#wrestleprompts

[pepsi-maxwell]

burner

pairing: mjf/max caster rating: m words: ~600 prompt: @wrestleprompts week 2: “it was you the whole time”

HEAVILY inspired by @maxcasterapologist ’s comic of mjf running a certain max caster thirst account

-

Max Caster has Twitter push notifications enabled for a grand total of four highly privileged people.

Anthony Bowens, because of course he does! They’re tag team partners! Scissoring forever!

Billy Gunn, because duh, why wouldn’t he want to know what Daddy Ass is up to at all times?

Maxwell Jacob Friedman, the one true love of his life, because he can’t afford to miss a single word his darling sweetheart baby boy says.

And then there’s the last one.

He doesn’t know them by their real name, only by their handle. And if anyone found out he had notifications enabled for an anonymous thirst account devoted solely to him, he’d never hear the end of it, but the facts are, he is one of the hottest guys on the planet, he is one of the best wrestlers alive, and it’s about damn time somebody appreciated him for it.

Plus, it’s such a nice ego boost to have someone retweeting his selfies, his merch, his televised appearances and his non-wrestling shows. Calling him gorgeous, calling him a king, wanting his dick inside them. He likes to read through some of their posts when his own appreciation for certain other hottest guys on the planet, best wrestlers alive, goes unnoticed. Unappreciated.

It’s thankless work, sometimes, being MJF’s devoted boyfriend, but then, he thinks, the course of true love never did run smooth.

He’s expecting to wait a little while, but it’s not even five minutes before he gets the ping. A new tweet.

It’s with that thought in mind that he grabs his phone. Heads to his bathroom, takes his shirt off. Figures out the best angle to show off his abs, pushes his shorts further down his hips, not quite into dick territory, but the bulge of his cock is visible under the fabric regardless. Puts on his best pout, snaps a few pictures, fucks around with the lighting a little, aaaand… perfect. Finds the best one, posts it up online.

[On my knees for you king 🤤🤤🤤👅 hottest wrestler alive!✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️]

There we go. That feels better. Nice little ego boost before bed, and—

Huh.

Something’s... off.

Something doesn’t quite look right.

Looks like he’s changed his icon—

Wait.

That’s—

That’s Max’s icon—

That’s Max’s icon, along with Max’s handle, Max’s name, and sure enough, one of Max’s tweets right underneath, neatly eviscerating some idiot who’d said all his matches were garbage—

Oh, no way.

No fucking way, that can’t—he can’t be—

He laughs, surprised and delighted. Runs to his bedroom, flops onto his stomach on his bed, kicking his legs in the air. He screengrabs the tweet because this is going to be gone in seconds, he knows it is. Refreshes Max’s twitter page, and yeah, sure enough—

His heart’s pounding in his chest as he navigates to his DMs. He’s never slid into these ones in particular before, doesn’t want to risk Max actually blocking him, but he thinks there’s no better time, even as he gets another notification on his phone, Max sending his thirst post to the right account this time.

He sends a copy of the screenshot, cropped to include Max’s handle.

[IT WAS YOU THE WHOLE TIME? 😳🥵💦😈😈😈😍]

He’s barely even sent it before he sees the dots indicating Max composing his reply. Wonders what he’s going to get—

[Fuck you fuxk you fuck yuo I fucking hate you Caster I will kill you!!!]

About five seconds after that, he’s blocked.

Hah, whatever he says. He knows the truth now. Max wants him. Wants his dick, thinks he’s a king, has secretly been just as devoted to him as he’s been to Max this whole time.

He rolls onto his back. Hugs his phone in his chest and sighs dreamily, content in the knowledge that he is going to be so fucking insufferable over this.

#gd writes #max² #wrestleprompts

[aerodaltonimperial]

variations on a theme

Rating: T

Pairing: Hookhausen

Content warning: blood

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says. She looks it, too, and that’s the worst part. “We don’t see this very often.”

“It’s curable, right?” his dad replies. He’s already in problem-solving mode, typing things on his phone, finding ideas, making lists; he’s probably already got a plan. Knowing him, Hook’s probably already on the list for some expensive, experimental drug therapy. “It’s not fatal, right?”

The nurse doesn’t answer, but that’s answer enough. She purses her mouth, and looks away, and so does Hook. He stares out the window at the rain droplets congregating on the glass until the compulsion in his lungs is too overwhelming to ignore. Coughing always hurts when it’s so dry, when the hacking is so brittle, but this is something else. Hook presses a hand to his mouth and squeezes his eyes through the shaking, until the impulse fades.

When he pulls his hand away, there’s a crumpled flower petal in his hand, the edges smeared with red.

“There’s something we can do, right?” his dad asks. His voice is lower, his tone sharper.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says. “He has to figure out who it is.”

++

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Hook presses his forehead against the car window as they drive. Beside him in the backseat, his dad is furiously searching on his phone. He’s trying to find a way around it. He’s trying to find a solution. But there isn’t a solution besides the obvious one; Hook has to figure out who it is, or else the roots will carve their place in his lungs and spread to his heart. The organ will be compost for the flowers, food for the blooms. Fitting, maybe—everyone always said Hook never paid attention to anyone else, and now he’s paying for it. He didn’t pay attention, and now it’ll kill him.

Ironic, that.

“You need to ask around,” his dad says, without looking at him. Hook thinks it’s self-preservation. If his dad can’t see the problem, then it doesn’t exist. And right now, Hook is the problem. “See if you can figure out who it is.”

“There’s no one,” Hook mumbles. His breath fogs the glass, a lopsided circle.

His dad taps the window, a signal to the driver. “You aren’t dating anyone? No flings, no one-night stands who could have latched on?”

“No.” When would he have time for that? “No one.”

“Ask around,” his dad says again, but he quiets when Hook starts coughing again. After, when Hook holds the crimson-tinged petals in his palm, his dad looks anywhere except his hands.

++

Hook isn’t going to ask people. He can’t think of a more embarrassing thing to have to do than work his way systemically through the only group of people he sees often enough for the emotion to stick and ask if any of them they are in love with him. He ignores it. Keeps wrestling. Bangs a few more heads in, hauls the FTW belt with him out of every ring. But after a week of miserably hacking up petals, staining the hotel pillowcases red, he begins to rethink it. Maybe the answer is obvious. Maybe he won’t have to ask many people.

The problem is, he’s got no one in his corner to approach first. And he doesn’t think the answer is obvious at all.

++

“Are you in love with me?” he asks, and immediately wants to fucking die.

Jack stares at him, eyebrows high. “What?”

“You heard me,” Hook mumbles. He sinks down into his sweatshirt hood, tugs the cords closed. Tries to block out the roar of humiliation that has coated his body and nestled within.

“No,” Jack says. And then: “Dude. What?”

“Nevermind.” Hook’s face is on fire. “I just…had to ask.”

“You think that’s why we aren’t partners anymore?” Jack asks, and laughs, like it’s the dumbest theory in existence. Like it’s ridiculous.

“No,” Hook grumbles, except he had, and now he’s pissed.

He decides not to ask any more people; dying can’t be any worse than this.

++

He’s forced to eat his words a week later. A new arena, a new nondescript hotel, a new toilet to kneel over as his lungs heave. The compulsion to cough is lasting longer and longer; Hook thinks he can feel the roots burrowing into the soft tissue of his lung, corroding the muscles. He chokes on a petal that doesn’t get all the way up and has to drag it out with one finger, triggering his gag reflex. His eyes prick with hot tears. The coughing doesn’t stop until he’s out of breath, propped up on the toilet seat with his elbow. He sucks in a ragged breath as the tears drip down onto the water and the petals and the blood.

Shit. Shit.

He’s going to wither away, hacking himself to death, because someone is in love with him—big, huge, soul-altering, life-changing love with him—and Hook’s too fucking self-absorbed to figure out who it is. Shouldn’t these things be obvious? Shouldn’t he just know?

He presses a hand to his face, drags it down through the salt tracks. Fuck.

He ends up spending the night like that, curled miserably around the toilet. The end, it seems, might come sooner than he anticipated.

++

“Mexico,” his dad says, without greeting, when Hook next picks up the phone. “There’s a trial going on in Mexico we can get you in. They go in surgically, take everything out.”

“Won’t it just come back?” Hook asks. The roots tighten around his lungs in response, like an affirmation.

“Buys you time,” his dad snaps. He lashes out when he’s afraid. Hook understands, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it. “Time to figure out who it is. Haven’t you gone through options yet?”

Hook has, in his head.

His dad seems to figure this out, like usual. “Write them down. Now. Tonight.”

++

So Hook does. He tries to figure it out. He makes a list. He writes down every person who has interacted with him in the past two months and begins crossing them out, one by one. Some he knows are wrong, and asks via text anyway just to have confirmation: Bowens, Dante. Some he can’t even take seriously: Stokely, Moriarty, Big Bill. But as he runs his pen tip through them, he realizes he’s quickly burning through his options.

The flowers just started. It has to be someone in the past two months…right?

Hopelessness spreads through Hook’s chest as he stares at the names. He can’t possibly go back further than two months and get everyone. He doesn’t have the time. And as though the flowers are dead-set on reminding him of this, the coughing starts up. Hook curls up into a ball, hands cupped beneath his mouth. He catches the petals, but the blood runs rivulets down his wrists, his forearms; it pools on the desk, a damning and ever-widening stain.

He’s dizzy when the spell finally ends. He sags onto the wood and gets his sleeve in the red, doesn’t even care. He’s a mess.

Correction: he’s dying.

Hook drags his palm across his chin, skin coming away wet, and can’t think of a single thing to do about it.

++

A week later, as he’s hacking up pieces of leaves along with the petals in bed, unable to even move himself to the bathroom, his mind reaches wide for anything else to latch onto. He can’t focus on the pain burning through his chest, or the sharp pangs where the roots have gone deep into the surrounding muscles; he’ll lose it if he focuses on each shuddering heave, on how much blood comes up with all the offending flowers. He throws his awareness back into memories, because at least there, he can find peace.

He must fall asleep like that, eventually—fitful. Poor. He’s back in the ring, staring out at the Las Vegas crowd. His arm is held up in the air. He feels good, really good. He remembers how good this one felt, how right. How he crashed into the shore line and wanted more.

Hook wakes with tears on his face, and an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the vines slowly choking the life out of him.

He wishes he could have had that.

He wishes things were different.

Hook doesn’t usually get what he really wants.

++

“I’ve booked our flights to Mexico City,” his dad says.

Hook knows it won’t work, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and moves the eggs on his plate around with his fork. Food just tastes like copper and roses now, anyway.

