Chapter Text
After a certain point, hatred becomes ecstasy. And Drew is a very hateful man, and a very joyful one.
It was a bitter, jagged thing at first. Hearing crowds chanting that name again, at him. It felt like a rejection. Drew spent years bleeding and sweating and tearing out his soul and waiting for it to grow back again - for an audience that didn’t care, really. Not when dad came back after his ten year cigarette run. That thrust a knife into Drew’s guts.
And that face of his didn’t help either. It loomed in Drew’s vision everywhere he turned, mocking him in Chicago, in Las Vegas, in 4 AM truck stops on the way to the next damn gig, in his eyelids at night and in the morning.
Drew memorized and hated every inch of that face. Crude, smirking eyes and thin lips, wrapped by lines of age. Pepper at the temples, wrinkles on the forehead where he arched his eyebrows after another turn of phrase (one that tonight will be plastered all over the web with tweets declaring it “bars”.) He slept and dreamt of how it would feel to take that face in his hands and crush it. And the knife in his stomach sharpened.
But then, one Friday night, Drew caught him. For a moment, he caught him, and held him, and broke him, and laid CM Punk down on the ramp like he was a fresh kill, still twitching, still dripping red from his lips. By the time medical came to scrape him up, it had formed a warm pool around his head.
And it was in that moment something changed. Pure alchemy. The hatred became sweet, became everything. The blood was bright scarlet, the wheezing from Punk’s lips was symphonic, and Drew McIntyre had disappeared - dissolved in the adrenaline sparking up through every muscle in his body.
Drew couldn’t let this moment pass into memory. So he stole something, something precious, something that had touched Punk’s wrist.
And now, weeks later, Drew still hasn’t taken it off. The bracelet is more like a key. He only needs to hold it up, show it around his arm, and watch Punk’s uncrackable shell crumble. He shivers, he snarls, he swears and claws and bites.
Drew memorizes those facial expressions, too, poring over them in his mind at night. He would finger the beads resting over his radial artery, lie in bed and obsess.
And now he knows Punk is as obsessed as he is. That face he spent hours planning how best to punch in floats before him now - Punk has tracked him down, standing in front of him. His eyes are pleading, begging, but also enraged, threatening. The parking lot tonight is mostly dark; Drew only sees Punk’s face and arms in crescents of yellow streetlight.
As it turns out, becoming obsessed with your hatred changes the nature of it.
Drew smirks, jangling the bracelet around his wrist. It jingles musically. “Want it?”
Punk doesn’t answer, breathing too ragged to speak. He just lunges, and Drew’s back bounces hard against a car door. He feels the air knocked out of him, and discovers he can’t regain it - one of Punk’s hands has found its way to Drew’s thick neck, unable to wrap all the way around it but sure as hell able to squeeze. The other hand scrambles for Drew’s wrist, fingers barely brushing against the lettered beads.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Punk rasps. His voice is needly and sharp, heating Drew’s blood as he struggles. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
Despite himself, Drew feels a laugh boil up and suffocate in his throat. Mr. Pipebomb couldn’t string a sentence together, for once; not when he was shaking with rage, hazel eyes as small as pinpricks.
Drew thrusts a knee into Punk’s ribs. In an instant he crumbles onto the pavement, clutching his abdomen and coughing. Darkness creeps into Punk’s vision with every convulsion. He struggles to flip up onto his knees, barely able to even concentrate on righting himself. Too much of his mind is consumed with the thought of how good it would feel to gouge out Drew’s blue eyes.
Punk doesn’t have to struggle for too long. Drew’s hand finds Punk’s hair, and uses it as a handle to tug him up, force him to meet his gaze. Drew is still smirking, but he feels his muscles aching. His veins are filled with fire. He is, right now, a different man.
“Wanna kill me?” Drew taunts, holding Punk at his arm’s length. “Go ahead, then. Try it. I want you to.”
To punctuate the sentiment, Drew brings his other wrist before Punk’s eyes, giving the bracelet a little twist to make sure that the letters are perfectly visible. Punk goes still, jaw clenched. Drew watches as his hands twitch at his sides, ready to swipe for the bracelet again - but somehow, he can’t make himself move. In that moment, Drew feels like a cat swatting at a mouse, and realizes that it’s all a little unfair. So like hell he’s going to let it pass.
