of the mat, splattered with browning stains of its wearer's blood. The seams were decked in purple and gold, colours of a king to match the crown on the back of Punk's jacket he'd worn to the ring.
But that was back when he'd been the man on top. Now, it just seemed tacky.
Without any pomp or ceremony, Roman pulled Punk's trunks and white speedos down, exposing the older man's backside. The OTC scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a moment to study the dark red, almost maroon circle of muscle dead centre between Punk's stretched cheeks, ringed by a dense halo of shaggy, sweat-soaked hair. It winked open and closed, like a starving little mouth, hungry for Roman's cock.
Roman would feed it soon enough.
Placing two of his large fingers into his mouth, Reigns sucked them generously, taking his sweet time. Keeping his prize waiting all while Punk quivered from anticipation, his old, tired body fighting to keep its awkward position. Roman thought once again of his beaten-up knees, straining and struggling under his own weight.
'Not like that, Phil. On your back.'
Punk laughed even harder and drier than before as he heaved himself over with great effort. Reigns was growing tired of the charade.
'Why do you keep laughing at your Winner?'
This only amused the errant trophy even more. 'Why do you keep calling me by my legal name like it's an insult?' he shot back through another wheezy chuckle.
Roman snapped his mouth shut, crinkling his nose. In reply, he grabbed Punk's trunks and yanked on them hard. He struggled to thread them over the older man's kick pads and boots but with enough tearing and tugging, he succeeded in removing them from one leg and left them hanging limply around Punk's left ankle. With the last shred of resistance gone, he pushed Punk's rusty knees as far apart as they would go then shoved his slicked fingers directly into his prize's hole.
The older man bucked like a kicking mule, a strangled whine poorly contained between his pursed lips as Roman pushed his two fingers in all the way down to the knuckle. Reigns was expecting Punk to be loose but even he was pleasantly surprised at how was easy it was to drive his large digits right in. Nice and slack but with enough crunch squeezing back against the intrusion; a perfect fit!
Roman's fingers circled around, expertly locating the hot, pulsing bulge of Punk's prostrate and honed in on it. The veteran let out a long, stuttering moan, his semi-hard dick between his legs springing up. 'You like that, huh bitch?' Roman sneered down at his messy prize, enjoying the view of his abused mouth falling wide open. He didn't want an answer. He just upped the assault on Punk's G-spot, torturing the older man and wringing as much noise as he could from him as possible. 'That's it,' he grinned, 'come for your Winner. Come for your Tribal Chief.'
Punk retorted with a strained growl between his gritted teeth. Fighting back, like he always did, but just like out in the ring, he was losing against a bigger, stronger and younger opponent. Roman, much like his move set, didn't waste his time and energy on doing anything flash, he focused on targeting his opponent's weak spots again and again until they submitted. His fingers circled and massaged Punk's prostrate, pushing down and around and over and back until the veteran practically melted beneath him, trembling from heat to foot and covered in fresh beads of sweat.
'Come on now, stop fighting it,' Roman rumbled in his throat. 'You know you can't do it forever, old man.'
The hazel eyes sprung open, that old fury in them that Roman had seen up close and personal only a few weeks ago when he'd thrown a similar insult. He observed Punk's battered lips snarling, saw his fist clench but before he could unleash the blow, Roman busted out one of his own. Pushing both fingers as hard as he could into Punk's prostrate, the older man let out a great howl and both his chin and his cock raised to the sky in unison, the latter spewing out strings of cum like an erupting volcano.
'There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?' Roman chuckled, slowly removing his fingers from Punk's quivering hole. His prize had softened again, in the throes of exhaustion caused by his after-glow. Globs of milky cum covered his heaving stomach, oozing down his flanks. Reigns reached across for the veteran's discarded shirt and used it to wipe the mess away. Punk didn't even notice; his body, his fist, his head all lolled back against the floor as if Reigns had drugged him with chloroform.
'Don't go to sleep just yet 'Babygirl',' Reigns cooed. 'We're just getting started.'
Throwing the cum-soaked rag away again, Reigns grabbed both of Punk's hips and heaved them up. The older man's legs flopped like heavy sacks on either side as the OTC wrapped a hand around his own rock-hard dick and lined it up with his prize's abused hole.