++

He’s been able to keep it all under wraps, all things considered. The worst of the assault usually hits in the middle of the night, and while his eyes sport the bruising of insomnia, no one else has figured it out yet. Until he’s in the ring, gliding out of the way of Matt Hardy’s arm and doesn’t quite go as far as he needs to. Until the impact knocks the wind out of his chest, and then, the compulsion slots itself into the hollow space created. Until he’s kneeling by the side of the ring with both hands curled around the ropes, spitting petals and thorns and blood onto the apron.

“Holy shit,” Ethan Page whispers. He backs up, hands high, as though it’s contagious. As though touching the petals will lead to an outbreak, a contagion explosion. As though Hook has any choice in coughing them up in rough, dry heaves.

His head spins. His thoughts blur. His eyes burn.

Someone helps him out of the ring. He’s still coughing, still convulsing; each heave now ripples through his whole body. He wonders, idly, wildly, if the roots have curled into his arms and down into his intestines. Maybe they’ve infiltrated his entire nervous system. Maybe he’s not really himself anymore, merely the host to an invasive, parasitic infection, deceptively lovely.

The coughing fit doesn’t stop. It doesn't end. Hook collapses against a shockingly cold wall and keeps bringing up more, more, more. This is it, right? The end. He can’t breathe. He can’t stop. He’s going to hack up his lungs, and the only thing that will remain will be the outline of where the muscles used to be, a skeleton ribcage of roots and vines.

Hands press against his face, warm. “Hook, Hook—”

Hook knows that voice. He tries to crack one eye open. If this face is the last one he sees, he thinks maybe it will be alright. “D.”

“What’s happening?” Panic. That’s panic in his tone. “Hook, what’s happening?”

Danhausen doesn’t twist away when Hook coughs up a mouthful of petals onto his lap. He doesn’t so much as flinch when the blood splatters along with everything else.

“I’m sorry,” Hook whispers. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, other than for the months of silence. The pull-away. The abandonment. His own emotions, really; his own fear, shame, embarrassment. He reaches for Danhausen’s face and can’t wholly control his hand. His fingers slide down the man’s cheek, leaving red trails in their wake. “I wish it were you.”

“Hook,” Danhausen says, rushed and terrified. “It was always Hook. It was you the whole time.”

Pressure against Hook’s cheek: Danhausen’s mouth, the ghost of a kiss, a gasp and a sob at the same time. Hook’s whole body shudders. His vision goes red, then black.

The pain in his lungs blossoms bright enough to swallow the sun, and then abruptly disappears.

++

He’s grateful for his lungs, now; he doesn’t take them for granted anymore, the way they expand and contract, the way they press up against his ribs, the way he can fill them to the point of pain. He does that, too, every fifth breath or so, just to prove he still can.

Hook wakes slowly. He fills his lungs, listens to the steady beat of his heart. He stares at the outline of the morning sun around the hotel curtains and breathes, in and out. The arm looped around his middle tightens ever so slightly.

“Morning,” he whispers, because he’s still got the oxygen within, because he can. Hook thinks he’s going to do a lot of things just because he can.

A kiss on his shoulder blade. “Morning.”

The world is brighter without the roots embedded in his core.

“Is it time to get up?” Danhausen murmurs. His mouth remains against Hook’s bare skin, trailing higher.

“No,” Hook says. “It’s still early.”

Danhausen hums an affirmation. “Good.” The hand on Hook’s stomach slips lower. He shifts, taking Hook with him until Hook is on his back against the pillows. Danhausen’s mouth skims across Hook’s jaw. “Danhausen has plans.”

“Good,” Hook sighs.

Perhaps one day, he will be grateful for the blooms the same way he appreciates his lungs. One day, he may accept how they helped him. It won’t happen overnight; he may not keep flowers for awhile. He may not be able to abide the clouds of floral perfume at the department stores. But if his lungs catch and stutter, if his breath comes quicker and faster, if the inhales grow ragged and hoarse, at least now it’s for a far lovelier reason, the kind that touches him with reverence and whispers adoration against the salt on his skin.

#wrestleprompts #hookhausen #i asked the group chat if this pairing needed more hanahaki #and the resounding answer was YES OF COURSE #so here you go #a variation on a theme

[banannabethchase]

Not So Bad Decisions - Also on AO3

~

Nick needs someone to stop him from getting a little too impulsive, from checking on Hangman in a way far from platonic. Matt is...not that person.

Paring: HangNick

Rating: E

~

For @wrestleprompts week 8: "I need advice" *time passes* "Never mind I've already done the stupid thing." Thanks to Nick for being so dramatic in BTE and to @sarahcakes613 for the pairing inspiration!

~

[1:53pm]

Matt I need you to talk me out of a stupid idea.

[1:56pm]

Matt pick up your damned phone. The treadmill is not that interesting.

[2:01pm]

Matt I need advice.

Nick waits another ten minutes, halfassing his crunches, then gives up.

“It’s gotta be a sign,” Nick decides, glancing around the room. Matt’s walking weird on the treadmill, phone nowhere to be seen. The adrenaline of the decision starts to push through him. “Matt’s always on his phone. If he’s not answering, the universe is telling me to do it.”

He sticks with that attitude as he makes his way out of the gym, down to the lobby, texting Tony to find out which room is Adam’s. He leans against the wall.

“Why are you being all weird?”

Nick jumps half a foot. “Jesus, can you just say hi like a normal person?”

Matt shrugs, walking next to Nick. “No. What are you doing?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Something that you were supposed to dissuade me from doing.”

Matt opens his mouth, closes it. “This is probably a bad time,” he says, “but what does dissuade mean?”

“Being your brother is a hate crime,” Nick mutters. “You were supposed to convince me not to do this.”

“Not to do what?” Matt asks. “And why are we whispering?”

“Because I’m doing something stupid, now shut up,” Nick says. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“You left the gym really fast,” Matt says, shrugging. “I figured something was going on.”

“Well, leave,” Nick says. “I’m – I’m in the middle of something, okay?”

“In the middle of what?”

Nick groans. “Okay, I’m trying to surprise Hangman, because he’s back after nearly losing an eye.”

“Oh!” Matt says. He’s all sunny about it. “Cool. Can I join in?”

Nick sighs. “I mean. No?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s illegal in, I think, every state in the union.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

“I’m trying to fuck Adam, Matthew,” Nick says, staring Matt down.

His eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “So, it would be, like, great, if you would leave me alone. You were supposed to talk me out of this a while ago. But it’s too late. I’ve already decided to do the stupid thing.”

Matt wiggles a little. “Which is fucking Adam?”

“Yeah.” Nick eyes him. “Why are you all fidgety?”

Matt won’t meet his eyes. “I might have done something stupid, too.”

“Ah.” Nick nods. “Got it. Who’d you sleep with this time?”

“How do you know I slept with someone? I could have robbed a bank!”

Nick barks out a laugh. “No, you couldn’t have. Who was it?”

Matt won’t meet his eyes. “I might have run into Danny again.”

“Of course you did,” Nick says, sighing. “Well. I’m – I’m going to go make my own bad sexual decisions. So you can leave.”

Matt nods. “Yeah, I deserved that. Have fun?”

“Planning on it.” Nick can’t hold his smile back. He makes his way down the hallway and knocks on the door to Adam’s hotel room. He’s not sure what the door will open to, which version of Adam he’ll get. The chaos of the past few years speeds through is mind as he watches the handle of the door twist. He holds his breath.

“I didn’t order any – Nick.” Adam is standing there, eye covered by a dark patch. His hair is in a messy little bun, and he’s got on a soft, old Shania Twain tour tee shirt Nick remembers borrowing to sleep in dozens of times, soft navy sweatpants.

Adam looks like home, and Nick wants to step through the door.

“Hi,” Nick says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, determined not to let Adam see him shake. “I, um. I wanted to come see you.”

Adam nods and steps back. “Come on in, Nick.”

Nick can’t resist reaching out and bumping the back of Adam’s hand with his, desperate to feel him. It’s like an electric shock, the way his body responds to the touch. “So. Um. How’s the eye?”

“It’s been better, but they’re confident it will recover,” Adam says. He’s a bit fidgety, like he can’t decide if he wants to sit or not. “Wasn’t fun, though.”

“I love you.”

Adam whirls around. “Um. What?”

“They said nobody loves you,” Nick says, because the words are already out and he can’t put them back. “They lied. We all love you, Hanger. Me, and Kenny, and Matt. Brandon, Nak. Everybody loves you.”

Adam’s smile, somehow, is almost sad. “Thanks, man,” he says. His voice is gentle, soft. “I – that’s sweet of you.”

Nick’s not sure if he’s saying it right, if he’s getting his point across. “It’s really not,” Nick laughs. He takes a step toward Adam, who sits down on the bed. Nick feels strange, the way he now towers over Adam. “For me it’s different.”

“It is?” Adam asks. His eyes are earnest, almost glittering. His smile turns a little more knowing than Nick expects. “Like before different?”

“Like before different,” Nick confirms. He holds his hands, out, convinced he’ll die if Adam doesn’t respond. But he does.

“You love me for real?” Adam asks. He sounds so doubtful, like he doesn’t believe it. Nick doesn’t know how Adam could ever think someone wouldn’t love him.

“I do.”

Adam pulls at their hands so Nick stumbles into him, and then their lips meet, and Nick’s entire self melts into it. He climbs into Adam’s lap, straddling his thighs, burning in the best way at every place their bodies meet.

“Take off your shirt,” Adam murmurs against Nick’s lips.

Nick nods, yanking it over his head. “You, too.” He grabs at the hem and pulls it off. When their chests press together, Nick’s pretty sure he burns with it. “Oh, god.”

“Missed you,” Adam says, lips sliding down Nick’s neck. He sucks a bruise into Nick’s skin, hot and firm and devastating. His hands slide into the back of Nick’s shorts, grabbing handfuls of his ass.

“Please,” Nick gasps. “Adam, god, I missed you so much.”

Nick knows they don’t have the patience for anything complex, anything that demands time or delicate touches. He wants Adam’s hands on him now, and anything getting in the way of that is unacceptable.

“Get down on the bed,” Nick demands, pushing Adam back. Adam falls and Nick goes with him. He can feel Adam’s cock through the thin layers of clothing and can’t resist the urge to grind down on him. The two of them let out embarrassing, wanton sounds at the friction.

“Take – take your pants off,” Adam says, yanking down the shorts as best he can. Nick hates it, but he has to swing his legs off so the two of them can get naked and finally touch each other. They collide into each other once their clothes are strewn about the room, touching and pressing and feeling, finally feeling, for the first time in years.

“I missed you,” Adam says, sliding his hand into Nick’s ponytail, puling the hair tie out. “I missed you so much.” He licks his hand and slides down between them, gripping both cocks in one big hand and pulling a stroke.

“Oh, my god,” Nick exhales, head spinning. “Don’t – don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” Adam says. His green eyes bore into Nick’s like he’s trying to memorize his face.