“Your wife…your ugly little rat dog…your life, Punk…” Drew’s smiling teeth barely gleam in the dim light. “They’re mine now.”
His hand tightens in Punk’s hair, sending electric pain through his scalp. “CM Punk, you’re mine now.”
Punk’s lip curls for just a moment before Drew feels the hot trail of spit on his cheek. Disgusted, Drew releases Punk’s hair and wipes at his face. Punk takes the opportunity and surges forward again, raining fists and elbows over Drew’s face, shoulders, neck. Drew staggers back, but scrambles to return in kind.
Despite being in the midst of the fight, Drew senses himself floating outside of his body, detached from himself but watching the spectacle. He feels admiration for the way their bodies move together as they trade blows - fascinated by the arc of Punk’s shoulders as he reels back his fist, the way his own bicep bulges when he throws a punch right into Punk’s jaw. Two men consumed by hatred, a work of art.
Punk lands a direct hit in Drew’s cheek, and the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. This is enough to finally bring Drew back into his body. Snarling, he drives one fist powerfully into Punk’s chest, sending him back into that now-battered car door. Drew closes the gap between them instantly, growling into Punk’s gasping, panting face - now they’re both bleeding; Drew feels it dripping in a ribbon down his chin and sees it cascade from a cut in Punk’s eyebrow. Their hot breath swirls together, suspended between their chests in the night.
It takes Drew a moment to realize that he has Punk trapped, but Punk knows it right away, standing motionless as Drew keeps him pinned to the door of the car. There’s no sound but the highway behind them, loud with the traffic of the last fans departing from the arena.
“Say something.” Drew cuts the silence with a command. He reaches and takes Punk’s chin, feels the point of it between his thumb and forefinger. Again he thinks of how easy it would be to crush that whole face with one hand, how much he had longed to have this kind of control over this man. Punk’s jaw trembles with indignity as he glares into Drew’s eyes.
“Fuck you.”
Drew pulls Punk’s face forward, and Punk instinctively squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for a blow; tries to plan out something, maybe driving his knee quickly into Drew’s crotch and making an exit. But then he feels something sharp and painful down deep in his lower lip.
Drew’s teeth sink deeply into Punk’s lip. It’s a slow, intense burn, and Punk tastes blood as it fills his mouth - some his own, some drifting in off of Drew’s tongue. The sensation rattles Punk’s spine, and at first he goes stiff - but then suddenly slackens, rolling limply against the car behind him. He isn’t sure if this is an attack or a kiss.
When Drew pulls back, his lower lip is scarlet with their commingled blood. He takes the moment to admire his work, hot red dripping from Punk’s mouth and staining the fabric of his shirt.
Drew draws himself closer, the inches between them becoming centimeters, and a scant few of them. Punk doesn’t move, in a thrall. With a chuckle under his breath, Drew frames Punk’s head against the car with his arms, pinning him in place. Their foreheads press together. And Punk’s eyes haven’t left Drew’s for one second.
“You aren’t your own man.”
Punk doesn’t respond to that. He can’t. He had never - in the countless nights he’d stayed awake, planning, anticipating the next time Drew would try to get the advantage over him - ever conceived of something like this.
Drew licks his lips, smearing the scarlet ring around his mouth. His hand ends up in Punk’s hair again.
“Can’t talk for once, can you? Nothing you want to say to me, Punk?”
He brushes over Punk’s hair with his thumb, like he’s stroking a rabbit. Punk shivers - this is somehow worse than Drew putting his mouth on his. That was still violence. This is confusing. Every inch of his body is still trembling with nerves, rage, adrenaline, and…and something different, something that he didn’t really know what it even was, but he felt it desperately, and knew he needed to do something. Anything.
Punk surges forward and latches his mouth around where Drew’s neck meets his shoulder. A rough, deep sound comes from Drew’s lips as teeth drive into his flesh. In a second he senses that he’s bleeding, and then he feels a tongue brushing against the wound. It hurts, but it feels right.