He rammed himself in, right to the hilt, in one unchallenged thrust. Punk mewled beneath him, unable to move, unable to reply, just like he had been in the ring after suffering the final catastrophic spear of the match. Out-done, out-classed and out-fought by his younger, fitter nemesis. Reigns buried himself in deep, groaning at the foamy warmth cushioning his large cock. Through his glazed vision, he scanned the limp carcass beneath him, spying the familiar tattoos across his chest softly rising and falling, the crusty tape encompassing one hand that lay splayed above his head with a circle of faux stigmata drawn in red sharpie on his palm. Roman's eyes flew to the other hand, lying by Punk's side, noting the iconic X on it in black sharpie. And in that moment, it all struck him.
He was fucking CM Punk!
'You feel that?' Roman laughed with a bark, suddenly light-headed and weightless. Feeling like he was losing his mind. 'Can't believe this is happening. You feel me all the way inside of you, Phi-?'
He caught himself but not quick enough. What was that? Why did he keep referring to this guy by his legal name?
Delirium gave way to frustration. Roman braced himself on one hand and coiled the other around Punk's waist. With his prize secured, he began to move his hips, brutal and vicious from the offset, punching up into the older man's nearly lifeless body without mercy. Punk panted feebly beneath him, completely helpless against the onslaught. Each savage drive a incensed curse of 'fuck you, fuck you, fuck you'.
Fuck what you said about me.
Fuck what you did to me.
Fuck all the times you've disrespected me.
Fuck all the shit I've gone through because of you.
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
Fuck you, Phil!
With a fiery roar, Roman dropped Punk's dead weight. He clattered against the ground but the OTC did not let up. Snaring both wrists, he pinned the older man down and bucked into him so hard that he lifted the other man's hips right off the ground, ramming in and in and in.
'Look at me,' he commanded his prize. When Punk did not respond, he released his wrist in order to slap him across the cheek. Dark eyelashes fluttered open revealing a thin line of hazel 'Look at me when I'm fucking you Phil!'
Punk slowly turned his face, eyes open a fraction, eyebrows steeples and lower lip drooping, his whole body rocking from the torrid pummelling of his hole.
'You wanna know why I keep calling you by your real name?' Roman snarled in the older man's face, saliva dripping from his bared fangs onto the older man's grey-bristled cheek. 'It's because I hate you, Phil! I hate you!'
His prize said nothing. Only looked back pleadingly.
'And I hate... that I hate you.' Roman sucked in a breath feeling tears stinging his eyes. He combatted it by increasing the pace several notches, afflicting his enemy even more. 'You were my hero once. I respected you. I admired you. The day I was called up into the Shield, I was so fucking stoked to be working with you.'
'Ro, I- hrrggnnfff,' Punk was cut off by an especially brutal thrust.
'Shut up! I'm talking now! This is my time!' Roman collapsed on top of Punk, suffocating the older man with his full body weight. Keeping his wrists pinned, Roman shoved his head into the sweaty crook of the veteran's neck, his lips finding the soft lobe of Punk's ear. 'But then you went on that stupid podcast. Said all that stupid shit about making me look strong and made my life hell for years. But you know what hurt the most?'
Roman thrust in as hard as he could and stopped. Lodging himself as deep into Punk as the older man's tattered passage would allow. Lifting his face up, Roman placed his lips flush against Punk's ear.
'You said you chose Ambrose and Rollins. But not me.' The sob escaped him before he could prevent it. 'Why? Why didn't you choose me?'
He waited, paused in the action, for a reply but none came.
So he thrust in again. Harder this time. Making the veteran yelp.
'Tell me!'
'Because...' Punk's voice was hoarse and gritty. Sounding... old. 'Like I said before. Because you were boring. And safe. And plastic!'
Roman punched into him again, grinding his hips against his ravaged taint. 'The truth, Phil!'
'That is the fucking truth!'
Roman lost it. Lifting himself up onto his hands again, he resumed his violent battering of Punk's body, every one of his mixed feelings on the man tossed aside as he tore and shredded his former hero's to pieces. Punk wasn't smiling anymore, Punk wasn't laughing anymore. Punk was in agony, wishing for respite, wishing for reprieve, wishing for the end.
And tragically it came all too early.
Roman felt himself reaching his climax and quickly tore himself free from his prize. Straddled his entire weight across Punk's sweaty chest, he shuffled up to Punk's chin and, with his cock in one hand, finished himself off. The spray landed all across Punk's face, catching on his beard and eyebrow and hair, splattering over his screwed shut eyes and dripping into his open mouth. Mixing in with the sweat and blood and tears he'd already shed that night.
Roman gave a final shake of his cock and stood up. Grabbing Punk's 'Babygirl' shirt, he wiped himself with it then tossed it to his shattered victim. 'Clean yourself up then leave,' he snapped.
Turning away, Roman pulled up his wrestling pants and closed his zipper when he heard a soft, craggy voice murmur through the silence.