Nick reaches out and yanks Adam in for a kiss, and it’s over so fucking fast, too fast, almost, the two of them coming within seconds of each other. Adam’s name lingers on this tongue, and Nick feels whole for the first time in years.

“So,” Adam says, half panting, “um. That happened.”

“It did,” Nick laughs. And then that worry, the reason he hesitated to come here, settles back over him again. “Do – do you think we could.” He pauses. “Can we.” He pauses again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Nick,” Adam says, and his voice is so gentle and sweet Nick wants to die a little bit, just for that to be the sound that dies with him, “are you asking me if we can get back together?”

Nick opens his eyes. “I think I am.”

“I think so,” Adam says. He reaches out and brushes some of Nick’s hair off of his shoulder, his smile sweet. “I want to.”

All of that worry, the anxiety, the fear from earlier disappears. “So I get to call you, like, my boyfriend again?” Nick teases. “Are we going steady? Want my letterman jacket?”

“Oh, shut up,” Adam laughs. He pulls his hand away and wrinkles his nose. “Alright, well, I need to go clean this up, but when I come back let’s get dinner, okay?”

Nick nods, sitting up. “Oh. Ew. It’s all over me too.”

They stumble into the bathroom and somehow end up in the shower. They wash each other’s hair, like they always used to, and Nick forgot just how much Adam felt like home.

They wrap themselves in towels and make their way back into the bedroom, where Nick’s hit with a sudden chill. “I’m cold,” Nick mumbles. “How is Pittsburgh this cold in April?” He reaches out to the nightstand, where one of their shirts got caught on the lamp. “Oh, good.”

“What are you – you can’t steal my Shania shirt again!” Adam whines, but he’s smiling, and Nick wants this moment every morning, every evening, all the time.

“Too bad, baby.” Nick pulls the shirt on over his head, and it feels like, maybe, all of this is going to be real. “It’s mine.”

Adam beams at the nickname. “Okay. Fine. But only because you love me.”

~

A ficlet of your choice to whomever can find the Fairly OddParents reference, because I can't control my echolalia and I'm gonna make it everybody's problem.

Mini Playlist: Meant to Be - Bebe Rexha, Florida Georgia Line If I Fall (You're Going Down with Me) - The Chicks Touch - Little Mix Forever and for Always - Shania Twain

#HangNick #in which Sara writes #wtf i like wrestling now??? #This is just all levels of fluffy nonsense #sarahcakes613 #You are tagged because I owe this fic to you for the suggestions love you dear <3 #wrestleprompts #anxious millennial dreamboat #Nick Attrackson

[sheinthatfandom]

Title: my brothers keeper

Prompt: "I need advice" (time passes) "never mind I already did the stupid thing"

Rating: mature

Word count: 464

Pairing: Matt Jackson/Wheeler Yuta, Nick Jackson/luchasaurus

AN: Written for @wrestleprompts thankyou @icecream-and-gadreel for helping me come up with it and @sarahcakes613 for telling me not to throw it out after it was done lol

Matty 🤼‍♂️🏆🥇🐮💆🏻‍♀️

11:25pm

"I need advice"

1:59am

"never mind I already did the stupid thing"

Nick groaned seeing the missed texts from his older brother and tag team partner. Tonight was going to be a night of many regrets, and the first one was going to the casino with Brandon and missing the opportunity to stop Matt from doing something foolish.

“I’m afraid to ask”

Not_so_pure.png

Message size: 500kb

“Is that…”

“No! Matty no!!”

“Matty YES!”

There in 5k on his wide screen phone was a crystal clear photo of the Blackpool combat clubs young lion Wheeler Yuta. Yuta was in what looked to be Matt’s hotel room, the white blanket thrown haphazardly over him as he slept on his back. His neck and shoulders bright with purple marks Nick knew if he zoomed in would have teeth indentations in the middle.

Kenny was going to be pissed, Don would gleefully used this as more fodder to light their friendship up and Adam…actually Adam probably wouldn’t care since he and Mox had their own thing going on that didn’t look like pure hate, it was all together confusing, but Nick still didn’t want to be put in the middle of this. Because even though his side would be mad and rightfully so they’ll still work together the BCC on the other hand were… all around strange and did not behave in any way that the brothers could predict. Was this part of their plan? Were they going to jump Matty in his room? Was Wheeler trying to romance his brother into turning on them? Actually no that was stupid and honestly Matt got around enough everyone should know being good in bed wasn’t enough to gain Matt’s loyalty. But still what the hell Matt!

“Are you effing kidding me!”

“I'm going to effing murder you!”

“That's it find another tag team partner!”

Goodfellas_tommy.gif

Message size 2.6mb

“awww that's funny.”

“you're a funny guy”

“Anyway, time for round 2!! 😇🥰😘🤯”

“Damnit Matt!” Frustrated, he slammed his phone down on the bureau.

“Hey babe, what’s wrong?”

Nick turned to his bed seeing he had woken up his own roommate. “Sorry Lucha, Matt just… thinking with his dick again.”

Luchasaurus grinned and gave Nick a look that sent an excited shiver down his spine. “Oh yeah that’s just a Matt thing, no way does anyone else in the Jackson clan have that problem.”

“You know I could always kick you out.” They both knew that threat was empty.

“Hmm you could, though I would hope you’d at least fix this before you threw me out.” The Dino moved the blanket showing off his impressive length, hard and slightly curved.

“Well… I did wake you up. It’s really the least I can do.”

#aew #Matt Jackson #nick jackson #aew imagine #wrestleprompts #the young bucks #loren writes #my fic #my writing #not beta read #luchasaurus

[sequentialprophet]

Fill for @wrestleprompts Week 4 - ‘asking permission to send a dick pic’  (Max Caster/Billy Gunn)

Can I send you a dickpic

Billy stares at the text that's just popped up on his screen, not even a question mark, then looks over at Max sitting right across from him. 

"What?" he says out loud.

Anthony stops talking mid sentence, takes one look at Billy's face and rolls his eyes.

"It's fine," he says, grabbing his lunch and getting up. "Not like we have a match to plan or anything." 

"What's up?" Max says, aiming a swat at Anthony's retreating ass then leaning his chin on his hands, full attention on Billy.

Billy ignores his first six thoughts, because Max is half his age, and settles for shaking his phone in Max's face.

"Well? Can I?" 

"Explain more," Billy sighs.

"I'm trying to attract an older man," Max says, waggling his eyebrows. "Thought you could give me some tips on what would work for you."  

“Tips on taking pictures of your dick?” 

Max rolls his eyes and nudges his knee against Billy’s under the table.  Billy shoves it away with his hand.

“Tips on taking dickpics to send to older men,” Max clarifies, pouting at him.

Billy is pretty sure he’s being sent up but he can’t prove it so he sits back, crossing his arms.

“You don’t have to,” Max says, picking at his fingers. “I can always ask Sting.”

“Fine,” Billy groans.  He’s not getting sidelined because one half of his tag team is suspended for harassing a wrestling legend.

“You won’t be sorry,” Max promises, reaching over and stealing a fry.

Billy’s pretty sure he’s going to be very, very sorry.

***

He’s sitting in the front seat of his rental, trying to get ten minutes where no one asks him for anything, when his phone dings with a little yo listen that indicates a message from Max.

A message with an attachment.  Billy eyes it for a second before thumbing the message open.

It's a standard dickpic. Decently lit. Well framed. Nothing surprising about it.  He tilts his phone, studying it.

It's fine.

He realises he’d been expecting more of Max and then shakes his head at himself for being so ridiculous about a dickpic.

That's fine, he texts back.

Three minutes later his car door swings open and Max tosses himself in the passenger seat.

"Fine?" he squawks, so outraged that Billy can't do anything but bark a laugh.  The fucking arrogance of youth.

“I have a great dick,” Max is arguing when Billy tunes back in.  “Never had any complaints.  Everyone comes back for a repeat play.”

“What do you think I said?” Billy asks, cutting Max’s rant off, impossibly amused.

“Fine!” Max says, throwing his arms up. “You said fine.  You looked at my very well taken dick pic and you said fine.”

“Max,” Billy starts, but he’s laughing too hard to get out any other words. 

“You know what,” Max says, face set in a very worrying expression of demented determination. “I’ll show you fine.”

Then he swings the car door open and disappears across the parking lot, leaving Billy chuckling to himself.

***

Billy’s in the hotel, almost asleep, when a little yo listen dings from the bedside table next to his head.  He thinks about ignoring it until morning for half a second before grabbing his phone and thumbing open the message.

This one's better. Max's legs are splayed, introducing thick thighs to the frame.  The light is soft, a little blurry maybe but -

Billy squints down at the screen and then hits call.

"Lo?" Max says, breathless in Billy's ear. 

Billy takes a long second to centre himself - this kid is gonna be the death of him - then asks, "Was that a jerk off pic?" 

"Was it better than the last one?" Max says, sounding exactly like he does when he’s lifting weights and - 

"Are you jerking it right now?" Billy asks, disbelieving. 

Max whines. Billy can hear shifting, Max's quick huffing breath and jesus christ he's got to hang up.

"You are shameless," he says, half scolding and disconnects the call, ignoring Max's tinny little "wait!" because there are lines he shouldn't be crossing. 

Billy drops the phone on the empty side of the bed and rolls over, shoving an arm under the pillow, and tries to get comfortable. 

Fifteen minutes later he gives up.

***

Max slides into the chair opposite where Billy is trying to commune with the largest cup of black coffee the hotel would let him have, making a notice me amount of noise.  Billy ignores him.  Max manages to stay quiet for about forty five seconds before he starts unsubtly clearing his throat.

“What,” Billy says, when he’s heard enough of Max trying to harmonise with himself.

"Sorry," Max says, contrite.

Billy looks at him over the top of the menu he’s holding. 

"Are you?" he asks, curious.

Max grins at him, shameless little shit.

"Stop it," Anthony says, sliding into the booth next to Billy. "No," he says when Max opens his mouth, hitting him in the face with his own menu. It quickly devolves into a slap fight that Billy has to break up.

Max jams his knee between Billy’s this time and, against his better judgement, Billy lets him leave it there.  He chooses to ignore the smug little mouth tilt Max aims his way before he throws himself wholeheartedly into arguing with Anthony.

***

"What do men your age like?" Max asks, head tipped sideways, features soft with tiredness, but his eyes are sharp and on Billy's face. 

He’d put on a good show, the club packed for his set, Billy and Anthony coming on at the end to scissor the screaming crowd and wind them up even tighter for Max’s encore.

"Max," Billy says, trying to sound forbidding, but it doesn't quite come out that way.  Of course he kills it on stage and immediately wants to talk about his dick.  There’s a lot of things Billy misses about being young but that isn’t one of them.

"I can't get better if I have no guidance," Max says, the little shit.

"Look Max," Billy says, once again against his better judgement. He can feel Max's attention grow sharp. "Men my age have been around the block a bit. We've seen all the posing and the muscle flexing and the erections." 

