A/N: My pain is your reward. I spent most of today home from work with a fever. Higher-order work-related thinking doesn't work so well with a fever, but the kind of lizard brain stuff necessary to write good porn is still fully operational. So, armed with a giant purple Gatorade, I set out to free some plot bunnies trapped in me by Payback and the evil machinations of one IrishCreamTruffle. Hopefully my Death loyalists won't mind me venturing out into a little…. Dunk? Punkbrose? Not sure what to call this.
This takes place during the tag team title match at Payback – June 16, 2013
In addition to purple Gatorade and IrishCreamTruffle, I have Filter and the Crystal Method's "Trip Like I Do" to thank for this (also a Mox entrance theme).
The title is, in part, a tribute to a great Mox CZW promo. "I'm ice cold, Nicky. Ice cold."
As soon as Dean got backstage, it all came rushing back into him at once. He gritted his teeth, shook his head, shook his arms – anything just to let some of it out – and when none of that worked, he hurled himself into the wall as hard as he could as some weird primal something escaped his lips. That fucking bastard.
Dean felt the storm of clouds in his mind part as all that fucking anger flowed up and out – settling in his ears, ringing softly. Dean knew exactly where he was going. He knew exactly what he was going to do. The thought of it made his mouth water, his cock throb, his whole body burn. He ached for this.
Punk always tried to act like he didn't need it, too. But Dean always knew better.
"Hey man, welcome back," Dean had said, a few hours ago in catering, clapping Punk on the shoulder like they were old pals or something, holding his gaze. Punk just stared. Dean knew Punk was trying to look intimidating – fucking ice cold – but Dean saw the way Punk shook, almost imperceptibly, the way he shifted his weight, the way he just barely licked his lips. Dean saw something start to break, behind it all.
Still, Dean seethed as he walked away then. The fucking audacity, on top of everything else.
Dean knocked on Punk's dressing room door – shave and a haircut, two bits! - and smirked to himself. Punk opened the door, and as soon as his eyes met Dean's, they filled with rage. Dean looked away, over Punk's shoulder, and noticed there was no one else in the small dressing room. Dean pushed his way past Punk and shut and locked the door behind him, still smirking.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Punk said.
"Oh come on," Dean said, setting his U.S. title down on a table. "Just paying my respects to the best in the world. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I know how it is, alright." Punk said.
Dean didn't say anything. He just greedily took in the sight of Punk's body in his gear, barely fucking dressed, still glistening with sweat from the match he'd just had. How long had it fucking been now? His eyes took their time drinking in every line, every curve, every color, every muscle, every bone – his need boiling hotter with each one. Soon enough, Dean's eyes travelled right down those impossible fucking hip dents straight to Punk's crotch. Dean felt himself quickly getting hard just imagining what he already knew was there. He could almost fucking taste it. But despite the desire he knew was clouding his mind and clouding his eyes - the desire he made no attempt to hide - he knew he still needed to play to win.
"So what exactly do you fucking want?" Punk said.
"You know what I fucking want," Dean said. "So let's just stop fucking around, alright?"
"You know I can't let you do that." Punk said.
Dean laughed. "I know you fucking can and I know you fucking will."
Dean pushed Punk against the wall and locked eyes with him. Punk was still trying to stay ice cold, but his body seemed to betray him more and more as each second passed. Dean saw the hunger creeping forward in Punk's eyes and the way his lips started to part. When Dean pressed his hands against Punk's chest, he felt it starting to heave. Emboldened, Dean started to move to his knees, his tongue trailing down Punk's stomach. Punk's increasingly-labored breathing echoed in Dean's ears as Dean started to remove Punk's trunks. He could feel that Punk was rapidly getting hard.
"You need to get the fuck off me," Punk said. "You know I can't fucking do this."
"Why not?" Dean said. "Your fucking whore's not here. Probably out sucking some other motherfucker's cock or something."
"You're such a fucking asshole." Punk said. With that, Punk bent down, grabbed Dean by the neck, and slammed his head into the floor. Dean looked up at Punk standing over him, his eyes crazed. Dean's head was spinning. Dean's eyes once again fixed on that telltale bulge in Punk's trunks. Dean started to laugh. He was still winning.
"Yeah," Dean said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. "I'm a fucking asshole, but nobody's ever gonna fucking suck your cock better than me."