'I knew you were coming for my spot.'
He paused and turned around. Punk had made it up to one elbow, his back towards him.
'And I knew they were gonna just hand it to you. And I'd fought so fucking hard for it.' Another painful heave and he managed to sit. 'It wasn't fucking fair. That's why... that's why I didn't choose you.'
All of the conflict from earlier, all the pity and sympathy and grief that Roman had felt on Punk's behalf reared its ugly head again and this time he couldn't simply swat it away. 'I'm sorry,' he hushed out, not sure what else to say or do but knowing this was the least he could offer.
'I'm sorry too,' Punk replied. Shaky fingers reached out for the rag he'd been tossed but sprung away in disgust. 'What the fuck?'
For the second time in as many minutes, Roman apologised. 'Sorry, I used it to clean you up earlier. Here.'
He threw Punk one of his clean towels and the veteran used it to wipe the cum from his cheeks 'You had to do it on my face, huh? You couldn't just come inside me like everybody else?'
'Couldn't risk getting you pregnant, 'Babygirl',' Roman teased and to his amazement, Punk chuckled. A good natured one.
'Just imagine if that was possible,' the veteran replied with a whimsical grin. 'Me of all people, carrying on the Bloodline.'
'I'd rather not,' Roman retorted.
The mirth died down again. 'So what now?' Punk asked softly. 'Between you and me, I mean.'
Roman took a moment to consider the question. 'Everything between you and me is settled,' he said. 'We put it to rest and we move on.'
'Sounds good to me,' Punk agreed, nodding his head.
'From now on, stay the hell away from me and keep your damn nose out of my business.'
Despite himself, Roman couldn't help but notice the dismay in the older man's expression and feel a pang of guilt draw back in. 'Sure,' Punk muttered, fumbling with his trunks and speedos and pulling them back up around his waist again. Grabbing his filthy shirt, he struggled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily and having to support himself against the wall. 'Goodbye, then.'
Roman turned away. Keeping his back to his opponent, he listened to the uneven stumble of Punk's boots as he limped out the door and softly closed it behind him. As soon as he was alone again, he expected the sorrow to hit... but it didn't. Probably because he felt cleansed of a decade's worth of toxicity, or because he finally had some closure on the matter.
Or was it because he knew this was far from the end of it. Because his fate and Punk's had become so intertwined and twisted over the years that they could never truly be free from one another... and a small part of him couldn't wait to see what their next chapter would bring.
For @ripleyflair @paladinofmoonlight @rheastwin17 and everybody else who requested a soft Punkintyre pic. This one is from the Stray AU. (I took some creative licence with Larry's colouring to tone him in)
Warnings - Winner's Room, Rape, Non-Con, blood and injury, bondage, internalised homophobia, period typical homophobia
Words - ~5k words
Summary - Bret won the match but not the way he wanted. So he invokes his Winner's Rights!
Tagging - @hardcore-bradshaw
The number on the door matched the key tag. Unlocking it, Bret Hart walked into the hotel room to find everything as he'd requested. Luxury suite. City view. Crisp white sheets.
And his trophy already there waiting for him.
'Stone Cold' Steve Austin.
He looked pissed. In fact, he looked more than pissed! Bret could understand why. From the strange concoction of eucalyptus and stale musk in the air, Steve had been thoroughly washed, dried then re-dressed in his sweaty ring gear. Plain black trunks, black boots, black knee pads, black knee brace. They'd even applied fresh black tape around his wrists to complete the look before locking them behind his back in metal handcuffs and attaching them to the hotel room's radiator with a chain.
The man had the aura of a caged animal, snarling as his Winner entered the room. Bret walked right past him. Dumping his bag on the floor, he opened up the mini-bar to find it full just like he'd asked. Say what you want about the WWF but they knew how to treat their top talent right.
He bypassed all the tempting offerings in the small cooler, instead opting for a bottle of water. Twisting the cap open, he slouched into the leather armchair and chugged it down, all while studying his prize across the room. Steve glared at him, the chain at his feet softly clinking with every slight subtle movement. It reminded Bret of a rabid dog straining at its leash.
No, not a dog. Yes, the man was fierce and dangerous, but a dog just didn't seem like the right analogy. Bigger, undomesticated. More like a lion or tiger. Yes, the recently crowned King of the jungle, now plucked from the wild and chained inside a circus or zoo to be put on display for all to see.
Bret lowered the water bottle and met the two manic blue eyes stomping a mud hole right through him with a weary sigh. 'What to do with you?' he wondered aloud.