Their bodies are flush together now as Punk squirms against him, no longer sure himself if he’s trying to hurt Drew or just get a taste of him. They can each feel each other’s muscles, each other’s heat, each other’s -
Drew suddenly shoves himself back, breathing hard. Punk makes a sound - fuck, it sounds too much like a whine - but is silenced again as Drew’s hand grabs suddenly at the crotch of his pants. Punk instinctively looks down.
A silence hangs. They’re both hard.
Punk looks up to Drew again, finding only hard blue eyes full of irresistible hate. He knows his eyes must look much the same - they are the same. That’s why he doesn’t resist when Drew grabs his waist, turns him roughly around and forces him to face the car. With one large hand Drew holds Punk in place - pelvis to pelvis, thick, warm cock rutting through denim against Punk’s ass. The other hand reaches for the driver’s side door handle, where he takes a strong grip. After two hard tugs there’s a loud crack, and Drew swings the door open, shoving Punk down to his knees, facing the leather seat.
Jesus fucking Christ, Drew, you can break a car lock with your big ass hands and you still can’t beat me without help?
That, or something like it, is what Punk attempts to say in this moment. But his brain is swimming, too addled to spit it out - he’s hard as a brick, and the man he’s spent the better of 5 months humiliating is rutting his cock against him through his fucking jeans. So what he manages to spit out is a bit more like:
“F-fuck…hands are big, I…”
“Shut up.” Drew snaps, suddenly so close that his lips brush against the shell of Punk’s ear. He punctuates his command with a sharp thrust of his hips; Punk spasms and goes silent, his nails sinking into the leather.
Drew hooks a finger into Punk’s belt loop, tentatively, testing him. Punk’s shoulders shift a bit beneath his shirt, but he stays still. Drew smiles a bit.
Good. He takes hold of another belt loop and jerks down.
“Shit!” Punk shudders. Of course, he knew where this was going minutes ago, but there’s still some shock in having his ass exposed (so shamefully, too, bent over like a cheap bitch in some stranger’s car…)
“Hey, now…” Drew is on top of him again in an instant, breath cascading across Punk’s cheek and down his neck. “Why don’t you be quiet? You’re plenty more fuckin’ likable that way…”
Cruelly, Drew leverages his weight and presses Punk facedown into the seat. Punk tries not to make a sound.
“Matter of fact…” Drew’s massive hand slips beneath Punk’s shirt, tracing carefully up his spine. “You keep your mouth shut…I start to notice you’re pretty fuckable.”
Punk swears he feels Drew’s dick jump a little as he draws out the word. And fuck, he’s hard too. He senses it burning hot between his abs and the seat; feels himself leaking against the leather.
Bracelets. Bleeding from the mouth. Physical therapy. Torn muscles. New jobs and quitting and walking out and new jobs and quitting and walking out. Punk’s a fucking furious man, he realizes, and it’s been accumulating on him for years now. He’s an angry old man, and behind him there’s an angry young man with a cock as big around as his own wrist. A young man who hates Punk so much he wants to split him open; a young man Punk hates so much that he wants to ride him until his legs break for good.
“What are you?” Drew tugs Punk’s head back by his hair, bending it back painfully to look in his eyes. “Are you a punk, or a bitch? Are you a big man or a hole for me to fuck?”
Punk closes his eyes and nods, saying nothing but pushing his hips back.
Fuck it, fuck being CM Punk. Just for a minute. He needs this and has needed it for a while.
He feels his shirt being torn from his body, then sees it land in the seat in front of him in a blood-stained heap. Drew tosses his own shirt on top of it. His bare chest is rigid against Punk’s back; he can feel Drew’s heart beating against his spine, rough and heavy like a draft horse.
Then, there’s a moment’s pause - a moment too long as Punk feels Drew shifting around behind him, somehow still too distant. Punk begins to squirm impatiently, wondering about the sounds behind him (the rustling of Drew’s jeans, slipping down to his knees…was that a clicking sound he heard?)
“McIntyre…if you don’t—”
He’s silenced by a sharp smack across his ass, so cruel and loveless that it isn’t even sexy - not that it stops Punk’s cock from pulsing against his stomach.