"Who says erections?" Max says, laughing. Billy ignores him. 

"If you want someone my age," Billy says, making deliberate eye contact, "you gotta make us want to see what you've got to offer. Entice." 

Max's pupils are blown wide, lips parted. Billy can see the tip of his tongue and it's making him forget why he shouldn’t be reckless with this.  With Max. 

"Oh," Max says, soft voice so at odds with how goddamn loud he usually is. "Tease." 

And that's Billy's cue. He should not be doing this. With this kid. Good lord.

“I am going to go and get another drink,” he says, exiting the booth and ignoring the sad little “no,” Max whines at his back.

He needs a cold beer.  Or possibly a cold shower.

***

This one is … better.  

Billy looks around his empty hotel room like Tony’s gonna jump out from behind a curtain and fire him for looking at his coworkers dick pic.  He puts his phone down, paces the room, then picks it up again.

Max is framed in a mirror, from his smirking mouth down to his naked thighs, wearing nothing but extremely tight, extremely small black boxers.  Billy would put a considerable amount of money on a bet that those weren’t Max’s boxers, not with the way he was squeezed into them.

He’s not posing or flexing, just standing square on. The bulge of his dick is fully covered and resting on the edge of the vanity.  Billy cannot stop staring at it.  He’s pretty sure he’s sweating.

The knock on his room door nearly makes him throw his phone straight out of the window.  He fumbles it to the lock screen and dumps it on the table, judging himself for being a silly old fool.

Max is on the other side of the door.

“What did you think?” he asks, shouldering his way inside and making a beeline straight for the bed, picking up the phone from where Billy had tossed it.  

“It’s a good photo,” he says, reaching over and trying to tug his phone out of Max’s hand.  Max doesn’t let go.

“Max.”

Max grins then does a funky little move and Billy’s phone is lying between them on the carpet, Max’s hand curved around Billy’s, warm and firm.

Billy looks at him, really looks at him, and Max stares candidly back.

"You're half my age."

"And look how hot," Max says immediately, flexing like a little asshole. "Think of the bragging rights."

"Bragging ri- jesus christ." Billy rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh under his breath. Unreal. 

“You knew they were for you,” Max says, sure. “And you didn’t stop me.”

“Maybe I should have.”

“But you didn’t,” Max says, shifting closer, into Billy’s space.  Billy lets him.  

“I didn’t,” he agrees, eyes on Max’s mouth.

Max, because he’s exactly who he is, tugs Billy’s arm and then Billy’s hand is cupping the hot front of Max’s loose shorts.  His dick is hard.

“Wanna get me out of Jungle Boys boxers?” he says, batting his eyelashes, fake seductive.

“You’ve got to stop stealing clothes,” Billy says, unable to stop himself leaning in.

“They look better on me,” Max says, cocky.

He gropes at Billy’s ass and Billy laughs, letting Max’s mouth swallow the sound, because he isn’t wrong.

#wrestleprompts #week 4 #my fic

[fang-revives]

run it back, sunshine

*

Pairing: Jay White / Kazuchika Okada

Rating: General audiences

Prompt: "I need advice" (time passes) "never mind I already did the stupid thing"

Notes: This is loosely canon with my fic here, and Lepak’s followup, but you can read it as just canon with Jay’s backstage comments at WK17 if you like.

*

I need advice

It’s 4AM in Japan. I don’t know why I’m sending a line message to one of the worst guys out there for advice, any kind, but it’s not as if Ishimori is contracted for my Bullet Club anymore. 

The afternoon sun hits my glasses, the taste of smog on the DC air flaring from the approaching van. I duck behind the concrete. Breathe, one more baby, one more, breathe with the Switchblade, and one more after that. Three times. Three times you’ve found yourself here, but it’s not too late. Just turn around, go back.

He’ll be here at any time. I have to go, have to– 

There he is. 

Okada looks– put it bluntly, he looks tired, trailing behind Tanahashi with dogged resignation. There’s a bitterness to the slash of his lips that betrays him. Gold, I called myself this week. Neither of us have gold. 

I shuck up my jacket to my shoulders, sweating underneath the hood. A hot springtime in DC, Capital Collision, and I’m not on the card. I’m not even here to watch. 

Again, Jaime?– yes again, third time’s the charm, I’m going to get it right this time. 

I check my phone before I move. Maybe Phantasmo will stop me. 

Maybe I could have texted Juice, if I really wanted to be held back. The setting sun hits Kazuchika’s cheekbones, turning back for a wry smile to Rocky, and my feet are already hitting the ground. I duck in the door just as the last straggler leaves it to swing shut. Just like I planned. 

It’s a small arena. No Tokyo Dome, no Madison Square Garden. My heart beats in my throat. There’s a good chance I won’t get a moment with him alone, and maybe I’ll flinch before I say what I mean, stumble it out two months from now, or swallow and choke on the words when I blink first and Finlay leaves his mark on me – 

– but no. There is a room with his name taped to the outside, one of the coaches rooms. Tanahashi too. Prima donnas. I tug my hood up, knock once.  

“A minute,” he calls back. I knock again, praying my Japanese hasn’t atrophied in a few months. “Tana-san, is it that urgent?”

“Not Tana.”

There’s only a second of hesitation. Then the door swings open, he’s staring at me with that skeptical feigned anger New Japan loves to slap on his posters. He steps aside, lets me in. It really is a small room. No windows, barely space for the desk that’s been shoved against the wall. 

“You keep meeting me like this.”

I kind of shrug my shoulders, slipping off from the hood, the sunglasses. The fluorescent light is clinical against his bare chest and shins. Probably for the best.

“So what is it this time? I lost the belt.”

I wince. Is that what he thought I was there for? It’s not as if I explained it any better. “Look it wasn’t – about the belt, Kazuchika.”

If his name means anything to him, he doesn’t show it. 

“Was it about how it was worth it? That’s not–”

“Stop. Stop, I’m sorry about that, at least,” I throw up my hands. Peace offering. I don’t want to – well, I want to fight. It’s heady all around me, the smell of his sweat in the tiny concrete room. 

“So you regret it,” he steps forward, almost angry, and I can feel my breath hitch. Breathe. I could – kneel right now. I could walk away with nothing, again, but I think he’d still leave thumbprints on my throat. That might even be worth it. 

But it's not what I want. 

“I regret– coming to you with something about me. Yeah,” I manage to string the sentence together, and it comes out right. “Do you – do you remember when you asked me to go fishing with you?”

His anger falters, gives way to genuine surprise. A thrill goes through me, same way as it always does digging in the knife. If I mean it this time, mean it the right way– 

“When – back when you were in CHAOS? You laughed at me, told me I wasn’t listening to you.”

“You weren't," I shoot back, always have to run my mouth when I start, and damn the intensity of his eyes. 

“Did you listen to my question, then?” 

“You– you’re right. You’re right. Would you go fishing with me now?”

“Now,” he repeats-- not angry, but...curious.

Dig the knife in. Now or never. 

“Listen. I lost New Japan. Do you understand? I’m gold now. Bullet Club Gold, which means nothing, I have nothing to my name,” if I could say this in English, I’d have a hell of a lot more to say. Maybe it’s better that Japanese is the best I can do. I point to the door, “Out there – you can’t touch me. You can’t out there. But. There’s an outside. And there. You can– if you want to – you can.”

He looks thoughtful. Thoughtful when he reaches a hand up slowly, brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “That's what this is about.” 

“Fishing.” I repeat, breath caught in my throat. I’m not going to kneel. Today, anyways. 

“Fishing. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Let’s go fishing.”

“Good luck with your gold, Jaime,” and he smiles. That small one, wry like a little secret. Maybe I came because I like that smile. Too much, after all that's said and done. 

 “Good. Good,” I move mechanically, pat his shoulders with both hands. It’s stupid, really, “Good luck with your match.”

When I duck past Tanahashi on my way out, hood up, sunglasses on – if he recognizes me, he doesn’t say. He maybe hesitates. I remember how he thanked me. 

Outside, I hear my phone beep. Jesus, Phantasmo has terrible sleeping habits. 

hey im up what do you need to know how to beat a lucha guy if you decided you didnt like bangbang gang its too late

Never mind i already did the stupid thing

oh. you okay?

I stare at the question. I’m okay. Fishing okay. And then a new message pops up. Still under the title 🔪🎈💥. Needs a new name. 

Is this still Jaime?

Yeah it's me

Thinking about fishing already?

Potomac River has some good spots.  

That sounds good to me 

The cursor blinks at me as I stare at the empty slot for his name. ⛈️ would work. He’s earned that. 

I save ☀️ in the empty slot, and walk out into the city sunset, my steps just a little lighter. 

#wrestleprompts #njpw #wrestling shipping #kazuchika okada #jay white #fluff #my fic #i can have a little stupid fluff. on tumblr. as a treat #i have sooo much jay angst I want to write but i also want to think about jay and okada sometimes. u feel me #jaykada

[himbos-hotline]

Name: The things we used to share Prompt: @wrestleprompts [prompt week five: A reluctant trip to the zoo to make their partner happy] Word count: 1329 words Rating: General Audiences Ship: "Hangman" Adam Page/Kenny Omega Characters: Kenny Omega, "Hangman" Adam Page, Mentions of various zoo staff. Triggers: Mentions of Hangmans dead horse, like a line of smut at the end. It's not graphic. Authors note: I thought I'd write the little zoo date from my big sibling's fic 'Voicemail is full, glass is half empty' A short cute little Curly Boyfriends fic where Hangman gets a stuffed horse and falls in love. Kenny is just focused on the animals. Tag list: @ithunderstorm @itsnoosetome @malewifemoxley @kass-the-kitten @melancholycowboy @josiewrites @basil-the-evil-cowboy @ss-trashboat @ambroseasylum @wrestlezaynia @banannabethchase @bellicosebunny @mrsmatt @racerchix21 and @anairbri and @mistress-omega-majesty

Reblogs are appreciated as always. Read on AO3 [Comments and Kudos highly recommended]

Adam makes jokes and Kenny laughs. Adam feels like he’ll never feel sad again. Kenny keeps holding his hand, only letting go when a zoo keeper allows him to hold a koala. He watches Kenny’s face smoothe out; happiness winning over every little ache or pain he must be feeling. Kenny grins brighter through the lens of Adam’s phone camera and he tucks it into the top pocket of his jacket, holding Kenny; bright and carefree and happy in his heart. 

It’s a small zoo tucked down a sidestreet in the middle of nowhere. Adam really has no idea how Kenny found it, yet alone purchased tickets which at least look somewhat real when Kenny thrusts them into the middle of Adam’s sleep-blurred eyeline. “Cmon Adam lets go!” Excitement borders his voice perfectly, tugging on his smile until it lays just under his eyes making them shine under the rising sun. Adam presses his face deeper into his pillows, squinting an eye open when Kenny presses the tickets into the curve of his nose. “Cmonnnnn!” Kenny whines, sounding so much like a child Adam’s half expecting him to tug at his wrist. 