He'd never done this before. Winner's Rooms. It had a long, distinguished history in the company, going as far back as the days of Bruno Sammartino. A way to enforce the pecking order, for the top guys to remind the greenhorns of their place. Bret could never stomach the practise, himself. He found it barbaric, and anyway, he never needed such cheap tactics to prove his worth. He had the skills and smarts to best any opponent between the ropes cleanly and that was enough for him.
At least... it was, until tonight.
Bret continued his silent study of his opponent. Steve always had a certain look about him, like he was about to snap at any minute. Not a fire raging inside him, more like a ticking time-bomb ready to blow. Made sense that he announced his entrance to the sound of shattered glass - it brought to mind the image of bar room brawls, shattering beer bottles over a man's skull or throwing him through a window. Very apt for the hot-headed American.
But of course, he wasn't just American, was he? He was worse.
He was Texan!
'Well, whatever the hell you're gonna do, you'd best get on with it, you son of a bitch, cause you're really starting to piss me off.'
The impertinent outburst vexed the veteran and he decided to remind the mouthy younger man of the position he currently found himself in. Remind him who held all the power in this room. 'Turn around,' he instructed. 'Place your forehead against the wall.'
Steve seethed and for a moment Bret was sure that he was going to open his big mouth and berate him with a tirade of profanity but by some miracle the younger man did as he was told. Huffing through his gritted teeth, he stomped around, the chain clanking at his booted heels, and thudded his big, thick brow bone against the gaudy wallpaper on the walls. Bret puffed out at the small victory, perhaps there was some humility in the impertinent upstart after all.
That was a strange way to describe a thirty-two year old bald man but there it was. Steve was on the brink of superstardom, about to embark on the run of his life while Bret... Bret was entering the twilight of his career, looking down the barrel of his fortieth year. He didn't feel ready to retire yet but the implication loomed all the same, never far from his thoughts. His body was still healthy though, his mind just as sharp and his passion still burning but already the younger jaws were snapping at his heels.
Standing up, Bret sauntered towards his prize, cautiously approaching the chained tiger, ever mindful of its teeth and claws. With his back turned, he could see those very claws. Large, thick fingers curled like talons, straining against the metal shackles that held them taut, unable to fight back or protect himself.
Yes, the tiger analogy worked. He was an impressive specimen; standing two inches taller and around twenty pounds heavier, he was larger in places than Bret could ever hope to be. From his big broad shoulders swaying up and down like a big cat's right before it pounced to his thick arms and even thicker thighs. Bret followed the line of his spine all the way down to the waistband of his wrestling trunks. Simple, old-fashioned and solid black. No garish logos or tight leathery spandex that some of the boys these days liked to sport. A softer material, more practical. Sure, he had embellishments on the leather vest he wore to the ring but once Steve took it off and slipped between those ropes, he was all business. A brawler, ready for a fight.
In a way, Bret was rather jealous - he wished he'd thought of it first, but his era had been all flash and showmanship. It wasn't enough to just be tough or talented in the ring, a top star had to be ripped like a body builder, tanned to the max and larger than life, more a cartoon character than an actual person. Bret just wasn't built that way. Low-key, artful, charismatic enough to hold his own against men like Hulk Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior but could never out-do them at their own schtick. Even with the hot pink tights and wrap-around glasses, he was considered understated for a professional wrestler in the WWF.
But the times were already a-changing and this man right in front of him looked set to take the reigns for the next generation. A grittier, more brutal era. Steve may not have been the first choice but he had cemented his foothold in the company, first by winning King of the Ring tournament then with his Austin 3:16 victory speech that followed.
Tonight, Bret had intended to knock the hungry younger man back down, but he had a terrible feeling he'd done the opposite and helped springboard him to the next level.
The veteran's gaze sprung up and found a fierce blue eye trained on him over the tiger's shoulder. 'Come on then, old-timer,' Steve mocked. 'I aint got all night!'
Bret retaliated with a nasty shove to the back of Steve's neck, clanging his eye socket hard against the metal rungs of the radiator. As he reeled from the blow, Bret dug the heel of his elbow directly into the younger man's inflamed lower back, still red and tender from the excruciating punishment he'd received in their match. The tiger buckled but refused to bend, his body jutting out at a strange angle that made it hard for Bret to control. The veteran's gaze fell on the large band-aid stuck fast to the younger man's forehead, covering the nasty gash he'd received in their match which had gushed blood over his face.
