liznt

[liznt]

hewwo dear followers @ shoop central,

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 !!!

^ here it is!!! go read abt robot!Max thinking Mox, Punk and Asmiov are soooo annoying

[liznt]

Punk strikes. (Punk lies). A false lunge to hide an elbow strike. Max spots it soon enough to counter into a shoulder lock. They twist together. Pressure. Angles. Force. Hands. Max's focus narrows in a way it never has before.

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.

But Punk twists a foot in and pushes out, easily shaking off the first fall. Punk is smiling back at him. His teeth are sharp too.

[liznt]

[head in hands] as of today i have three wrestling WIPs and NO remotely finished fics

[liznt]

okay sunday six cause i can actually do it this week

“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-

Max is sitting with that big smug-ugly grin on his face. He lets out one last fake cartoon sob with Punk watching. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” he croons. “Just keep crawling back for more.”

[liznt]

>:) this is a note for myself for the thing im writing

dynamite diamond DRILL BIT

[liznt]

i hate him i hate him i hate him

[liznt]

sigh should I just lean into the weird magical realism Victorian circus thing (that I can make Bryan/Daniel/punk/mjf) or keep hitting my head against the canon (lmao) verse

(eta, wagggh I saw a panto last night and now it's snowing in the Dickensian town in which I live so magical realism is winning today)

[liznt]

this is what you will become

37 articles across 4 news outlets £5,349 in charitable donations one funeral a white bicycle tied to a lamp-post, a pile of flowers periodically repleshenished beneath by strangers who will never meet a scholarship and a bake sale two spray paint squares on the tarmac spring

[liznt]

blah blah blah

[liznt]

Okay wait I wanna draw punk as a saint W GTS hands but should he be smiling victorious

Or in divine ecstasy of martyrdom

[liznt]

poeticCinema.jpeg i cant finish the punk plays with mjf after the dog collar match fic cause that fic where mjf whips the shit out of punk is just too good it just works way better with mjf on top

[liznt]

horny brain won

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.

"You've been wasting my time, Maxwell." He presses down on the back of MJF's tongue so he gags. "Suck."

schmoopy brain says punk should stroke his anxious little robot’s hair to calm it down and horny brain says he should have to stick his hand down its throat for repair reasons

[liznt]

maybe i should just draw mjf tied to the ropes like how raven tied punk...

[liznt]

why do i have 600 words of romangerri basically ready to publish just sitting in my hard drive,,,

[liznt]

Roy appears in the doorway to Ted's office. "D’you have a rubber?"

Ted frowns, vaguely alarmed for half a moment, then, "Sure thing, Stephen King." He pats his pockets. "I should have one on me. Cliché I know. I started carrying them when I was coaching the Wichita boys. Those boys were insatiable and I didn't want any of 'em screwing up their lives makin permanent mistakes." Ted hands Roy a blue plastic foil packet. "I didn't know Keeley was in." Durex® in white letters. "You know what? None'a my business." Ted flaps his hands and finally. Stops.

Roy stares at his hand, silent, for some time.

"An eraser," he says, jaw working every sylable with great effort, and even then he misses off the final 'r'.

[liznt]

A coherent fic still eludes me, instead my pile of weird dialogue snippets grows thicker

[liznt]

important maxwell jacob friedman placeholder dialogue