“Five more minutes, it ain’t even open yet Kenny” Adam mumbles against the soft pillowcases, squirming deeper under the blankets. He keeps his eyes half-lidded, watching Kenny as he pouts, picking at the embroidered roses on Adam’s old blanket. “Fine.” He rolls over, staring up at his boyfriend. It’s the first time Adam has noticed that Kenny’s half dressed; a jacket hanging off his shoulders and one sock. He chuckles, using his feet to kick the blankets away. 

He barely has time to shower or get morning coffee before Kenny whisks him out the door, hand resting on the small of his back. Adam blinks through half-damp curls as Kenny rambles through the animals they have, hands flailing in front of him. There’s so much joy flooding his voice that it sucks the last wisps of tiredness from the marrow of Adam's bones. When Kenny smiles, bouncing on his toes in line, Adam’s sure he’s never going to feel tiredness again. The man in the ticket booth scans their tickets, smiling politely when Adam nods and trails behind Kenny, pushing air-dried curls out his face. 

“Okay so they have penguins  that way-” Kenny has the zoo map practically plastered to his face, using his fingers to dictate what he’s talking about. Adam lingers behind, trying to read the small print over Kenny’s shoulder without his glasses. He feels a tap at his hand and maybe it's a reflex, his fingers close around Kenny’s. “Or…”  He’s holding the map at arms length now, digging his nails into the thin paper as he shifts his other hand until his palm presses against Adam’s. Adam feels like he could soar. 

“Or?” He prompts, pretending that he isn’t staring at Kenny’s hand against hsi, knuckles looped together like Kenny’s trying to hold Adam close. Like Adam is something that Kenny wants to keep secure. 

“We’ll just go that way.” Kenny folds the map the best he can. It ends up becoming a half-folded half-crumpled; lump of paper that Kenny manages to stuff in the back pocket of his shorts. They meander through the people-lined pathways, stopping to gaze into paddocks and enclosures, they run their fingers across the backs of string ways and feed elephants. 

Adam makes jokes and Kenny laughs. Adam feels like he’ll never feel sad again. Kenny keeps holding his hand, only letting go when a zoo keeper allows him to hold a koala. He watches Kenny’s face smoothe out; happiness winning over every little ache or pain he must be feeling. Kenny grins brighter through the lens of Adam’s phone camera and he tucks it into the top pocket of his jacket, holding Kenny; bright and carefree and happy in his heart. 

They're in the butterfly house when Adam gets chosen. A Monarch butterfly settles on the tip of his nose; wings twitching slowly in the warm air. He stares at it, mouth turned into a surprised smile and Adam almost has to make sure that he’s breathing. Kenny twists slowly at his side, blue eyes wide. “It chose you..” He whispers and Adam, returned to a stunned silence, taps once at his wrist. The butterfly flutters off moments later and Adam turns his green eyes upward towards the canopy of trees and flowers. 

“Goodbye lil friend.” He whispers, cheeks flushing an aggressive red when Kenny brushes his lips against his stubble covered cheek. “We should uh..” He whispers, trying to keep his heart trapped in the cage of his ribs when all it wants to do is flutter away, higher than the tops of the green trees and into space. Adam’s sure his heart could kiss the stars with how light Kenny makes it feel. 

Cool spring air hits their clammy faces and Adam stares out over the horizon, eyes picking up the perfect mixture of reds and yellows from the sunset. Kenny lays his head on his shoulder, swinging their joined hands slightly. “We should go to the gift shop. Then home.” 

Home. The two of them. Kenny thinks he’s home. 

“Home. Yeah.” Adam whispers, unable to stop the smile that tugs at his lips. It creases the corner of his eyes and Kenny tugs at his hand. They wander together, Kenny stopping to watch a snake crawl back into the bushes and a tiger pace by the entrance to its home; the heavy metallic smell of blood in the air.  Adam buys cotton candy from a small vendor by the aquarium, easily swayed by the turtle shaped container and Kenny rocking on his feet at his side. Adam would buy the entire zoo if Kenny looked at him with those soft eyes again. He would buy Kenny the world for the carefree glow radiating off his face. 

They share cotton candy like children; licking the pink floss off their lips, letting the sugar dilate their pupils until the artificial lights of the gift store stab at their eyes, making them chuckle. Adam strolls through the aisles, nose wrinkling at the prices. Everything feels too expensive for what it was, what it is. There’s a wall of soft toys and he spots Kenny easily out of the mass of children, begging and screaming at their parents. He looks so different in his faded shorts and crumpled shirt, mismatched hair dragged back into a fraying half-ponytail. The sunset gathers on the bridge of his shoulders and Adam swears he spots a halo hanging around the crown of Kenny’s head; he looks glorious, cherubin and angelic. 

“Adam look!” Kenny’s voice, soft and kind, snaps Adam out of his thoughts. He blinks a few times, head tilting as Kenny pushes something into the middle of his chest. “He looks like Hunter Horse Hemsley. You should have him” Adam’s confused at first, why is Kenny bringing up his dead horse? There's the ever so familiar prickle of pain that creeps under his eyes. He looks down, cups Kenny’s wrist and sighs. 

“He does..” He whispers, cupping the stuffed horse between his hands. He stares at it and it stares back. “I can’t, kenny they're so expensive-” He shakes his head, slow and sad and Kenny gets a look on his face. 

“But he’ll be all alone.” He whispers, nodding over to the empty place on the shelf. Adam follows his eyeline, gripping the stuffed horse closer. “Will it make your heart hurt less?” 

Adam blinks, uses his knuckles to scrub the feeling of tears away from his eyes. It’s been a great day. Adam’s not going to ruin it now with childish tears brought on by mourning and tiredness. Kenny’s head is tilted to the side and Adam glances between him and the horse. He runs his fingers across its brown mane, strokes a finger down the white stripe on its nose. 

He stares at Kenny, searching his eyes. “Yes.” 

Kenny buys Adam the horse. They go home and Adam smiles, settling the horse snugly in between his pillows. Kenny smiles at him, reaching over the bed to kiss at his temple. 

The smile that Kenny gives him is better than any feeling in the world. He takes his hand. 

Kenny doesn’t pull away. Even as he buries himself deeply into Adam. He links their fingers and presses soothing kisses across his bottom lip. 

Adam feels full. Adam feels happy. 

#wrestleprompts #rating: general #hangmega #hangman page #kenny omega #aew fic #all elite wrestling #mouse writes

[nagdabbit]

title i'm so sorry my hand slipped: un-beef-lievable

rating: teen, for cusses and implied ass eating and the awful pun

pairing: hangman adam page/jon moxley (/renee paquette, implied)

words: 2.1k

@wrestleprompts week one: "Two people reach for the last bottle of the same drink in a gas station fridge package of burger in the grocery store."

i dunno what this is, but it happened.

.

Jon Moxley was a scumbag. 

He was a vicious, violent blood pervert who liked to watch MMA and beat off. A brat who craved attention and did anything and everything he could to get it—usually involving running his mouth to the point of getting hit. A troublemaking dickhead. An idiot with a mean right hook and a nice wife who terrified Adam more than he'd like to let on.

And most of all—worst of all—he wouldn't fucking leave Adam alone. He expected it in the ring, in the back hallways of whatever stadium they were in that week, the parking garage—hell, he figured Mox wouldn't hesitate to jump him in a hotel lobby if the mood struck. But not once did he ever expect the man to accost him in fucking Kroger, of all places. 

Mox was smirking as he noisily smacked his gum, eyes intent on Adam's. Man that handsome had no business being that punchable. "You gonna let go anytime soon, cowboy?" 

Like hell was he gonna. He wasn't ever one to back down, especially not to Mox. "I got here first."

"Bullshit."

"You're always tryin' to ruin my—"

"Oh, like you don't do the same!"

"Well if you didn't mouth off all the damn time!"

"You're one to talk!" Mox rolled his eyes as hard as he could, "C'mon, man. For once, I don't want any trouble. I just want the beef."

"Bullshit," he shot back. Mox always wanted trouble. He lived for it.

"Didn't anybody ever teach you not to fuck with service workers?" He made a face at Adam, like he should've been ashamed of himself. "Nobody here needs to clean up after us. No fuckery 'til we get to the parking lot. Cross my heart or whatever."

Adam rolled his eyes. Or whatever indeed. Man had no trouble knocking out any security guard, coworker and innocent bystander that got in their way, but a little rumble in a grocery store was a step too far. "How chivalrous."

Mox just grinned, gum caught between his front teeth. "Yeah, I'm a real catch."

Adam just wanted a goddamn burger. That was all. That's all he’d gone looking for. He’d had a travel day from hell, his nerves were frayed and his brain was jittery, and all he could think of to fix it was a simple burger. Just a simple package of ground beef, enough to have some leftover burgers for the couple days he was stuck in town for the pay-per-view. That was it. He really didn’t think he was asking for too much.

Unfortunately, the entire fucking city had agreed with him. The store had been cleaned out, no burger as far as Adam could see. There wasn't even any ground turkey in the cooler, let alone a package of beef.

Well, except the one he and Mox were playing tug of war with.

"Can you please just give me a fucking break?" He was dangerously close to begging, but goddamn it, he was tired and frayed and just on the edge of screaming. 

Mox pretended to think about it for a moment, head tilting this way and that like a puppy. "Nah, I don't think I will."

"Fuck you."

Mox looked around, looked at the meat that tethered them together, and looked back to Adam with his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Well, you need anything else?"

"What?"

He shrugged, easy as anything. Like he didn't give two entire shits, one way or the other, as long as he kept hold of what he'd stolen. "Well, I'm not letting go. I assume you're not, either. May as well get the rest'a your shit instead of just standing here lookin' stupid."

And Mox, the dickhole, just walked off without waiting for an answer, tugging Adam along by the beef. He could either give up, or he could stumble along behind, and he really wasn't in the mood to give up where Mox was concerned. 

It didn't take much coaxing before he was, indeed, stumbling.

"Need cheese, chips, onion rolls, obviously—"

"Obviously," Adam agreed, despite himself.

"—some veggies, and some ice cream," Mox listed off, steering his cart toward the wall of dairy. "Can you go grab chips while I grab some cheese?"

He gave the man a dry look. "You're not that slick."

Mox just gave an easy shrug, unconcerned that his trick attempt hadn't even landed. "I'll get you eventually."

"Bullshit you will."

"I did once already."

"No, you almost killed me."

"Eh, same difference."

"If you'd just let go, I'd leave you alone," Adam suggested, though it sounded a little like hopeful begging, even to his own ears. 