'Look at the you, Austin,' Bret rebuked with a taunt of his own. 'Is there any part of you that isn't banged up? Your back, your head... your knee!' Pulling his leg back, he stomped directly into the pit of Steve's braced knee with a sickening crunch. The younger man cried out as his legs finally crumbled beneath him, allowing Bret to pin him fully against the cold, hard steel.
'Give it up, Austin,' Bret snarled at his prize. 'Stop fighting. Tap!'
The veteran applied more pressure, almost crushing the younger man's skull.
But he didn't tap
He could do more. Bret should do more. He could do what all those other guys did to humble the fresh meat, degrade him and violate him until he wept. However, even the thought alone made him sick to his stomach. Bret wasn't some freak, some... homo! He wasn't going to reduce himself to such disgusting acts.
'Grurgh!' Bret shook his head with a growl and let his trophy go. Retreating to the bed, he perched on the edge and scrubbed his face through his hands. Then what? What should he do? Why was this so difficult? He'd made countless other men tap over the years, why was this one any different?
'What's the matter, Bret? You gone soft on me? Come on over and finish what you started, jackass!'
Hart glared up over his knotted fists. Steve was where he'd left him, down on his knees, cheek resting on the top of the radiator but his big hands were trying to claw their way loose of their shackles, beady blue eyes seething with venom. No wonder JR had dubbed him the Texas Rattlesnake. Volatile and unpredictable. It suited him down to a tee.
And just like the snake he was, those chains would only hold him so long. As loathe as he was to admit it, Austin was right ; Bret had started this and he must finish it. At that moment, a twisted idea popped into the veteran's head. A better way to put that big, brash mouth to use and since he was already down on his knees...
'No,' he ordered the younger man. 'You come over here.' The Texan eye-balled him, watching as Bret unbuckled his belt and opened up his zipper, shoving down his jeans to release his flaccid cock. The veteran's heart was pounding, his mind racing. It's not gay if he's the one doing it, right? He could close his eyes and imagine a petite, pretty thing with long flowing blonde hair and perky breasts, her pink lips stretching over his shaft, her large eyelashes fluttering up at him as she swallowed him down.
'Fuck you!'
Bret was starting to lose his patience. 'You want this over with, don't you? Then get your ass over here, now!'
A tense silence. Both men caught at an impasse.
Then a soft clinking of chains. Steve shuffled towards Bret, bald head held high and a wry grin on his face, almost feral in nature. Like this was all one big, ridiculous joke. Bret swirled his tongue over his dry lips to try and moisten then, hoping his nerves didn't show as the tiger stalked towards him. Opening his legs to allow the larger man in, he tilted his chin back and tried to imagine that pretty little lady he'd envisioned earlier. Dainty, slim and sweet. Head full of curly golden locks falling down her back.
Not the big, broad man barging his way between his knees. Not the sticky skin caked in fake-tan, the light glistening off the dome of his bald head. Not the bristles of his goatee brushing against his naked thigh.
Another rattle of chains as Steve edged in closer, his mouth opening wide.
A rattle.
A rattle!
Bret opened his eyes with a start. Saw the fangs bearing down in a large pink mouth and the honed blue eyes.
'NO!' He shoved his palm against Steve's forehead, sending the younger man crashing down onto his side.
'THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?' Austin roared from the floor, writhing and twisting, trying to untangle himself from the chain.
'We're not doing that,' Bret shot up to his feet, scratching his fingers through his hair. That had been too close. He had remembered just in the nick of time that he was dealing with a dangerous animal. The rattlesnake had unhinged its jaw and was about to strike. He probably would have bitten Bret's dick clean off, he wouldn't put it past the deranged redneck.
Which lead him right back to his original problem - what to do with him? It looked as if he was left with little choice but to go with the tried and tested method, even if it made him physically sick to his stomach.
'On the bed, Austin,' he instructed his prize. 'Face against the sheets.'
'Big man, aint ya Bret?' Steve ridiculed from the floor. 'Havin' me all chained up like this just so's you can beat my ass a little?'
Bret tried his best to sound intimating. 'I'm not gonna beat your ass, Austin. I'm gonna fuck it.'
Steve's harsh laugh rattled around the room like stones in a rusty beer can.
Bret snapped!
Grabbing the younger man by the back of the neck, he flung him down on the bed, face-down, ass up, padded knees skimming the plush red carpet. Reaching down, Bret grabbed the solid frame of Steve's knee brace and pulled, hauling his thick thigh over until his legs were spread wide open.
When he first entered this room, he'd fully intended to respect the sanctity of Steve's gear, leave him something, however sparse, to wear on his walk of shame back home afterwards. But now-
Bret grabbed two fistfuls of Steve's trunks and tore them apart, splitting a hole straight through the black fabric. The younger man jerked beneath him, gasping with shock. Finally! A little fear from the other man. Fear was a good start on the road to respect.