“Did I say to speak?”
He did not.
Punk’s head hangs shamefully, tempted but desperate not to allow his big mouth get him into another mess. He settles for staring down at the tip of his cock as it leaks into the seat.
With a self-satisfied hum, Drew draws his hips forward, and savors the sudden jolt as Punk stiffens. Drew’s tip is wet, slick. When the hell did he manage that? How long has he been planning on this…?
“Anything to say?” Drew asks. He reaches down and draws figure eights between Punk’s shoulder blades; he marvels that he actually stays silent. “Speak.”
“Do your fucking worst.”
“Good.”
It hurts. Punk hasn’t been fucked in a good long while, and Drew is a greedy piece of shit, so he’s not prepared for a whole cock’s length to enter him in one stroke. Drew isn’t about to allow him to adjust, either; his hands are down on Punk’s hips, keeping him precisely at the best angle for his dick. Punk listens to Drew gasp, and tries to push himself down into the seat - set his own rhythm, chase some of that friction he so desperately needs.
No good. Drew’s hands are massive and steady, and he’s not going to let Punk move an inch. So Punk just remains suspended, his dribbling cock forbidden from pleasure.
Drew is in total control, he knows. That’s why he sets the pace just as he wants it, and he makes sure it’s punishing…because, after all, he is punishing the scrawny bitch. His hips roll powerfully against Punk’s pelvis, each collision like a clap of thunder that rocks the car. Punk’s mind is clouded. Drew is doing that, his cock is doing that. And each thrust rams every inch back up into Punk’s heat, deeper every time, as though Drew’s trying to find his very core…
“Mmm-aaah!”
He knows he’s found it then. Punk is already losing his grip now; his brain is too fucked to guide full words to his lips, leaving him babbling and shaking around a thick, warm cock. His own dick releases a brief jet of precum that nearly reaches his chin.
Again, a hand is in Punk’s hair, forcing his head back until he feels Drew’s hot lips brushing his ear.
“See? Good boy. Don’t have a fuckin’ thing to say now. Quiet.” He grips Punk’s hair in his fist. “See what a good bitch you are?”
Punk makes a pathetic noise as he tries again to jerk his hips. Drew isn’t giving up, his hold on Punk still absolutely iron. His cock remains helpless, neglected and untouched, able to do nothing but slowly drool a thin stream of precum.
“Drew-w…”
It’s less than a whimper, and Drew ignores it, chasing the delicious heat that’s welling up deep in his stomach. It makes him purr a bit; makes his fist in his hair just the slightest bit looser as he loses himself to the rhythm of fucking Punk. Somehow, he manages to pick up the pace, and admires the show Punk puts on as he falls apart over Drew’s dick - keening, twitching, gasping.
Even he had to admit that Punk, if nothing else, looked good taking his cock.
“G-God…dammit—”
Another violent thrust and Drew feels it - his spine seizes, his eyes flutter, and Punk - Punk is still helpless at his mercy, but steadily climbing that same peak, moaning as he feels Drew’s dick throb. He can sense what it’s about to happen, he anticipates it, starves for it.
So Drew pulls out. The emptiness inside Punk is sudden and sharp like the edge of a knife. He turns his head over his shoulder, but before he can argue he sees Drew - his hand tugs a few times at his dick before he sobs, spilling hot over Punk’s sweat-drenched back and shoulders.
“Fuuuuuck…”
When the clarity returns to Drew’s vision, he adores the sight before him. Punk is still bent over, jeans bunched up at his knees, body covered in his cum. His dick is still dripping, red and untouched between his thighs, and he gazes back at Drew with such a look of betrayal that it makes him laugh.
“You really are dumber than I expected,” Drew says haughtily, pulling his boxers and pants back up around his waist, fumbling with the leather belt. “You didn’t think I did this for you, did you?”
Punk’s eyes scrape up and down Drew’s body. Once.
“I…I don’t expect a fuckin’ thing from you. I know better.”
Drew laughs again as he pulls on his shirt - at the way Punk is winded, at the way he lies, and at the way he tries to straighten himself out from his stooped position. Drew tries to reach out and grab Punk’s ass (just to taunt him one last time), but Punk surprises him by dodging to the side. His eyes burn into Drew.
