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Drew catches up with Punk in the medical room.
In the half-lit, sterile space with four fluorescent light tubes on their last legs in the fiberboard tile ceiling, with bloody boot-prints smeared on the white linoleum floor, he can’t seem to shake the surreal feeling. He’s been nursing this sense of unreality since he limped back up the ramp, leaving his own slick bloody trail as he dragged himself past the multitude of baying, grasping voyeurs. Maybe even before that. In the cage the noise from the crowd felt somehow dimmer, a murmur rather than a roar, a Golgothan chorus of whispers. Some devotional, some murderous, all calling for blood. Now he feels like the murmur has followed him - he can still hear it, he swears, the distant rumble of the crowd above them transforms so easily into that muffled, greedy clamor.
Maybe it’s the gash in his scalp, or the concussion that must have come along with it, that must already be settling around his head, digging claws into his brain. All sound is fuzzy through the pain that cleaves his skull; he shakes his head like a beast dislodging a fly, but the result of the reflex is only to send thick blood spattering across the floor and the cushioned exam table to his left. He has only been able to taste blood for awhile now.
To his right, further into the room, there is Punk. A heap on the other table, chest heaving, boots hanging down like the dainty feet of a discarded doll. Covered in his own blood. There’s a quality to the air in this room that is starting to make Drew dizzy. He identifies a cut on Punk’s right temple, where (he thinks) he dug the cold steel of a wrench into the thin skin around Punk’s skull earlier tonight. He would like to scrape the congealed blood from that wound with his teeth.
He shuts the door. It has a simple enough lock - just a button to push inwards - that he does it easily, even with his head ringing. In front of him, bathed in the sick aura of buzzing barely-there fluorescent lights, Punk doesn’t look afraid. He’s smiling.
It’s not a nice smile, of course. His teeth are stained with blood, Drew can even see a few of the missing ones in the back. But he’s smiling, and lying back on the brown vinyl exam table like it’s a set-piece, made just for him. He’s spreading his legs.
Drew doesn’t even know what exactly he means to do - until he reaches Punk, and scents his blood again, and then it’s obvious. It’s easy enough to pin him down: they’re both sapped, next to useless, but gravity is on Drew’s side and the sweaty, dried-blood-itching bulk of his hairy body presses Punk’s into the table without much effort. His tongue is hot and sandpaper-dry on Punk’s skin, dehydrated until the crust of dried sweat and blood starts flaking off in his mouth and makes him salivate; he sucks and swallows at the blood and it just makes him want more, makes him feel crazed with wanting, makes him want to dig his way into Punk’s body with his bare hands and distend Punk’s flesh around his own. Punk’s legs are open, soft flabby thighs curling up around Drew’s hard hips, rubbing his hotdamp spandex crotch against Drew’s own. And Drew is sore like he hasn’t been in years and his head is throbbing but he’s hard, impossibly, painfully hard where he feels Punk’s prick twitching into his. He takes a few moments to enjoy the brutal drag of grinding into him so aggressively that he mashes Punk’s half-hard dick and balls down into themselves.
Before long, though, it stops being pleasurable - he needs to be inside of Punk, to pull him open from the inside. He fishes his own prick out of his trunks, fumbles around in the airless envelope of sweat between their bodies until he can tug Punk’s trunks to the side, until a seam pops in the black spandex and he can blindly shove his way in. Between Punk’s sweaty, furry cheeks, into the caved-in sucking pit of his asshole, where he’s wet and yielding already and god, god, it’s like he’s pulling Drew in, he barely gets thirty seconds to hump into Punk’s body like a dumb animal before his balls are drawing up tight as if on command.
He comes - so much he can feel it oozing out around his cock, the sensation so odd he recoils from it - and then he slips free, and Punk makes a wounded, angry growling sound that sounds very much like how Drew is feeling. That can’t be it. Drew isn’t satisfied yet - he feels almost the same as he did before he came, dizzy with lust even as his prick shrinks between his legs, lapping frantically at the blood that still trickles down Punk’s face and neck. He still feels that crazed need to be inside Punk’s body, to punch out a space for himself in it.
He reaches down between them and shoves three fingers into the sticky gash between Punk’s legs. Too many for anyone reasonable to start with, but Punk’s hole accepts it easily. Drew’s own cum leaks out around his fingers as he digs them in; Punk’s prick, still (mostly) covered by his trunks, twitches and squirms beneath the black fabric when Drew hooks his fingers and pulls at the puffy, vascular rim of Punk’s hole. He’s almost got cunt lips, the way his ragged asshole looks, all flushed and rumpled up and surrounded by wiry dark hair on all sides. The visible line where Punk stops shaving for the cameras is shocking, and it adds to the odd feeling of femininity, like Drew’s knuckle-deep in a woman who’s tried to approximate a bikini wax from home. His arse and balls are as furry as an animal but his thighs are prickly-smooth against Drew’s hairy forearm. Drew squeezes his pinky finger in alongside the other three and Punk grunts through his teeth, gravelly and satisfied in the way only a true masochist can be. Drew can still taste Punk’s blood and he can smell it thick in the room, egging him on, begging him for more.