Steve had berated Bret for months while he was out injured. Mocking him, taunting him. Fuelling his return to the point that the moment he stepped foot back into a WWF arena, he'd targeted the younger man and had (or had least thought he had) put him back in his place. But things were never that simple when it came to Stone Cold Steve Austin. The man was like a human tick, biting its target and refusing to let go. Even when the veteran believed he had finally dislodged the insect, its head remained buried in his flesh, sucking his blood dry.
Tonight was meant to be the end of this nonsense. A chance for Bret to break the tiger's legs so he wouldn't get back up and in some ways, he meant that literally. Several minutes into the match, Bret targeted Steve's braced up knee, pummelling it, stomping it, bending it and wrenching it in every excruciating way he could think of. But then, a nasty clatter across the time-keeper's area busted Steve's head open, a second chink in his armour for Bret to exploit.
And right here, in that hotel room, at that moment, Bret was on the cusp of exposing a third. Swallowing down what was left of his decency, he hooked both thumbs into his prize's sweaty ass-crack and prised them apart, revealing his the red, hairy spiral of his entrance. A sharp salty scent hit Bret's senses and he almost recoiled. Man stench. He wasn't used to this, didn't like it. But it had to be done. He had to finish this for good.
Hocking up every drop of saliva and phlegm in his dry mouth, Bret bent in low and spat onto Steve's hole.
'God-dammit!' his trophy cursed beneath him, struggling to break free of his chains.
Bret retreated just as quickly as he went in, not wanting to linger long but he saw the feeble pool of froth on his prize and knew it wasn't enough. So he hocked up another and spat, another and spat, each time eliciting a different blasphemy from his trophy until his hole was fully covered.
Then (reluctanctly) Bret dug his thumb right in.
'SHIT!' Steve's Texan accent added several syllables to the swear, his entire body jumping at the sudden intrusion. Bret felt ill, like he was soiling his thumb as he circled it around, uncomfortable with how much the muscles squeezed him back. He'd hoped that Steve would be looser than this. He suddenly wondered if this was his first time too but quickly batted the thought away. Now was not the time to think like that.
'Ok Austin,' Bret warned, ripping his digit free and lining his dick up instead. It wasn't erect, so he tried to think of the pretty blonde and vigorously stroked himself to a semi. 'This is your last chance. If you don't want me to go through with this, just submit.'
Submit.
It was a no disqualification submissions match. The no DQ stipulation was for Steve's benefit because otherwise he would been completely handicapped. Bret was a submission specialist, this was his wheelhouse, his bread-and-butter, while Steve was a hard-hitting brawler who didn't boast a single submission move in his repertoire. Apparently (if the rumours were to be believed) he'd been asking around the locker room for advice and needed to be taught several new moves in order to even compete.
It should have been so easy.
'I can see your hands, Austin,' Bret added, stalling for time before he had to commit to the deed. 'You want me to stop this, you know what to do. Just tap out. That's all you have to do.'
That's all he needed. All he wanted. But, it turned out to be easier to draw blood from the stone than to get it to crack.
And yet... the cuffed hands began to move. Fingers fisting and un-fisting. Wrists yanking uselessly at the short chain connecting them, cutting up the black wrist tape and further chaffing the red and bloodied skin beneath.
Bret stopped. Watched. Waited.
The fingers lifted up, facing their master. Then curled in on themselves, until only two thick middle fingers remained standing.
'Fuck you!'
Bret swallowed down the storm of fury and disappointment. 'Fine. Have it your way.'
He thrust his semi-hard dick into Steve's clenched entrance.
The tiger leapt beneath him, snarling, baring his teeth. He'd put on a similarly gutsy performance in the ring too but he could never be expected to win. Not then and not now. Bret had hobbled the younger man, the ring mat was filthy with his blood and when it came time to cut off the snake's head, Steve knew. He knew as soon as Bret had him on his back and grabbed him by the ankles, he was done for. He'd managed to escape the Sharpshooter the first time around, but by the second, he was worn out, ground down and powerless to stop it. Still tried though. Bret had to fight tooth and nail to turn Steve around and secure the submission but once he had, the Texan was locked in tight.
‘AARRRRRRRGGGGGGGRRRRRRHHHHHHHHH!'
Steve screamed like a tortured animal for the second time that night. Bret forced himself on, driving his cock through the taut, puckered muscle. It was challenging, gruelling. Bret kept wondering how much easier this might have been if he'd been fully hard - even with all the tightness boring down onto his sensitive flesh, his cock was still too rubbery to properly punch through. It was made even worse by Austin's constant thrashing, the younger man howling in anguish.