"Uh huh," Mox murmured, absently as he scanned the cooler wall. "You a cheddar guy? You look like a cheddar guy."

Was he? He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess?"

"Good, you're not completely hopeless."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome." Mox scanned the wall of choices for a few moments, then settled on the store brand of dairy-free cheese, like he’s decided to zero in on the one Adam hated the most.

Adam sighed. "Nah, that one sucks. Doesn't melt very well, get the Chao," Adam grumbled and smacked Mox's hand away, grabbing for the Tomato Cayenne slices instead. "These are better."

"God, you're bossy," he grumbled, but he didn't actually sound too mad about it as he dropped the proffered cheese into his backet. "What else d'you need?"

He shook their hands where they were joined by the meat, "Just this."

"Well, that ain't happening, so best be thinkin' about what else you want." Mox looked around thoughtfully, "Need some potatoes and peppers."

"I'm really considering making a mess in the goddamn dairy aisle, if you don't let go," he threatened. It was weak, but Adam was dangerously close to just lying down right there and waiting for their match, dinner be damned.

"Oh, please. Sweet little country boy like you?" Mox scoffed and tugged him along toward the produce. "Your parents taught you better than that."

Adam scowled at the back of Mox's head. He was right, of course he was, but that didn't mean Adam was gonna admit it out loud any time soon. "What are you such an asshole for?"

"What're you so upset for?" Mox countered.

"I am not upset. I am tired, I am angry, my flight got canceled and then the next one got delayed three times. Everyone was loud and complaining and I can’t fuckin’ stand it," he began, despite knowing Mox didn't actually give a shit. "The hotel fucked up my reservation, everywhere else in the fucking city was booked up, so I had book a last minute AirBnb—which was a bitch and a half, let me tell you. And it’s stuffy and dusty and overpriced, so I’m out a penny and my head hurts. And after all that, all I fuckin' wanted was a nice meal, a night t'myself and some fuckin' peace."

Mox scrunched up his nose a little, frowning back at Adam over his shoulder. "I don't see what I have to do with—"

"You're pissin' me off," Adam spat, and gave the package of burger another firm yank. Didn't even fucking budge. "You have spent months at this fuckin' point, making my life a living hell, and you can't even let me have one evening."

A tilt of his head, a little hum, a noncommittal half a shrug. "Maybe. But you started it."

"How?!"

He shrugged again. "You pushed me off a fuckin' ladder."

"That was so fucking long ago!"

"Yeah, but it hurt."

Adam groaned and dragged his feet, even as he let himself get towed along. "All I fucking want to do, is go back to my overpriced house and grill a goddamn burger."

Jon hummed as he observed the potatoes on offer, like they held any kind of answer. "Sounds like a you problem. You can always let go and hit another store."

"I'm not getting another fucking Lyft just to go to a different grocery store."

"Well, tough tits, then."

"The hell do you even want it for? You can't cook."

"Nah, but Renee can."

Adam rolled his eyes. "Oh fuck off, who cares."

Mox came to a sudden stop, suddenly tense and still. He turned a slow, dangerous look toward Adam. "Did you just insult my wife's cooking?"

And Mox had been right, after all; his parents had taught him better. He knew a line when he crossed it, and insulting someone who didn't deserve it—and wasn't even there to defend herself—was just a step too far. He immediately raised his hands in surrender and, because he knew Mox, leaned himself backward out of punching range. Not that it really mattered.

Mox smirked, and placed the package of meat into his basket as he continued on down the aisle. Easy as that. Took away all of Adam's hope for an easy, comfortable evening, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. "Thanks, cowboy."

Mother fucker.

He watched Mox amble away for a few steps, until the spike of anger and shock subsided, and he was left with hunger and bitter disappointment. "I hate you."

The fucker just laughed.

Mother fucking fuck. 

Well, there went his evening, walking away with a smirk and a swagger. He watched on for a few seconds more, and then headed for the exit with a sigh, already opening up a map of the area, in case there were any other stores within walking distance. Maybe he could find a Wendy's, or something. Salvage at least a little bit of his evening. 

Hit kind of regretted not just throwing a haymaker the moment Mox smirked at him. They'd both have gotten thrown out, but at least Mox wouldn't have walked away with his prize either. 

But he wasn't at work. He didn't have to fight if he didn't fucking want to, no matter how much Mox grated on his nerves. And even if he had been itching for a fight, Mox hadn't brought his friends into it. Hadn't deliberately tried to goad him into doing something stupid. Just stole a package of ground beef out from under his nose, which wasn't a big deal. But Adam was hungry and tired and overloaded after a day of travel. 

He was slouched against the side of the building, in the middle of ordering another ride, when a shadow crowded into his space. Warm body heat, and a cloud of cigarette smoke and cherry candy and mint. He didn't have to look to know who it was, but he did anyway.

Mox was still smirking. He held out an expectant hand. "Gimme your phone."

"Fucking why?" he demanded, though he handed it over without any fuss. Mox would probably take it by force if he wasn't careful, and Adam was too tired to care what he planned to do with it.

An untroubled hum and a half a shrug. "Just thought I'd be nice, is all."

"You?" Adam lifted his eyebrows. "Nice?"

"When I'm feelin' like it," he muttered, busily tapping away. He made a triumphant little noise, and threw the phone back.

It was open to a text conversation, with a number he didn't already have in his contacts. A simple message had been sent, with just an address. If he was remembering right, it was just a few blocks over from the place he was staying.

Mox was looking pretty proud of himself when he glanced back up. "What's this?"

"Our AirBnb address, if you didn't feel like just catching a ride with me," Mox said with a grin, backing away across the crosswalk without even looking out for oncoming cars. "Just in case you still wanted that burger."

Was Mox stupid? "Why the fuck do you think I'd go somewhere with you."

"Figured you were hungry." He gave Adam an innocent look—much as he could manage, in any case. He was lucky he was cute, because he couldn't feign innocence for shit. "You've been talking about eating an awful lot lately." 

Adam's cheeks went hot, almost immediately. That was—fair. Adam had let his mouth get the better of him a couple few times, where Mox was concerned. 

His smile widened again, the obnoxious fuck smacking on his goddamned gum. "Renee said she'd set a place for you," he said, smug as anything, and turned away to hunt down his rental in the sea of cars.

Adam stood for a few moments, just watching him swagger away, and then pocketed his phone, ride forgotten. Maybe it wasn't smart to follow along at his heels, but he'd never really claimed to be.

And Mox was right, anyway. He could eat.

#wrestleprompts #hangmox #i really have no idea where this came from

[combatfaerie]

Ficlet: Brother Knows Best

Title: Brother Knows Best

Word count: 1286

Rating: Gen

Characters: Roman Reigns & Seth Rollins (mention of Becky Lynch/Seth Rollins)

Prompt:  "I need advice" (time passes) "never mind I already did the stupid thing"

"I need advice."

Roman sighed and shut his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the lounge chair and standing up. He was glad Seth had matured enough to the point where he would at least ask for advice; now the trick was getting him to actually use it. Roman had been out of action for just over three months now, receiving treatment and focussing on his health, but it still felt like he was backstage, worrying about his Shield brothers. Dean wasn't happy with the direction the company wanted him to go, so Roman mostly listened to him vent and they would talk about his options. Seth, though, was another story completely. He had definitely grown since the days of his social media scandals, but he felt strangely adrift. Roman had Galina and Dean had Renee, but Roman knew a relationship wasn't a quick fix for anything. In Seth's case, it often seemed to make his problems worse.

"No, you don't," Roman said patiently. "It's Royal Rumble weekend. All you need to think about right now is winning the damn thing and getting the WrestleMania main event you deserve. That's it." He walked past his wife, mouthed Seth, and walked away from the pool, where his kids were playing.

"But I want to do something and... well, it might be stupid, but—"

"What you want is to win the Royal Rumble and be in the main event at WrestleMania, right?" Roman pressed, shuffling his bare feet through the grass. The Royal Rumble was one of his favourite events and he hated to miss it, but he wanted to be sure he was safe to return to action. Still, it felt strange to watching his Shield brothers on TV and not from backstage.

Seth's voice tightened a bit. "Yes, but—"

"Then go and win and beat Brock. That's my advice." Roman stood under a tree and let the shade creep over him for a moment. "Whatever you called for—can it wait? Does it need to be today? Because you need to focus, bro, but more than that, you need to enjoy this. Most people only get one Rumble win. Scratch that—most wrestlers don't have any. Getting one is a milestone, so the fact that you're in line for one is huge."

"I know." Seth sighed. "And I know it's all up in the air until the night of. You don't have to remind me."

"Apparently I do. Enjoy this, Seth. Enjoy it all. You never know when it could slip away." Roman didn't want to turn the conversation around to himself—or to play the 'cancer card' as some wrestling journalists had crudely accused him of doing—but he wanted to make sure his Shield brothers made the most of their moments. Having grown up with so many family members in the business, Roman knew better than most how fleeting and fickle popularity and momentum could be, and that you had to utilize them when you had them.

"I will. I promise."

"You're going to be amazing," Roman said firmly. "Now go get some rest, okay? Relax."

Seth's chuckle filled the line. "Rest? Old man, it's not even six o'clock here!"

"Well, just remember that when you call me to celebrate your victory, okay? Love you." As Roman disconnected, he felt a vague pang of guilt for cutting Seth off, but he knew that Seth was usually his own worst enemy. If he wasn't overthinking something, he was being too impulsive; there was very little middle ground with his youngest Shield brother. Sometimes he needed someone to just snap him out of it, and Roman hoped that was the case today.

He completely forgot about the call until he was watching the Royal Rumble with his kids, his daughter still doing victory laps because Becky Lynch had won the women's Royal Rumble despite not strictly being an entrant. Since Joelle was hollering at the top of her lungs, he almost didn't hear his phone ring. "Hey, Seth. Sorry about the noise. Gimme a minute. Got a very happy Man fan in the house." Roman got out of his recliner and stepped into the hallway.

"Remember how I said I needed advice?"

Roman winced. That wasn't an ideal way to start a phone call, especially on Royal Rumble night when Seth hadn't wrestled yet. "Yeah?"

"Never mind. I already did the stupid thing."

The stupid thing? Roman tried to remember if Seth had given any specifics, but he really hadn't given his Shield brother a chance to say much of anything. "What stupid thing?" he asked warily. "Do I even want to know?" He ducked back into the den, grabbed his tablet off the table, and did a quick search for Seth Rollins, but nothing horrible came up.

"I kissed Rebecca."

"What?" It took Roman a moment to place the name. Becky was one of the few in WWE who used a version of her real first name for her ring name, but he tended to call her Becky regardless of where they were. "Like… Becky?"

"Yeah." Judging from the pitch of his voice, Seth was practically vibrating with excitement. "Well, we kissed each other. I can't remember who started it. It doesn't matter. No—no, wait, it was probably me. Whatever. We kissed."