Dean swore he saw some kind of momentary flash of recognition in Punk's crazed eyes – something flashing through, at any rate. It didn't last long. Before Dean knew it, Punk had flung himself on top of Dean and punched Dean in the mouth. Punk hopped up just as quickly with an odd primal grunt, then started pacing around, staring at the hand he'd just punched Dean with, flexing his fingers a few times.
Dean lay on the floor, rubbing his mouth. He felt blood on his hand and tasted it just to be sure – he was right, and the metallic taste of blood sent a familiar surge through Dean. Dean looked up just in time to see Punk reach out, grab Dean's hair, and pull Dean up to eye level as Punk squatted in front of him.
"What's your fucking problem?" Punk said. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave me the fuck alone? I told you, I can't fucking do this – I don't fucking do this. I don't cheat. I'm not into guys. If you want to suck some cock, that's fine. Suck all the fucking cock you want. I don't care. Just don't suck mine."
Dean grinned, blood still dripping from his mouth, and grabbed the bulge in Punk's trunks. Punk gasped.
"So, you don't do this?" Dean said. "All those other times, when you were shoving your fucking cock down my throat, you weren't cheating then? You weren't into guys then? When you were fucking whimpering? When you were fucking begging me to make you cum? How is this any fucking different?"
Punk closed his eyes tightly for a moment and shook his head like he was trying to shake something off before he grabbed Dean's hand, which still firmly held his cock, and tried, seemingly half-heartedly, to pull Dean off to no avail.
"Fucking let go of me," Punk said.
"Why don't you fucking make me?" Dean said as he started palming Punk's cock through his trunks with gentle strokes. Dean could feel Punk's body shudder at the sudden gentleness of his touch. Dean saw Punk close his eyes, part his lips, and start to surrender into Dean's touch for a moment, until Punk's eyes shot open and he stood up suddenly.
"How's that?" Punk said. "Look, if you want to play fucking games with people, go do it with someone else. I'm not like you. I don't do this shit."
Dean just glared at Punk and laughed before making his way over to Punk and kneeling in front of him. Dean pulled Punk's trunks down, finally revealing the fully-hardened length of Punk's cock – so fucking perfect. Dean smiled up at Punk and held Punk's gaze as he slowly lowered his mouth onto Punk's cock, savoring the feeling of each millimeter entering his ready mouth. Punk's face looked like a stone, like a man accepting his fate. Dean started slowly moving his mouth up and down Punk's length and playing with the head with his tongue. It wasn't long before Dean heard Punk's breathing grow ragged and saw his eyes start to roll with pleasure. As soon as Punk let out his first moan, Dean pulled away. Punk looked down at Dean as desperation quickly filled his eyes.
"Hey, you don't do this, right?" Dean said. "I'm just trying to do the right thing, you know?"
Punk said nothing. He just continued staring down at Dean as the desperation in his eyes continued to grow. After a little while, Dean laughed.
"You know, I'll keep going. You just gotta tell me. I wouldn't want to do anything you don't want, right?" Dean said.
Punk spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "Keep going," he said.
"What was that?" Dean said. "I can't fucking hear you."
"I said keep fucking going."
"With what?" Dean said. "What do you fucking want me to do? I'm not gonna do it unless you ask for it."
"I want you to suck my cock."
"And why the fuck would you want me to do that?"
"I don't fucking know. I just fucking need you to do it, okay?"
"If you just need someone to suck your cock, why don't you just go find fucking Amy and get her to finish you off? I'm sure she'll understand. You don't fucking need me."
Punk swallowed hard. "Nobody does it like you, alright? Nobody fucking does it like you."
With that, Dean plunged his mouth down hard on Punk's cock, taking the whole length of it and quickly working his mouth up and down its length. It wasn't long before Punk started to moan again, bucking his hips into Dean's face. Dean felt so completely deliciously filled. In that moment, part of him wanted to stay like that forever, but the rest of him was growing increasingly desperate to taste Punk again. Punk started to grunt and thrust himself harder into Dean's face, and Dean knew he'd soon have his wish. Dean pulled back slightly so Punk would cum into his mouth instead of into his throat. Soon after that, Punk cried out and pulsed into Dean's mouth, his taste rapidly filling Dean's entire being. Dean waited for Punk to finish completely before swallowing the whole load at once. Their eyes met again and Dean felt their mutual euphoria momentarily connecting them.
"You always break so fucking easily for me," Dean said.
Punk nodded once – a barely perceptible thing – and closed his eyes.