Drew remains close. Just as before, the distance between them is mere inches. He lifts up the bracelet before Punk’s eyes.
“And guess what still belongs to me, Punk…?”
And yet, Punk doesn’t take the bait this time. In fact, his gaze remains fixed on Drew, his hazel eyes dark, heavy and hot. Drew tries to stand still even as he feels Punk’s stare burning holes into him. Then -
“Hey!”
He can’t get out of the way in time. Punk reaches out suddenly and grabs at something in Drew’s pocket. Punk looks at the bottle of lubricant now in his hand, and gives a sneer.
“So you snuck this into your pocket? What, before you left the stadium? Before you left your fuckin’ house?”
Drew says nothing, his face starting to flush. Punk goes on. “Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d been planning on this for a while. Maybe as far back as a couple months ago, huh? When you took that bracelet off my wrist, were you just doing it because you were hoping you could get me alone? Because you have a crush on me?”
Drew’s lips gape for a moment before closing up tightly. The sight of Punk starting to slowly smirk floods him with rage, but now he’s the one at a loss for words. Punk takes his reticence as an opportunity to step closer, grab Drew by the collar of his shirt and pull him down, and -
Well, it isn’t a kiss, really, as much as it is Punk ramming his tongue down deep into Drew’s mouth and swirling, tasting the remnants of their tangled blood against his teeth. Drew starts, making a noise into Punk’s mouth that sends a buzzing sensation through his body; makes Punk sink his teeth down into Drew’s soft lips. Not enough to draw more blood, this time, but just hard enough that this action is still disguised as an attack.
Drew’s hands fall to Punk’s shoulders, and for a moment, he weighs on whether to pull him in or shove him away. He eventually chooses the latter, and pushes Punk down to land seated in the car. He’s smiling. His breath is ragged, his dick is still stiff and weeping, but he’s smiling.
“You…listen…” Drew points at Punk, falters for a moment. But it’s clear to both of them that he has nothing to say. So he drops his arm and surrenders, snarling, and walks away into the darkness of the parking lot.
Punk laughs as he settles back, hand already fumbling down (unsteadily - his blood is still so thick with lust and adrenaline that he’s kind of dizzy) and massaging the trunk of his warm cock.
“Drew!” Punk calls out - he can’t help but have the last word. Against his better judgment, Drew turns back. The face he makes when he sees Punk jerking his dick is unreadable. It only makes Punk more vigorous; makes the pleasure crawling up his back even sweeter as Drew glowers his way.
“Don’t forget, Drew…ah…next week, I’m going to owe you…”
Drew’s eyes linger on Punk for a minute before he finally averts them.
“You’re gonna have to kill me,” Drew says, departing one last time. Punk watches his back vanish into the night, leaving him alone, half-dressed and hungry in the back of a stranger’s car.
It doesn’t matter. Punk can feel it in his stomach now, the blistering pressure that always precedes him orgasming until he’s dry (with apologies to whoever was renting this vehicle.)
Shit, he can’t believe it took this long. Drew staring at him with those hateful blue eyes was bad enough. Now Punk understands. Drew needs to fuck him as badly as he needs to kill him. Punk’s breath hitches as his back begins to arch up.
You’re gonna have to kill me - now how to do that, for a man so handsome and vicious that he deserves to be kissed in the same breath that he’s beaten?
“SHIT!”
Punk’s legs spasm, heels grinding into the gravel as he lets go, drenching his own stomach and chest in cum. It lasts for seconds that feel like years in his lifetime, and even when his vision is clear he remains aimlessly thrusting his still-dribbling cock in the air.
When he’s finally done, Punk reaches for his rumpled shirt, uses it to wipe himself clean of sweat and cum and throws it in the backseat.
He’s grinning as he does it, too. Yet the pleasure still radiating through his bloodstream is only part of the reason. The rest is because he’s already figured it out; he knows exactly what he’s going to do.
On Monday, CM Punk is going to kill Drew McIntyre.
He hopes Drew enjoys it as much as he will.