Work Text:
After AJ gets Punk dressed - the tight little crop top, the skirt that barely covers his ass, the pink silk panties that cut into his hips - she does his makeup.
She’s a warm, comfortable weight in his lap, putting her entire center of gravity onto his body to weigh him down despite being half his size. She straddles him, keeps him still - not that he needs to be kept still. Once she’s told him to do something, he does it. But he likes to be kept, he likes to be held down, and she likes to show him that she can.
“Close your eyes, baby girl,” she tells him, and yes, that’s him, her girl, her wife, her doll. His eyelids slip shut obediently, only to flutter involuntarily when she touches the tip of the eyeliner pen to the crepe-thin skin at the corner of his eye. “Okay,” she coos, “it’s okay, just try not to move.” He tries; she tells him he’s doing well as she keeps dabbing at his waterline. He has to lie still and be a good girl. He’s not used to the feeling anymore - it’s been years since he last daubed it on himself, clumsy and thick, a solid pencil instead of the liquid brush - but he tries to remember how to make himself stop reacting to the sensation, how to let it wash over him.
His hands are spread out flat atop the sheets, waiting for the shimmery red polish on his nails to dry, another thing he’s not used to anymore. He never really thought someone else would want to paint his nails for him. It was always something he could only just get away with doing, a quirk that he had to compensate for in other ways. This is the loudest color he’s ever worn. AJ picked it out for him from her collection, so much more expansive than the little clutch of variants on black and one shimmery blue he had to choose from before. He likes it.
“Open your eyes for me,” AJ says eventually; he stares up at her face, the center of his universe, looking back at him with assessing focus. “Now look up,” and he does, reluctantly, rolling his eyes back to study the ceiling - this time he can almost see her hand out of the corner of his eye, approaching with the pen, coming for the most sensitive spot on his face. He holds so still for her, as still as he possibly can. After the eyeliner, mascara, the little corkscrew brush that again comes within reactive distance of his eye. Then the other eye, close and open, her directing him, and him surrendering himself to whatever she wants to do with him.
She isn’t shifting much in his lap, but still she must be able to feel that this is turning him on. The panties she’s put him in were already not-quite-enough to comfortably cover his cock when it was mostly soft, and now they must be distended further, tenting the too-short pleated skirt that barely covers them; the longer she holds him down and tells him what to do, cupping his face in her hand as she makes it her own, the deeper he sinks into the comfortable haze of arousal. For the moment she’s completely ignoring it; he’s still her plaything, but her focus is elsewhere.
He’s brought back to himself, only somewhat, by her voice - “Look at me,” the easiest instruction to follow. She seems happy with what she sees, what she’s done with his face. The smile she gives him is earnest and delighted. “Beautiful,” she says, and then, “Open your mouth.”
Without knowing what might follow, he obeys her - of course he does. She has something in her hand, small and shiny; he’s not sure what it could be until she hooks one thumb into the side of his mouth and slips the other hand inside, pressing at his tongue with the tip of something metal. A barbell, the kind he had through his tongue for years, and now her fingers are coaxing his flesh to remember the hole it must almost have forgotten, pushing gently but firmly until the bar threads through with a singular stretching sensation. Punk is drooling around her hands, embarrassingly sloppy; it would take more than this to make him cough, but he wasn’t expecting it.
Her nimble fingers wipe the spit from his mouth with relish, and she smiles at him, telling him again what a good girl he is. “Stick out your tongue,” she says when he’s had a chance to swallow; he opens back up, showing off for her the way he knows how to do so well. “Good,” she smiles.
She grabs something else from the collection of objects at her side - Punk doesn’t know what all they are, they’re so far outside his narrow field of focus - lipstick, it seems, red like the polish on his nails. He holds his mouth obediently slightly open, and one of her hands holds his chin still while she works, adorning the thin gash of his lips. She sits back when she’s finished, again looking pleased; Punk feels himself flushing under the scrutiny, always happy when she’s happy with him. He was nervous at first - about all of it - but now, with her weight on him, her hands on him, her voice telling him what he should do, he feels only the most pleasant remnant of the former fear.