'Come on, Austin. I'm right here.' Bret placed his hand on the small of the Texan's back, within reach of his cuffed hands. The fingers found him and snapped around his forearm, the snake's jaws latching onto its prey and biting down hard. Bret was unfazed. 'That's it. You found me. Now tap, Steve. Tap!'
He didn't. He didn't tap. Special guest referee, Ken Shamrock kept asking him over and over. All Steve had to do was slam him palm against the mat and all the excruciating pain would end. But he refused. He just rocked back and forth, clawing at the mat, blood pouring down his face, into his mouth, staining his teeth.
'NOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO! AARRRRRGGGGRRRRRHHHHH!'
Bret grit his teeth and tore his way in deeper, feeling every one of Steve's gravelly wails rumble through his guts. His fingers crushed Bret's wrist, nails slicing into his skin like blunt teeth. Then, all of a sudden, his bald head lifted clean up off the bed.
'Is he... is he gonna-?'
'Impossible! It's never been done!'
'Steve Austin is gonna break the Sharpshooter!'
JR and Lawler's voices screeched through his ears over the blare of the crowd. He couldn't see what was happening behind him but he could sense something was wrong. The momentum was switching, not just with the crowd who were now cheering Steve on like he was the plucky underdog here, but also with the pressure on the Sharpshooter. A glance back over his shoulder and he found Austin pushing himself up to break the hold, bald head high, bellowing out a gritty roar.
'He's done it! He's done it!'
No! They were wrong! Austin had done nothing!
Bret grabbed his trophy by the back of his neck and thrust him back down against the sheets. Killing his courageous come-back dead.
Again.
Enough games. He'd given him plenty of chances. Bret rammed his hips flush against Steve's asscheeks, the sound of sweaty flesh clashing and gravelly wails filling the air. The hands clutched onto Bret, shaking violently as the younger man was brutally sodomised against his will. A pocket of vomit lurched up Bret's throat and he nearly ripped himself loose again, but he steeled his doubts and continued, thrusting in and out of his prize.
Steve fought for a little while longer after Bret had regained his balance and reapplied the Sharpshooter once more. But before long, the pain became too much to bear. His knee, his skull, his spine were all in searing agony without a hope of reprieve unless he finally admitted defeat and submitted. Tapped out. Bret could smell victory coming his way and waited with bated breath for that glorious sound of the canvas being pounded by a desperate hand.
But it never came...
The bell rang. His arm was raised.
But there had been no tap.
He postured for a moment to the crowd, working on autopilot, then turned to find Austin face-down on the mat, unresponsive.
Passed out. The bastard had passed out from the pain. He'd refused to hand Bret the clean victory, succumbing to unconsciousness instead. Bret couldn't believe his eyes. This wasn't how things were done. If you were beaten, then you conceded that loss. You took your lumps, you swallowed your pride and declared the other man the superior wrester.
After months of a relentless smear campaign against Bret's good name, after months of goading and stomping on his reputation, this was the final act of disrespect that made the veteran snap. Bret attacked Steve as he lay prone on the bloodied mat, ignoring the thunderous boos pounding his ear drums as he grabbed for the Texan's ankles once more. If only the damn referee hadn't intervened and sent him to the back then Bret wouldn't have felt the need to invoke his Winner's Rights to finish the job properly and both men wouldn't be here in this seedy hotel room right now.
Steve had gone quiet. Grunting now and again as Bret upped the assault on his hole. Even his hands had let go, the talons retracting until they hung limp in his cuffs. Bret on the other hand had found his rhythm. Sex was so much simpler when he didn't have to worry if his partner was having fun or was uncomfortable or in blinding pain. A handful of thrusts in, he'd torn something inside Steve that started gushing blood, helping to lubricate his clenched passage. Bret hammered his way in and out, battering down every last defence the younger man had left.
'I can do this a lot longer, Steve. Tap! TAP!'
The blue eyes rolled around their sockets, fleshly lids growing heavy.
'No!' Bret slapped the back of Steve's bald head, the sound like the bang of a firecracker. 'Don't you dare pass out on me again. Not this time! Take your damn punishment like a man! Or give up.'
'Fffff.....uck..... youuuuu!'
He slapped him again but it didn't help. Austin was fading away and he couldn't let that happen, not again. Spying the bandaid on the younger man's forehead, Bret had a moment of inspiration and ripped it away, exposing the gruesome gash on Steve's brow. 'Wake up, Austin!' the veteran yelled, but when his prize ignored the order, Bret enforced his command by digging his thumb into the fresh wound. 'Wake! UP!'