"Why?" Roman felt like he was ten again, wondering why some of his older cousins were so suddenly obsessed with girls. "You guys have been friends for years…."

"I know, but…." Roman could practically hear Seth blushing. "We've been hanging out a lot lately and it's… it's been really nice and—"

Roman glanced back into the den, where Joelle had swept up one of her brothers into her victory dance. "But Becky…?" If Seth ended up breaking her heart, Roman was fairly certain Joelle would challenge him to a cage match. Becky's fucking beloved backstage, Roman thought. If he messes this up, he'll never hear the end of it.

"I know, I know, but… I really like her, Roman. It's so easy being around her. I don't have to think. I can just be myself…." The softness in Seth's voice reminded Roman of the hazy happiness of just waking up, still half-caught in a dream.

Stop. Think. It was advice he often gave his daughter—and his Shield brothers—and Roman knew it was simple but effective. The kiss itself might have been a stupid decision, but Seth seemed radiantly happy, so that meant it probably went well. "And it's mutual? Becky seems to like you?"

"Yeah. I mean, she kissed me back and said—"

"No details," Roman said quickly. "Save that for later. You have a Rumble to win, remember?" In the background, he could hear the familiar clatter of backstage chaos.

"Huh?" Roman could practically picture Seth's eyes going wide. "Right, right. I'll call you later. I just wanted to let you know, because…."

Roman smiled to himself. Well, if it works out, Joelle will be over the moon to have Becky as an auntie. He leaned against the door frame and sighed. "I know. Good luck tonight." He thought about elaborating for a moment, but didn't. If Seth wanted things to work out with Becky, he'd need some luck there too. "Love you, bro."

After disconnecting, Roman lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching his daughter explain parts of the match to her younger brothers. When noticed him staring, she asked, "Everything okay, Dad? Who was on the phone?"

"Just Uncle Seth," he replied, coming back into the room and giving her a hug before he sat down. "And everything's good. I think he's going to have a really good night tonight."

#wrestleprompts #combatfaerie fic

[or-ng-c-ss-dy]

morning sky

pairing: dustjim

rating: t

this is for @wrestleprompts​ for week 2, the prompt being “It was you the whole time” which i obviously had to interpret as a romance thing because it’s dustjim lol.

i don’t think i’ll post this on ao3. we’ll see though.

---

He still remembered those late nights, the ones that bled into the early morning, sunrise sky turning whiskey brown into shades of pink and gold. They had been so impossibly young in those days, far flung from where they’d both grown up— it didn’t matter where they were, everything he’d known had felt so far when he was looking at Dustin.

So drunk loose, tucked under Dustin’s arm, big grins passed between them like bottles of cheap whiskey. Jim hadn’t even liked whiskey much in those days, but he knew that Dustin liked it more than anything so he thought he’d learn to like it.

And learn he did, not from the source but from the time when Dustin had finally leaned in, and he’d tasted it on his tongue for the first time…

Jim was getting ahead of himself, though. He’d get there.

Cheap motels and cheap American whiskey blend, which turned into chain hotels and mid-shelf bourbon— and Jim paid for most of it, which was more than fine by him because he thought that Dustin was so good, good enough to go for it while he could take care of the both of them with his day job. Dustin was the one to get him booked anyway, sometimes telling companies that Jim was his ride even though he’d barely seen any time behind the wheel at all.

The good nights, loose and easy from the bourbon, tucked underneath Dustin’s arm, laughing with the guys until all of the guys went to bed. The sly look that Dustin would give him, the way his teeth would tug at his bottom lip until he was looking at one of the queen sized beds in the room and talking about how it wouldn’t make much sense to use both of them.

There were the bad nights too, when Dustin would stomp around the room like an angry horse, drink too much, pick fights with everyone who would let him— which Jim never did, but Dustin certainly tried. The bad, sad nights as well, when Dustin would bury his face into his own hands and tell Jim that he didn’t think he was cut out for the shit they had to go through after all, when he wouldn’t listen to Jim when he told him how good he thought he was. When he’d say something about Jim being better than anyone, and he couldn’t even quit his day job— which hadn’t been fair to either one of them, back when they both started to realize that WWE wouldn’t ever want them.

Those were the nights where Jim would get closest to arguing with him, letting him pick that fight. But he didn’t want to fight with Dustin, he wanted those good nights. It was all he ever wanted, quietly cataloging each streak of good nights with him.

And now there were nice hotels, booked by their billionaire boss. Dustin still drank mid-shelf bourbon and Jim could afford to splash out and get what he wanted, he hadn’t tasted the whiskey from the bottle since those old days. He thought that it tasted better on Dustin’s tongue anyway, shared hotel rooms with a king sized bed, booked for the express purpose of being together. Jim had lost track of the count, a sprawling streak of good nights like the sunrises they used to stay up for, pink and gold spread over an endless sky.

Pink and gold like the afterglow, sheets pooled around them, tasting the bourbon on Dustin’s lips as they kissed and breathed together. Jim pulled back, looking at the flush on Dustin’s face and the smile that stretched over his mouth, grin bared at him, looking…happy. Content, even, like he’d never had one of those bad nights in his entire life. 

He was still Dustin, of course. Those thoughts were still there. But, for once, he seemed to be able to keep them at arms length— and he was keeping Jim closer than that, swapping the two in his mind. His hair was long again, like it had been back then, covering green eyes like it had when they first met.

Stretch over time, like the sunrise sky, an endless cycle of long hair and then short hair and then long again. Endless versions of themselves, Dustin and Jim, cheap motels and chain hotels and then nice rooms for just the two of them. Pink and gold, fading to morning sky blue, sweet and present.

Only now, Dustin had Jim to brush his hair back from his eyes so he could see his face. And he hadn’t shied away from his touch in a long, long time.

#wrestleprompts #otp: dustjim #dustjim #my writing

[pepsi-maxwell]

small gestures

pairing: max caster/mjf rating: t (language) wordcount: ~1150 [ao3 link] prompt: @wrestleprompts week 5: a reluctant trip to the zoo to make their partner happy

-

It should be enough of a sign, Max thinks, that he’s willing to bring Caster to the zoo, in February, when half the park isn’t even open.

Apparently not, though, because all he’s done is bitch about Austin and Colten so far.

“—I mean, they cheated to win, pal, it isn’t fair—” he says, and Max has to really fight the urge to remind him of how the Acclaimed got the titles in the first place, because he’s trying to be nice to him for once, take him out to cheer him up, be a… ugh, a friend.

But apparently Caster is more content to vent about the ass boys, and how their body glitter was so distracting, and how Colten’s hair sucks, and Max just looks over despairingly at the monorail, because if he’d come at a sensible time of year he’d at least be able to sit down while Caster vented. Contemplate jumping out into the river or something to distract himself.

“Quit dwelling on it,” he says eventually, when there’s finally, finally, a blissful moment of silence. “You lost, big deal. You have a rematch clause, go challenge them at Revolution and stop whining to me about it.”

He feels like he deserves credit here for being far nicer than he could have been. For not laughing in Caster’s face that they got beat by the fucking Gunn Club, cheating or not, but instead, his kindness is being repaid by being forced to listen to Caster complain.

He should be on his knees thanking Max for deigning to bring him out to the fucking zoo, in February. Not talking about Austin and Colten, the thought of which is just making him angry, because he has his own problems with them and they could be bitching together, but the fact is, he doesn’t want Caster to complain, he wants Caster to—

“Let’s go see the lions,” he says abruptly. “Maybe we can watch them eat a goat, and pretend it’s Austin or something.”

He sees a minute twitch of Caster’s lips, which is more than good enough for him.

They’re a little too early to watch the lions eat, but they’re awake, at least, and the couple of cubs they have are playing in a way that makes him think of Piper and the way she flops down on her side when he comes home, and he thinks once again that Caster should be thankful he’s out here with all the poors, surrounded by animals, in February. 

He buys them both a coffee after the lions, because his hands are cold and he doesn’t have his gloves. Even lets Caster order some horrific sounding drink with far too much sugar and a colour not found in nature.

It perks Caster up out of his funk a little more, though. Enough to get him dragging Max around the next few exhibits, from the giraffes, to the gorillas, then to the reptiles, avoiding the bug house at Max’s insistence, but he’s still not completely back to normal.

Normal for Caster, at least, which is being a filthy pervert, but it’s a start. Not that Max wants to be bombarded with his attention again, but it’s just… 

He’s doing Caster a favour. That’s all it is.

He thinks he’s done well enough by the time they’ve done a full loop of the park. They’ve seen just about everything they could, including a couple macaques getting frisky, to which point Caster had finally said something sexual, and Max had thought, great. Job done, time to go home.

His feet are aching by the time they start the walk back to where he’d parked, and he’s thinking about blisters, which means he only half-hears when Caster says something to him.

“Thanks for the date, pal.”

He stops completely in the middle of the path. Looks at Caster, because he sounds… happy. Really happy. For the first time today, for the first time since Wednesday.

And he doesn’t sound the way he does when he does his fake flirting routine, which is the only reason Max doesn’t say “Definitely not a date, buddy,” before kicking him in the dick, walking off and leaving him here, but…

Today he’s being nice. Today he’s being a friend.

So this can be a date, maybe. Just this once. Just today.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, leaning in close. He watches Caster’s eyes widen comically before he presses his lips to his cheek. Just a chaste touch, even as his heart is racing in his throat, and he kinda expects Caster to try something, pull him in, kiss him properly. But he doesn’t, he just stands there looking like his birthday’s come early, so he slides his hand into Caster’s and squeezes as a reward for not getting fucking weird about it. 

It has the added benefit of letting him physically pull Caster to make him walk faster because it’s not getting any warmer out here and Max would really like to get back to his apartment and his cat, thank you.

“You tell anyone about any of this and they will never find all the pieces of your body,” Max says once they’re back at the car, because he still has his reputation to think about. Not that anyone would believe he willingly spent the day with Caster, but it never hurts to put the fear of Max into him.

He doesn’t think about how cold his hand suddenly feels without Caster’s in it as he reaches into his pocket for the keyfob to unlock it.

“Don’t worry, pal. Your secret that you’re really a sweetheart deep down is safe with me,” Caster says. “Besides, what’s to tell? I barely even got a kiss from you.”

Max feels his stomach jump as he glances over at Caster, leaning against his car in a way nobody else would be allowed to get away with. Looking at him with his eyes half-lidded, a smirk playing at his lips. Now he sounds more like he usually does. Now his words feel loaded with intent. Like he’s daring Max to kiss him properly this time.

And… it’s still technically a date, so… 

He reaches up to cup Caster’s cheek. Leans in close again, and this time Caster’s eyes fall shut, and Max hears the slight hitch in his breath before he stops breathing entirely.

He can hear his own heartbeat, racing in his chest.

