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MJF’s parents are the best part of his character. Legends.

#i think the funniest thing about occasionally dipping into tumblr is being vividly reminded what a fundamentally terrible platorm it is #for most things #but being able to write comments in the tags? priceless baby

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#wow whose mans is this

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Conspiracy: beef between tanahashi and kenny started because tanahashi tried to braid his hair and kenny was like mmmm no

this ask is outdated by approximately two years but it’s still fucking hilarious

#tanahashi #kenny omega #njpw #Anonymous #I'm actually dying over Tana being like 'please god let me help you. let ANYONE help you'.

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Can i get a blurb or your feelings or a one shot or whatever you feel comfortable writing about a sick fic golden lovers

Kota’s still asleep when Kenny gets up, which should be his first hint that something is wrong. He sleeps through Kenny fumbling around in the dark, through the creak on the fourth stair, through the too-loud sounds of Kenny getting into mischief in the kitchen. 

Normally, Kota never sleeps long enough for Kenny to get the stove on before saving him from himself, but Kenny has time to cook two and burn an additional two eggs without a single noise coming from upstairs. Kenny doesn’t think about it too hard (they’re wrestlers, sometimes it’s just like that) until he drops a hot pan in the sink and almost turns the water on, which Kota has told him a million times not to do because they’re going to run out of pans to warp, and Kota still isn’t there to actually say it out loud. 

Kenny takes the steps back upstairs two at a time, peeking into the still-dark bedroom. He can feel the worried little pinch between his eyebrows, where Kota, if Kota were upright, would smooth his thumb and scold him over getting wrinkles in his old, worried age. But Kota’s still bundled up in bed, and Kenny’s - 

Well. Kenny’s not that good at taking care of himself, but he knows the signs and symptoms of being sick. He just usually ignores them in himself. He pads over and lays the back of his hand across Kota’s (warm) forehead, which makes Kota crack his eyes open sleepily and murmur a confused, fussy little noise. He shifts like he’s sore, shivers like he’s cold. 

“Sweetheart,” Kenny says, feeling too full of love and mother-duck protective urges to keep quiet. “Not feeling well?” 

Kota considers this question gravely, pretty clearly evaluating every part of his body for weakness before eventually nodding, which Kenny thinks means he might be dying. 

“Need anything?” Kenny asks, voice dropping to an even quieter tone. Wouldn’t do to shake him around if Kota has a headache. “Water?” 

“Just you,” Kota rasps, which is adorable and absolutely not true, because he probably needs asprin and tea and breakfast, in that order. Kota emphatically does not like okayu, but he probably needs that too. 

“Go back to sleep,” Kenny says, petting Kota’s hair back from his face. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Kota, contrary creature that he is, immediately takes that as his time to try and untangle himself from the covers and roll out of bed. Kenny’s avenging angel, he thinks fondly. The most stubborn man alive. He presses Kota back down into the bed and tucks him firmly, leaving him buried like a very handsome radish. Kota looks simultaneously deeply offended by how easily Kenny pushed him and phenomenally adorable, with his mussed hair and fever-pink cheeks. 

Irresistible. Kenny pecks his forehead and keeps him down with a light hand on his shoulder while he pulls out his mobile phone. The culture of convenience has to be good for something, even if that ‘something’ is ordering food and medicine out so your boyfriend doesn’t try and escape out the window like Japan’s slowest, handsomest Spiderman. 

Kota falls back to sleep somewhere in between looking like an angry little kitten and the food actually arriving, Kenny stroking back his boyband hair to keep it off his face. 

Kenny may not know how to take care of himself, but he knows, better than (almost? probably) anyone how to take care of Kota Ibushi. Kenny will be there when he wakes up. 

#sick fic #This could have gone a different way probably but I didn't want to be sad thank you #golden lovers #kenny omega #kota ibushi #my writing #are we still on this train boys? this ask is two years old

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All the Flowers (turn to face the sun)

Pairing: Gen; the Shield and its brotherly homoeroticism notwithstanding Words: 1.3k Rating: PG, for Dean’s mouth A/N: While this is technically not complete, I don’t know where else it’s going, so I’m setting it free. Also I’ve been gone for two years what of it. 