He’s wearing her shirt - her old AJ Lee shirt, all cut up the way they both like to do, neckline lowered and sleeves cut away to tiny straps, the bottom half eaten up by an elaborate fringed lattice. (She’s in a sensible muscle tank and sweatshorts, comfortable and so much less revealing that it makes him feel even more exposed.) He needed her help to squeeze into it, and even now it feels precarious, like he could burst out of it at any moment. His chest hair spills from the low neckline and his soft stomach peeks out from the fringe at the bottom. Her hands find his stomach now, parting the shreds of fabric to expose it to her gaze. It makes him want to squirm, the way she’s looking at him, like a cat would look at the soft underbelly of a rat. She’s very good at directing this intense, hungry scrutiny towards the parts of him he’d rather hide. Good at not letting him hide anything from her.
She pets his belly like he’s a beloved animal, perfect painted nails scritching lightly across the dimpled flesh under his tattoo; then she catches the skin of his navel between thumb and forefinger, probing for something that used to be there. Punk thinks this one must be closed - it’s been at least a decade, he didn’t even wear it for that long - but apparently he’s just that penetrable, because the little silver rod she presses into that infinitesimal hole emerges after only a few seconds of head-spinning it-won’t-fit pain. It’s got some kind of dangly bejeweled flower on the side that sits in front of his bellybutton, overtly feminine, pushing into tacky; it makes an odd, cool weight against his skin, makes him blush looking down at it.
The nipple rings he expects. She pushes up the taut edge of his (her) shirt until his tits pop out - so easily, it occurs to him with an obscure embarrassment that he’s not wearing a bra - and begins to gently squeeze and prod his flesh into place, enclosing each nipple in an ornamental barbell that surrounds it with a little ring of rhinestones. They’re almost tight enough for the metal encircling them to pinch, especially since the handling has made his nipples swell and perk up; she laughs just a bit before tugging the shirt back down into place, scraping over his newly sensitive tits, piercings clearly visible through the taut fabric. The laughter makes his head spin.
“Do you want to see yourself?” She asks him. And Punk doesn’t know, actually, what does he want? He thinks that probably he wants whatever she wants. He nods, a bit stupid, but she’s already pulling him up to sit and pointing him in the direction of the full-length mirror across from the bed.
He looks— AJ’s coming to kneel behind him now, and her hand is on his jaw, turning his face so he looks himself straight on. He notices his own bare feet, large and callused, and his hairy legs, hairy cellulite thighs, the way the mirror can see right up his skirt to the uncouth shape of his hard cock in these little silk panties. He tries smoothing the tiny skirt out to be a bit more decent, and notices the way his red nails catch the light; there’s the pink jeweled thing in his bellybutton, too, sparkling as it dangles over the spot where the waistband of the skirt bites into his soft belly. It clashes with the hair on his navel, the greying hair on his chest that is completely uncontained by AJ’s tiny t-shirt - everything is incongruent, the red slash of his lips surrounded by stubble, the tiny straps on his broad shoulders. He’s glad he at least hasn’t cut his hair in awhile; it’s long enough to just curl around the bottoms of his ears, long enough to make him remember what it looked like when it was really long.
His eyes are a surprise - he knows she’s better at this than he ever was, but all he could imagine was what he’d already experienced, the clumpy thick way he’d drawn it on back in 2004. He’d have been happy with that, he feels so very 2000’s with his pleated skirt and his piercings and his nails, he’s probably slept with girls who were dressed pretty much the way he’s dressed now - but her work is more precise. Prettier.
“You look beautiful, baby,” AJ says, with her firm grip still on his chin, and Punk halfway believes it. He feels so exposed - his dick jumps, and the skirt does nothing at all to hide it, god - but she did a good job with him, she’s made him a pretty doll, as pretty as he can be these days.
He can’t reply in words - has no idea what he’d say anyway - but he makes a little noise, and she smiles at him indulgently in the mirror. “Beautiful,” she tells him again. “My pretty little wife.” Her hand - the one not holding his jaw - is draped across his shoulder, protectively or possessively, and it slips down his chest now, coming to cup his breast, making him an object for her to touch as she pleases. He knows she can hear his breathing pick up when she gropes him, when her fingers catch on the obvious shape of his pierced nipple and stay there. She tweaks the jewelry through his shirt, tugs on it until it hurts - until his tit feels swollen and he’s truly tenting his skirt, until he’s afraid his fragile skin might give after all these years and start to bleed. She knows exactly how far to go.