So he gives him more. He scrapes at Punk’s insides with his blunt, callused fingertips, all grimy from the ring and covered in sticky spunk and blood. He moves his hand like he’s trying to hollow him out, pawing at the soft breathing inside of his body until it’s loose enough in there for him to shove his knuckles past the fluttering band of muscle that keeps insistently working to suck him in. He squeezes his thumb down into his palm; his hand cramps and he keeps going, brute-forcing his way into a hole that clearly wants him there anyway, pummeling forward until the hair on his wrist is slick and wet. He sets his other hand on Punk’s thigh, fingers against his hot rim, so stupid with the taste of Punk’s blood in his mouth that he almost thinks he can shove them both in at once - but he doesn’t, of course, just paws at the stretch-marked sag of his cheek, pulling back the slight flesh so he can see everything. So he can see his own huge, thick-veined forearm pushing into Punk’s body impossibly deeper.
He doesn’t know nor care where Punk’s prostate might be, but he must be hitting it, because Punk is leaking through his trunks, full-body twitching every time Drew punches in again. He finally seems to get fed up - he reaches down and snags the legband of his trunks with one hand, and they tear with shocking ease. Punk’s cock slaps against his soft, creased belly and keeps oozing there, pumping out slick while Drew rocks his closed fist deeper into Punk’s guts. And he can’t— He shouldn’t, but he can’t resist it, he has to bend his neck and drink.
It doesn’t taste like much of anything, salty, bitter, but it feels right. Sinking down so he can keep his fist in Punk’s cunt while he sucks the wetness off his prick, licks at his balls, smears the smell and the taste of Punk across his face, it should feel terrible but it feels like he was meant for this. It always does. Punk groans and whines and cries out above him and it sounds like the murmuring crowd, it sounds like the voice of God.
He doesn’t know what his goal was before - just to reach as deep as possible into Punk’s body, to burrow into him like a parasite, and then what? - but now he needs to make Punk come, to receive it on his tongue and on his face and to be the one who wrought it from him with his imposing, impossible fist and forearm deeper than should be possible. With his desperate mouth around Punk’s short, flushed cock. His neck is cramping, and there’s a sick tug in his scalp that tells him something is going to start bleeding again - he doesn’t care. He has to be there to receive his sacrament.
The more he chases it, though, the further away it seems. How long have they been in here, he wonders - surely not long enough for the show to be over, but he can’t say for certain that he hasn’t been forearm-deep in Punk’s body and sucking the prostatic fluid from his cock for two whole hours. He’s starting to feel dizzy again, like he was with Punk’s blood on his tongue, and his cock is hard - a distraction, but one that keeps getting harder to ignore. Every time Punk’s channel flexes and grips against his forearm, his cock pulses as if it were still inside Punk’s body.
When he catches a glimpse of Punk’s face up the sweat-slimy, quivering topography of his body, Punk is still smiling that awful smile, delirious and smug like he’s just goaded Drew into hitting him. His leg, one of those dangling doll’s feet, nudges up between both of Drew’s - kickpad half askew, dragging along the rude nakedness of Drew’s prick which is so hard now that the application of sticky spandex pressure feels like an electric shock. It’s a low blow in slow motion, Punk rubbing against him until he loses focus, the pair of them all twisted up in an impossible shape until, until. Until he feels like he’s actually done it. He’s inside Punk as far as he can possibly go.
For a moment he’s almost happy. Something like it, anyway, lightheaded and satisfied as he seizes, as his fist clenches painfully from deep in Punk’s gut and his cock spasms up to paint the ankle-bridge of Punk’s kickpad with cum. Bizarrely, he comes just as much the second time as he did the first; he briefly thinks it might never end, the slick stuttering gush of semen that dredges itself up urgently enough to make him ache from balls to navel.
He picked his head up when he came, and when he tries to bow back down, Punk tilts one knee inward to block his way. Punk’s insides no longer feel quite so hospitable, either - rather than sucking Drew in, they’re rippling against him, as if Punk’s body has decided they’ve been at it long enough. Drew can’t hold back a pained, growling whine as he finally slips free with a sticky slurping sound that suggests far more lubricant than Drew can actually remember being involved. He tries to pet at the hole he’s left behind - he doesn’t want to be done, he wants to be back inside of Punk, insensible and desperate like a newborn animal trying to return to the womb. It does look like a real cunt, now, even more than before - all dark pink and bruised and fleshy, and so fucking wet, glazed by what drips down from Punk’s now-soft cock. Drew gets a few moments with the visual of his wide, blunt fingers stroking and prodding at the hole he made in Punk’s body; then Punk moves his leg again, knocking Drew’s hand aside with the boot Drew just covered in cum.
Drew won’t whine about it, he won’t snap at Punk about how Punk clearly got what he wanted and why can’t Drew, if Punk is going to use him, why can’t Drew get what he wants too - he won’t beg him. Not again. His head is clearing, the pain is becoming more of a knife’s edge again and less of a foggy concussed throb. He turns his head and spits out the last of the taste of slick and iron; it lands on the linoleum tile, more bloody-pink than Drew expected, amidst the rest of the sticky boot-printed mess of drying blood.
Getting a good look at him, Drew realizes that— He’d expect Punk to be drained, even more than he was at the end of the match; Drew certainly feels that way. He feels like a corpse walking. But Punk is almost glowing. He looks galvanized, somehow, satisfied even with his prick wilting between his legs. He’s not bleeding anymore; the cut on his head, the thousand pinprick punctures from the tacks, they’ve all scabbed over in deep, settled reddish-black. Drew’s body feels like one big bruise, like he’s been halfway flayed from the head down, and Punk is still smiling. He’s won twice tonight.