The safehouse this time is barely more than a shoebox, a single bedroom with an alleyway window opening up into a tiny living room and a galley kitchen. They never really expect comfort-- they pay for security, for secrecy, not for luxury-- but even Dean has to admit this is a little sad. 

Except. On the windowsill of that tiny little window, a pot of ivy creeps halfheartedly up the screen. It’s just a little one, maybe some kinda ornamental thing, but Dean is fucking fascinated. They’ve never been here before, because somehow Rollins has matched and surpassed Dean’s paranoia, but nonetheless Dean is compelled to carefully water it, to weed the little thing and to turn it a little to help it catch what meagre sunlight peeks over the sharp shadows of the neighboring building. 

“It’s just a weed,” Reigns says, and he says it like he’s an expert on weeds and not-weeds and hey, Dean, have you ever considered being a person with a working brain for once? 

Well. He doesn’t say that last part. Dean infers it. 

“Yeah?” Dean says, focusing on picking tiny blades of grass out of the pot and flicking them into Reigns’ hair when he’s not looking. “Well, s’lasted this long on its own. Think maybe I was a weed in another life?” 

Reigns looks at him with his startling grey eyes. “Yeah,” He says. “Well, you’re like some kind of weird mold now, so I guess it’s not too--” 

Their ensuing scuffle is interrupted by Rollins coming back, slipping into the back door like a shadow. The look on his face says trouble, which means a job, which means Dean flicks one last piece of dirt into Reigns’ hair and stands up, brushing his hands off on his pants.

When they come back, month and change later, the plant is gone. That’s okay. Dean is used to things that don’t last. 

--

The motel’s on the very outskirts of town, vacancy sign flickering dolefully in the foggy dark. They’re outside of Atlanta-- or Aurora, or Akron, or Augusta. Dean’s lost track of all the places they’ve paced through, hackles up and snarling. They blur together when you never stop and someone else pays the bills.

The pool out front’s been drained and there’s only a couple of cars out front, but the lights are on and this is the address Punk gave them. Rollins is dozing on his feet, swaying into Dean’s shoulder every so often, and Reigns is tweaked out of his mind on Modafinil, muscles shivering ever-so-slightly with barely restrained get-up-and-go. 

Dean’s always had a better stomach for uppers, already has most of the side effects wired into his biology and doesn’t get ‘em better or worse when he’s on stims. He’s the one who bundles them out of the car, drags them staggering into the lobby to pick up a room key. He assures the man at the desk that no, sir, he’s certainly Mr. Punk, sir, yes that is his birth name, yes he certainly can produce an I.D., if you’ll give him just a moment. 

There’s only one bed, because C.M. Punk is some kinda penny pinching motherfucker when he’s not paying their fees, but it doesn’t matter. Dean’s slept on worse than dirty carpets, and at least there’s a roof. He hefts Rollins-- Seth, he guesses, because it’s hard to keep it casual when you’re unlacing a guy’s boots-- onto the bed while Reigns mumbles something incoherent and stumbles off, possibly to die in the shower. 

Dean’s still got the urge to move shoving at him. He drapes his dog tags across the old alarm clock-- Reigns will get it or he won’t-- and secures the room as best he can before slipping out the door. It’s gone from foggy to rainy, drops bouncing off cracked asphalt and turning the whole place into a shitty, muddy slip-n-slide. A cluster of pretty girls are gathered around the Coke machine, short shirts and shorter skirts and the kind of high-pitched laughter that’ll kill a man’s confidence at a hundred paces. 

It’s too rainy to walk, Dean guesses. 

“Hey mister,” One calls, kind of sarcastic, and her friends break back down into laughter. She’s wearing a flower in her hair, rain-dropped and vibrant even under the shitty fluorescent lights. 