She finally seems to notice it then; her hand drops and reaches under the skirt to grab at him with a proprietary casualness that makes Punk feel completely owned. “Oh,” she smiles, “you got so wet for me. C’mon,” she says, rough with him the way he likes her to be, “let me see.”
Punk ends up on his back again, legs up now and skirt inside out across his belly. He feels very large and ungainly like this, too hairy and broad and too soft all at once, in real danger of being ridiculous - but he’s not, because she doesn’t act like he is. She acts like he’s her little wife, her belonging, hers to do with as she pleases. Her hands are firm when they shove him down, then suddenly gentle as they pet up the tender insides of his thighs; they turn strong and possessive again quickly, squeezing his soft little ass, nails digging in enough to leave a mark.
She leaves his panties on, the scrap of pink silk that’s still trying valiantly to cover his cock and balls; she doesn’t touch these, either, and she doesn’t touch the loose furl of his asshole underneath, the lips that are prominent enough to press against the silk gusset, where Punk thought she might go first. Instead she reaches into the space between, the little stretch of skin under his balls, and presses with three fingers, rubbing there like she really is touching his pussy. “So wet,” she says again, admiring, pleased with him in a way that makes him feel warm and weak.
He’s used to a cock in his ass, real or silicone; he’s used to her strong, purposeful, compact fist sinking into him, he’s used to being ripped open and loving it. He’s not used to this kind of light touch - her fingers rubbing at that spot where nothing is, as if there’s something there, as if there’s a hole for her to fuck. His skin is damp with sweat and the feeling, fed through the thin silk of his panties, makes it so that Punk could almost convince himself he’s getting wet the way she says he is. It does feel how he thinks having his pussy rubbed might feel, if he were ever to think about it - the muted pleasure, she’s not touching his clit or fucking him properly, she’s just teasing him, but her hand covers him, making him feel how much he belongs to her.
He hears the click of a bottle opening, and everything is suddenly, really wet; the damp of his sweat is supplemented by the slide of lube, soaking the silk, confusing the sensation even more so that he can pretend, really, that he’s wet and leaking and her hand is gliding across his folds, just short of sinking into him. She starts pressing in harder, against the tender buried bump of his prostate, pushing like she’s really expecting to find a hole there that will open up for her. Punk wants her to find it, he wants her to fuck him in the new hole she’s making just for her.
The waistband of the panties presses his cock down flat, holding it against his belly; he’s glad, if it sprang out now it would look so incongruent, a large rude thing intruding. But AJ pulls his waistband down, the stripe of scalloped lace with its cute little bow in front folded over, just enough to get her fingertips against the leaking reddish head of it, rubbing so gently - another light touch, like he’s a thing to be careful with. She doesn’t close her hand around it, doesn’t acknowledge it for what it is; it’s his— “Pretty clit,” she tells him, “I love a girl with a big clit,” and that’s what it is, her one hand rubbing his pussy and her other teasing his clit, going in little circles, even, like he’s seen her do when she gets herself off, she’s touching his pussy the same way she touches hers, fuck.
He knows it’s too early to come, but he feels like he’s been turned on for hours, held in stasis while she makes him her own, dressing and grooming him and touching him all over before she ever started to rub him off. He feels it right where she’s pressing at first - in his cunt, in his cunt, something pulling deep inside that spills to the surface in a long, shocking wave.
He soaks her hand, his belly, the waistband of his panties. The evidence of his orgasm flows in steady pulses, staining the pink silk dark. She keeps rubbing him through it, praising him for it - squirting for her just from a little teasing, so sensitive, so cute. He’s embarrassed, doesn’t want it to be over, even though he’s getting so oversensitized now that it’s painful to have her keep touching him.
He’s disappointed when she takes her hand off him and ends the torture, but it’s short-lived. She’s moving, not to get off of him, but to reach her hand up - covered in his come, his slick - and push her fingers into his painted mouth.
He sucks them clean dutifully, tongue stud brushing against them - he wishes it were her clit, so she could really feel it, or her silicone cock to choke him, but he’s happy to have anything in his mouth. She pulls away with a ring of his red lipstick around her knuckles, smirking, satisfied with him.
