if you liked my cmjf robot/developer AU snippets, you should please please absolutely!! definitely!! go read "The Winning Move" by liznt / @joestrummen; it's sooooo good !!!

There. Max flips Punk - sharp and hard - bang onto his back on the canvas. Max follows him down, smiling. Grinning. Showing his teeth he grinds Punk down beneath his torso. He can win. He will win. He will do anything to feel this feeling forever.

It's the first baking hot day of the year. The kind of day that has all the poors and the unwashed of the world stripping off their tops to make him watch them turn themselves beet purple. Unlike them, Max is civilised, and still in a dress shirt, undershirt underneath to catch the sweat that runs down between his shoulder blades. It mostly doesn't matter anyway because he can afford aircon, of course. He lets himself undo one more button.

You can probably guess how a barely employed bricklayer who insists on being called "Punk" behaves in this weather.

“No, no, no, no! Dax, you can leave me with him!” Max wails. “Dax, he’s gonna hurt me!” Behind Punk, Max’s breaths keep hitching even after Dax is long gone. Punk lets him have his moment. Now they’re alone he can take his time with him. But Max doesn’t give up, actually gets louder until he sounds like a five year old who’s fallen on his ass, until Punk has to roll his eyes and turn back and-

Close to a last resort, Punk is starting to check the sensors inside MJF's head. Today the ones hideen deep in his throat, designed to protect his voice box. And MJF does make extensive use of his voice box. He's had to forgo his usual screwdrivers and tweezers, pull out a pair of nitrile gloves and use his fingers instead. Really MJF should be asleep for something like this, but again he'd insisted on being awake. Being present. Punk hasn't even disabled his movement, suddenly soft after seeing how anxious he'd gotten the last time, so he's just holding his head with one hand, doing his best to work with the other.

It's when Punk's fingers reach the back of MJF's tongue, checking the attachment points outlined on the diagram on his monitor, that MJF's limbs tense. A panicked hand grips Punk's forearm, but doesn't try to pull him off. "Alright, alright," Punk pauses, checks the readouts he's been staring at for weeks now. High but not peaking.

Punk looks down at MJF. His eyes are wide. Locked right back on Punk's. Like he can't look away. Like he's afraid, but he can bear it 'cause Punk is here. Like Punk is everything. Like his eyes want to roll back into his head.

This morning, over Punk's usual complaints about MJF still acting up, Mox had reminded him with an eyeroll, "What'd you expect? He's you." Punk had scoffed. What did all the stats from when he was still fighting have to do with faulty sensors? Or all the recordings of him on the mic. Back when he wasn't even thirty. Back when he was still hungry. So hungry.

Punk looks down. The seam of Max's lips is stretched over Punk's knuckles. Lubricant spit just starting to run down his chin. Punk smears his thumb through it. Says, "Swallow for me, Maxwell." Says it deliberately detached, almost absently.

Feels Max's throat struggle around his fingers and pretends to watch the monitor while he runs the thumb of the hand cradling Max's head back and forth through the short hairs behind his ear. "Good." The familiar call of the overheating alarm rises behind them both. Punk locks eyes with Max again. "Perfect." Max moans around his fingers.

Punk had worked out weeks ago that it was an integer overflow issue. (Not a bug. Obviously.  Because his code's better than that. Just an unexpected interaction with Mox's latest hardware). He just hadn't worked out where the fuck it was it was going to. Well he knows now.

And Moxley had known the whole damn time what was wrong. But Mox had always liked to wind up Punk. Push him around, tease him. He's been teasing him since he wasn't even thirty.

Punk raises an eyebrow at MJF. His eyes look farther away. Out of focus. His breath is gusting fast and shallow over the back of Punk's hand. He can't seem to keep still any more, shifting around, fingers clenching and unclenching on Punk.