“Evening ma’am,” Dean replies, doffing an invisible cap. He doesn’t approach, because he’s not interested or capable of buying what they’re selling. 

They don’t seem too put out about it. Dean’s looking kind of rough, he admits, five days unshaved and hands still wrapped to the wrist. He definitely wouldn’t wanna see himself in a dark alley, that’s for fuckin’ sure. 

“You looking for anything?” The girl with the flower asks, cocking her hip in defiance of the weather and his distance. 

“Only the ice machine,” He demurs, and they laugh at him again. He smiles, so he’s in on the joke. 

There’s no ice machine, they all cheerfully inform him, which is okay because Dean didn’t really need ice anyway, just something to do with his hands until the mania steps back a little and lets forty sleepless hours take the reins. 

It takes a lap or two of the complex to settle down. He scopes out all the easy exits on the first go around, because he can’t help it, and then the harder exits, because his mind still needs something to work on. 

It’s late-late by the time he trudges back up to the door, instead of just late. He taps the door softly, pattern set in his bones after all this time practicing. It’s a minute before the return knock comes, a password and response that’s as familiar as breathing. When the door swings open for Dean to slip inside, Reigns is there, sleepy and still damp from his shower. 

He also looks hilariously pissed off. 

“No hot water?” Dean guesses, and is immediately rewarded with a snarl that would make a tiger jealous. He slips the travel lock back into place, locks and double locks and bolts the door behind him, kicks the door stop into place and slides the safety lock in, too. It won’t keep out someone who’s desperate to get in, but it’ll give them a little bit of time to wake up. 

“Seth’s gonna bitch so much,” Reigns says, squeezing out his hair and starting on his nightly ritual untangling. “Boy’s like a lapdog.” 

Dean makes a noise of agreement, watching Seth’s back rise and fall with his slow breaths. Something about him just screams that he was made to be pampered. Maybe the sly hints of a good family life. 

“We’re gonna let him find out on his own.” Dean says, settling onto the foot of the bed and fighting against the weight of his eyelids. 

“Yessir,” Reigns says, plaiting his hair up quick and laying one hand, still cool from his cold shower, onto Dean’s forehead. “C’mon, babe, get up and brush your teeth. We got a spare.” 

Dean hoists himself up, because of course now he’s tired. Brushing his teeth and splashing his face with water is a blur, and when he finally passes out he doesn’t even remember that there’s only one bed, after all. 

When they leave the next day, Seth bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from his surprisingly chilly wakeup shower, the girl’s flower is in a puddle by the soda machine, pretty and only a little bit stepped on. Dean wavers before stooping to pick it up, fragile and wet and almost weightless. 

Reigns looks back over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow up in that stoically judgmental way that he has, but doesn’t say anything to Dean, just keeps bullying Seth’s salty ass back to the car. Dean pets at the petals one more time before letting the flower fall back into its puddle, where it floats and spins endlessly in a reflection of the star-speckled dawn.

#the shield #my writing #it's a METAPHOR #roman reigns #seth rollins #dean ambrose

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I responded to Mustafa Ali’s music hitting pretty much like Ricochet and Cedric Alexander do.

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Seth’s sentence trails off strategically when he realizes Kevin has arrived.

#handsome

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Kevin is going after Seth where it really hurts: his disciples.  (He’s also absolutely right!)

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“I know the definition of momentum, if you don’t. Momentum is mass times velocity.”  –Professor Bayley

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I like the concept of Kevin’s skills being turned to Karmic Trash Talking.

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Kofi Kingston imitates the new IC champ as he comes to the ring.

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All Gold Bayley

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Kevin superkicks Seth almost by reflex–and puts all his weight onto his bad leg in the process, with catastrophic results.

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cropped GL commission i did for an anonymous client 🙈

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Lince Dorado dodges using up one of his nine lives, with a bit of an assist by Big E.

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Asuka celebrates finally defeating the woman who broke her streak and cost her the Smackdown title, while a stunned Charlotte seems to wonder where to go from here.