Then she crouches between his legs again, again eyeing his soft vulnerable parts with a hunger that would be frightening if Punk didn’t enjoy it so much. And she smiles up at him, all teeth, and says, “Girls don’t come just once, you know that, right?”
Now she stops teasing him - now her fingertips sink into the welcoming divot of his asshole, achieving penetration even when she’s just touching him to touch him, sweat-sticky tender skin sucking at her fingers, he can’t help it. She’s pulled his panties to the side under his balls, and she reaches up to collect the lube she was playing in before, to rub it into his hole. Two of her fingers sink into him without resistance - she got him so wet for her - and a third presses in after them, stretching him just enough that he can feel it. Her other hand is pulling his cheek to the side, fully exposing his hairy, distended hole to her gaze. But his clit is tucked back into his panties, soaking wet silk clinging to its soft shape, just a little bump where it was so obtrusive before. He feels exposed in just the right way.
It’s a steady, gentle motion, her fingertips rubbing against his prostate from the inside where they had been going at it from the outside before, but it still feels almost overwhelming. He’s so sensitive - the slick slide of her knuckles stretching him and pulling back would be more than enough on its own, and the way she’s hitting his prostate with every tiny thrust is almost too much to take. But he does take it. He’ll take whatever she asks him to, and the borderline-pain is transcendent, he’s always enjoyed being made to feel like this. Pressed open and overwhelmed, overloaded. And it feels, again, like she’s playing with his cunt - the cunt he’s familiar with, the one she fucks him in regularly, and she’s stopped teasing him now and sunk herself into his pussy, finally, finally.
When she kneels up it adds to the impression, her body above his like she’s really fucking him. Her free hand is roving across his body, tugging at his bellybutton ring, digging into the soft dip of his waist, and she’s sitting up now to reach more of him, pushing up the tight little tank top until it catches on the rhinestones caging his nipples. It’s incredible how crowded-in and engulfed she makes him feel. She’s so much smaller, but she fills his whole world, monopolizing his senses - screwing him with one hand and tugging at his pierced tits with the other, petting through his chest hair, dipping her head down to bite at his neck, her hair spilling across his shoulders and her smell filling his lungs. He feels like he’s melting, dissolving under the pain-pleasure of her attention.
A second orgasm seems completely impossible until it’s already happening to him. Punk’s not even sure if what he’s feeling is an orgasm, strictly speaking - he’s had a lot of experience with prostate stimulation, but this is new to him. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the way his nerves are already stretched to their limit, that makes everything feel hot and frayed and half-insane. A little bit of extra wetness pulses from him, heating the lukewarm wet silk; he’s too overwhelmed to tell if it’s cum or she’s made him piss himself, it wouldn’t be the first time. He clenches around AJ’s fingers, his body fruitlessly trying to tighten. She stays inside him for a long moment, with his thighs squeezing her body close to his, and she tells him into the tender side of his neck how well he’s done, what a good girl he is.
“Aw, baby.” Her hand is on his cheek now, petting at the hot wet ruin of his face. “Your eyes are a mess.” He wasn’t quite conscious of crying before now, but he clearly has been - he must look like a disaster, smudgy tears all down his cheeks.
She slips her fingers from him and straddles his lap, staring him in his ruined face as she grinds her bare cunt against his wet, soft, sensitive bulge. She seems to have lost her shorts sometime when Punk was being broken down into his composite parts; he can feel the insistent rub of her hard clit against his softness, the way her slick smears against the silk, marking her territory. She shoves her fingers into his mouth, still tacky and hot from his hole; he swallows around them again, licking with the stud in his tongue, cleaning the salty-bitter film of lube and ass from her hand. When she pulls out of him her fingers are stained with his lipstick, more than before, enough that he knows he must look like a whore with his mouth all smeared.
“So pretty,” she pants, mouth open, sweating visibly. Staring at him still hungry. Whatever she wants from him, he wants it too.