'AAAGGGHHH!'
This wasn't working. Yes, Steve was bleeding from both ends and clearly suffering but he didn't look even remotely close to tapping. Sodomising him wasn't enough, Bret needed a new tactic. Letting go of Austin's neck, he wrapped his hand around his hips instead, digging it into the tattered remains of his trunks.
And grabbing his dick.
Steve jolted again, grunting deep in his throat. One small tug was all it took to bring the Texan back from the brink.
'Is this a joke?' Bret sneered with a chuckle. 'You're actually hard! You're enjoying this, you freak.'
Steve frantically shook his head from side-to-side, finally rendered mute as his cock was held hostage.
'You like being fucked like a woman?' Bret went on, smelling the sweetness of fresh new of blood in the water. 'You like me fucking you like a woman?'
'Hrrggg! Let go of me!' Steve growled back, his teeth gnashed together tight, but his Winner finally had the upper hand he'd been looking for this whole time.
'Not a chance.' Slowly, sensually, he smoothed his hand up the length of Steve's shaft, feeling it swell at his touch. 'I promised myself I wouldn't leave tonight until you submitted to me but you refused to tap - twice! If I can't make that bald bone-head of yours see sense,' he fisted all of his fingers around the growing cock, massaging it back and forth to tempt it further, 'I'll make your dick submit, instead.'
'No, stop! Get off, dammit!'
Despite his protests, Steve was whining with an undercurrent of neediness. Bret could hear it in the pitch of his protests, the shuddering of his voice-box. The Texan may have been able to endure harsh punishment, he could withstand an inhuman level of pain but he couldn't deny the basic desires that his body craved. Bret upped his offence on both fronts, plunging deep into Steve's guts while fisting his cock to full hardness.
'You're so close, Austin,' Bret laughed in his trophy's ear. 'You're going to cum any minute now. Because I made you! I made you, Austin.'
Like before, Bret's victory was all but determined.
And just like before... a Texas redneck was about to ruin it!
Steve's head and shoulders shot up again, startling the veteran riding him. Bret warned his trophy not to try anything stupid but the stupid was already in progress. With a determined bellow, Steve flung himself against the solid wooden bedhead, smashing his lacerated head square on.
'What the hell are you doing? Stop!'
But Bret's orders were no longer being listened to. Once again, Steve wrenched himself up and clattered his head against the bedhead. He reeled that time, nearly collapsed but not quite. Shaking off the haze he tried again.
Bret wanted to stop it but couldn't - both of his hands were occupied! 'For crying out loud, stop it Steve! You'll give yourself a concussion! Stop it! STOP!'
'FUUUUUCK YOOOO-'
One last nasty collision and Steve flopped across the sheets like limp rope. Completely unconscious.
He'd knocked himself out.
'No....' Bret stared in shock at the unresponsive body, feeling Steve's dick turn soft in his grasp. 'You son-of-a-god-damned...'
The room went quiet. Hart inhaled through his nose, sharp and furious but then breathed out again. Slower this time. Though no less irate.
He slipped out of Steve's body, his stupid, pathetic cock still soft in places. This had been a complete disaster.
Bret stormed away across the room, wringing his hands through his long, thick hair. 'Now what?'
He found the answer in the mini-bar. A good strong rum that he twisted open and swallowed neat. It helped take some of the edge off. He emptied the rest of the fridge, shoving handfuls of tiny bottles into his bag which he zipped up (along with his jeans) and flung across his shoulder.
It was over. He would never get what he was looking for. At least not tonight.
He paused beside Steve's spent, listless body. He'd fought Bret twice that night, with the kind of guts and determination that the veteran had rarely seen in his storied career and though he couldn't claim an official victory, he had won in every other sense of the word.
Letting out a sigh, Bret placed a cool can of beer on the side-table, a gift for the younger man to find when he woke up.
'Congratulations, Austin,' he whispered, as he set the keys to his cuffs atop the ring pull. 'You've proven your worth.'
He turned and walked towards the exit, trying to placate the raging disappointment inside.
Warnings - Winner's Room, non-con, dub-con, forced stripping, public humiliation, violence, foreign objects inserted in certain places, Wheatley as lube, non-consensual bondage, whipping, rough sex, choking, angst
Words - ~8k words
Summary - Drew may be struggling to see himself as the new Undisputed WWE Championship, but he's sure as hell going to make sure that the former champ knows who's on top now!