What she wants is to pin him down and ride his face. She gets one hand in his hair, gripping tight, and both thighs locked in around his ears; his makeup must truly be ruined now, with her as wet as he’s ever felt her, rubbing against his face like a hound in rut, like she can’t control herself. It takes her awhile to decide to fuck his mouth, and by the time she’s there Punk can smell her all over his own face, musky wetness leaking into his beard and rubbed across his cheeks. This is maybe his favorite thing to do, even as run through and exhausted as he feels right now; he could do it in his sleep, he could do it all day. He feels so completely hers with her cunt against his open mouth, demanding his tongue, leaking slick down his throat. The stud in his tongue rubs against her soft folds and the underside of her hard clit, making her groan and squirm above him, god, it’s so fun to give head with this thing in his mouth, he’d almost forgotten. He’s too far gone to have much technique, just licking and sucking at her sloppily, but she’s turned on enough not to care.
The roll of her hips is helping too, the way she’s grinding insistently into him - it’s almost irrelevant what he does, she’s going to get off using him regardless, smothering him in her sweaty hairy cunt. He feels her twitch against him and grunt, seizing up for long moments, and then keep moving again; everything is even wetter now, his whole world down to the slickness on his tongue and the squeeze of her thighs around his head. She moves faster, reaching a hand down to rub her clit until she shudders and comes again - down his throat, he thinks, because his mouth is wide open around her and she’s shoving her hips in as if there’s any further she can go.
He’s gotten enough brainpower back now to start sucking on her clit with focus - the quickest way to get her over the edge again if she’s gone a few rounds already - and she moans low in her throat, pets his hair, calls him a good girl again as she settles into it. She’s not fucking his face as hard as she was a minute ago, just thrusting gently, letting him rub her off with the stud she put through his tongue. It always takes her longer to come after the first few, so he gets to suck at her for a long time, lungs full of her scent, still and obedient like a good doll, ignoring the twinge in his jaw. When she comes for the last time, she pulls hard at his hair and stays still, hips locked against his mouth. He feels like he’s doing exactly what he was meant to do.
AJ rolls off him eventually, panting, scooting down the bed beside him and flinging a hand proprietarily across his chest. She starts petting through his chest hair again, now wet with sweat and a bit of her cum that dripped down between orgasms; it feels so good, being cared for like that, like a pet, her fingers running through his fur. He must look ruined, but she doesn’t care.
Eventually she sits up and rolls off the bed. He sits up too, ready to follow her, but— “Lie back down,” she says. “Let me take care of my wife.”
He is about to lie down again, really - how could he refuse her anything? - but then he catches sight of himself in the mirror and comes up short, staring. He looks so different from how he did when they started - flanks marked where she dug her hands into his sides, shirt rucked up to show his swollen nipples, hair sticking up at odd angles. His face is soaking wet, tears and cum and the obvious tracks where his mascara has run; the lipstick is dispersed in a reddish halo around his mouth, dripping down into his beard. He does look ruined, completely and utterly. It makes him want to stare closer, to prod at where he thinks will hurt tomorrow - he brings his red nails up to trace over the bite mark on his neck, feeling it out. He so loves to be ruined by her.
She’s coming back now, though, with a couple wet washcloths and a little bottle of something that she squirts onto one of them before she wipes his face with it. The cloth is cool and sweet-smelling; it makes him realize how flushed he’s been until now, how hot and overwhelmed. She pushes him back down onto the bed and rubs gently at his eyes, at his mouth, until the cloth is dirty and his face is clean. She takes off his shirt - has to maneuver him carefully not to rip it - and his skirt, peels off his soaked panties (sniffs them instinctively before putting them on the pile of dirty clothes), wipes his body down. There she is above him again, taking care of him, taking such good care of what belongs to her.
He had thought he would shower, but now he doesn’t feel like he could move. The pressure of her hands on his body keeps him from shaking; he’s bleeding endorphins in a shocking rush, suddenly exhausted. He can tell she’s feeling it too - she doesn’t bother bringing the dirty things someplace else, just tosses them onto the rug and crawls into bed with him, skin to skin now, her sweat-smell and her hot skin sticking to his, her strong muscled arm slung around his neck squeezing him to her. Her little hand in his large one, clutching so tight he thinks he’ll lose circulation. Her lips planted on his neck, right over the spot where she sank her teeth in. They’re both too tired to talk, but that’s okay - they don’t have to say anything.