“Don’t push your luck,” he whispers, before pushing Caster away.

And Caster laughs, gets in the passenger seat, and Max graciously lets him buckle himself in before starting the car, but he doesn’t say anything else, so Max thinks maybe, when they get to Caster’s place, before he gets out of the car, maybe he’ll end the date properly.

Because he’s such a good friend, after all.

#gd writes #max² #wrestleprompts #sorry this feels ridiculously fluffy

[aerodaltonimperial]

pipeline punch

Pairing: Hook/Max Caster Rating: T Warnings: None, except that I am, myself, a warning Prompt: Two people reach for the last bottle of the same drink in a gas station fridge.

It’s pretty easy to figure out when the roster descends upon any given location, because the nearest accessible sources of sustenance are nearly immediately wiped out, and today is no exception. The only Sheetz within walking distance looks like it’s been ransacked following the zombie apocalypse: all empty shelves and barren refrigerators, straight out of some B-grade horror flick. It’s a minor miracle that there’s a single energy drink left within the metal rings, even if it’s the most obnoxiously berry flavor, and Hook opens the door to reach for it in autopilot because he’s so fucking tired after getting delayed in O’Hare again that he can barely make sense of what’s happening around him.

Which is why he doesn’t notice the other hand reaching into the fridge at the exact same time. Fingers clamp down around his prize, bare skin that jolts him back into reality, and he whirls to find himself face to face with Max Caster.

“Let go,” Max says, all business.

“You let go,” Hook hisses.

“Oh, ho!” Max exclaims. His eyes have lit up, which sends alarm bells off in Hook’s head. “He does speak occasionally.”

Hook is way too tired to deal with this bullshit. “Let go, Caster.”

And Max leans way, way too close, grin wide and blinding. “Make me.”

“I will kill you,” Hook says, and boy does he mean it after the day he’s had. Of all people to tempt fate by poking a sleeping bear…but then again, he might get some real pleasure in beating the smile off Max’s face.

“Resorting to threats?” Max tilts his head to the side, studying Hook, but he very definitely does not let go of the Monster can. “Kind of a one-trick pony, aren’t you, Hook?”

Hook sighs. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Not a single thing,” Max replies. Cheeky. “Actually, there’s not much here to do at all, since every other person I know has decided to go to the gym, and now there’s a waiting line just to get on the leg press.”

“Maybe you could just use your ego as the weights,” Hook tells him seriously. “It seems big enough, anyway.”

“Ha!” Max throws his head back, laughing, and—come on, that was supposed to offend him, not make him laugh. “Fuck, that’s funny. Still not gonna give you the drink, though.”

“Caster,” Hook says, and yes, he’s aware that his voice is dangerously close to a whine, but in his defense, O’Hare might actually be a hellmouth. “Give me the damn drink and go away.”

“No can do, Hook-aroo. You see, I find myself with a pretty desperate need for some caffeine.”

Okay, Hook is really going to punch him. “Get something else. Go find a coffee shop.”

Max shifts. His grip on the can is somehow better than Hook’s, and maybe that’s the whole exhaustion factoring in; Max tugs the can out of the empty fridge and Hook has to scramble to keep his own fingers wrapped around it. He is not giving this up. He needs one win to keep the day from being a total and complete disaster.

He growls. He knows it probably won’t scare Max off, but whatever—feels good anyway. “Let go, Caster.”

“What'll you give me?” Max asks.

“Nothing,” Hook tells him, and then, amends: “The ability to keep living.”

Max grins again. God, Hook hates it. “You’re such a sourpuss. C’mon, make it worth my while.”

“What, you want me to pay you for it, and then pay the cashier again?” Hook snorts. “Fat chance.”

“Aw, what’s the matter?” Two of Max’s fingers clamp down over Hook’s, tight enough to pinch his skin against the metal. “Trust fund baby doesn’t have the money?”

Jesus Christ, it’s like he wants to die.

“Are you always this fucking annoying?” Hook seethes.

Max laughs. “Oh, normally I’m so much worse.”

Hook can believe that. He tries jerking the can closer towards his chest, thinking maybe he’ll catch Max off-guard and gain the upper hand, but all it does is pull both the can and Max closer to his position. Shit. “You’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Max shoots back.

Oh my god… “What are you, five?” Hook gives the can a shake, which is seriously going to backfire if he’s the one who ends up with it. “I’ve had the shittiest day, just give it to me.”

“And this canned monstrosity is going to make your shitty day better?” Max scoffs. “Aim higher, at least.”

“You’re one to judge. How’s hanging out with Daddy Ass?”

“Oh!” Max exclaims. The glint in his eyes gets sharper. “Wow, that’s not dripping with disdain at all. Tell me how you really feel, Hook. How’s being all alone with no friends because you’re so insufferable to be around?”

Okay, that stung, and maybe he deserved it, but still. “You literally don’t know anything about me.”

He expects an argument, but Max gets kind of quiet. Thoughtful. “You know, you’re right; I don’t.”

“Right,” Hook says, although…it’s not really a retort. He’s a bit thrown, now, off his game.

“So let’s say I want to,” Max tells him. “Tell me something about yourself, then.”

What? “This isn’t fucking happy hour, Caster.”

“I’ll say. People normally don’t make faces that grumpy at happy hour.”

Hook’s back to wanting to punch him in the nose. “You are easily the most annoying person I’ve ever talked to.”

“That’s not a high bar, though, is it? You don’t talk to anyone, so there’s like, what, five people on that list?”

“Caster,” Hook says. Pleads. “Please.”

“Let’s go, then, Hook,” Max says, and is it Hook’s imagination or has his voice dropped significantly? They’re close enough that Hook could easily sock him in the face if he really wanted. “What’s it gonna be? Give up? Or give in?”

“Give in how?” This is so fucking frustrating. “All you’ve done is stand there and run your mouth.”

“Tell you what,” Max says. He tugs the can, and fuck, Hook’s sneakers tangle up together, propelling him forward farther than he wanted to stumble. They are toe to toe now, close enough that Hook’s got an uncomfortably close look at the mirth in Max’s eyes. “I’ll make this even easier for you. I’ll give you the drink, and I’ll just take what I want in return.”

“I’m not giving you the FTW belt,” Hook replies, automatically.

It’s insulting that Max laughs at that, too. “In what world do you think I want your belt? How would that even be a decent trade?”

“Then what do you want?”

Max’s tongue creeps out, pressing into the corner of his mouth. There’s kind of a stretched moment of nothing that Hook thinks is actually something, something monumental that he’s managed to miss. Like most things, really. The whole thing just serves to double the frustration in his stomach. If he could not be doing that…thing with his face, it would be great. Hook’s tired. His thoughts are a mess. He just wants to go to his room and not have to deal with people anymore.

“What,” Hook says, flat, when Max fails to answer his question. He’s trying to be as uninviting as possible, and it’s infuriating how little it seems to be working.

“I know what I want,” Max tells him. His tone is low, and kind of throaty, like he’s trying to be…wait.

Wait. “Uh,” Hook says, eloquently. Max is leaning closer, like close-close, like so close that Hook can feel the warmth of his exhales. “We’re, uh, in a gas station.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Max’s mouth quirks up, one corner higher than the other. “Why? You wanna go scurry off to the bathroom instead?”

Well, it would be better than standing here, right in front of the damn drink fridges, except Hook can’t get his legs to move. His knees have locked up, freezing him to the ground. And Max is—shit, Max is still shifting in. Hook’s hands tighten instinctively around the can, breath catching.

It isn’t until Max’s mouth is pressed against his that Hook realizes he probably could have run. He could have dropped the energy drink and turned on his heel and left, or he could have smacked Max across the face for getting even a fraction of this close, and he didn’t do any of it, and now they are locked at the lips, and it’s not even bad. It’s actually—ah, fuck, it’s actually good. Max kisses without any of the bullshit bravado Hook would have expected, sort of deliberately but gentle, little pushes of pressure that make Hook want to part his lips, which is, he’s pretty sure, exactly the point.

Well. Shit. Now he’s kissing Max Caster, and the kisses are bordering on really great as Max lets go of the can and instead cups Hook’s face with his palms, and Hook’s closing his eyes because this is the sort of thing he wants to fall into and let sweep him out of his weariness altogether, and did he know Max’s hands were this big, wide enough to cover the whole of his ears?

Ah, shit.

Max pulls back wearing the most fucking smug expression Hook’s ever seen, and that’s saying something considering it’s one of Max’s default looks. Except he doesn’t say anything else; he just takes a step back with that smile still plastered on his face.

In fact, he gets halfway to the doors before he stops. “Three twenty-seven,” he says, twisting around with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“The price?” Hook frowns, confused, because his brain hitched and sputtered and stopped working somewhere in the middle there.

Max grins. “My room number.” Then he flashes Hook a scissoring gesture.

Oh that son of a bitch. “Fuck off,” Hook grumbles, cheeks heating. He hopes no one he knows was in the Sheetz with the same idea of sustenance to see this entire situation unfold. Not even the Monster between his hands could help lessen the embarrassment if word of this got out.

Ugh. The worst thing is that, after Hook pays for the drink without looking the too-amused cashier in the eyes and flees the scene, the damn thing is just as obnoxiously, nauseatingly sweet as he expected it would be, coating his tongue.

And now he can’t stop repeating Max’s room number in his head.

Son of a bitch.

#wrestleprompts #hook x max caster #hookcaster

[banannabethchase]

Adam and Mox get stuck in an elevator. Tensions rise, and so do their dicks. (But the elevator doesn't.) [thank you for @sarahcakes613 for this summary idea]

~

Written for @wrestleprompts"It's not goodbye, it's see you later." I. I don't know how that created this just. Okay. He we are. Apologies to wrestleprompts rules- I couldn't get this under 2.5k if my life depended on it. Title from Closer by Nine Inch Nails.

~

It’s the sound that makes him worry. The elevator has been moving slowly, yeah, but it’s the weird groaning creak when the doors open on floor 4 that makes him wonder if he should have taken the stairs down.

He knows the stairs were the better choice when he sees who’s walking in.

“Oh, fuck,” Mox says, looking him up and down. “It’s you.”

“Charming,” Adam says. “Real nice. I’m not happy about this either.” He stands his ground. Jon Moxley can smell weakness, can feel the difference in a man’s body language when he’s intimidated. So Adam stands still, arms in front of his body, hands clasped. He’d be able to handle this situation better, he thinks, if he had both eyes working.

“Not gonna move?” Mox asks. “Prick.”

“I was here first,” Adam says. One more floor. One more floor down, and he’ll be right next by his hotel room. He doesn’t look at Mox, but Adam knows he’s got on sneakers, a tank top, and a pair of running shorts. If Mox comes at him, he’s probably the better prepared.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky there’s another set of buttons on this side,” Mox says. “Or else I would’a shoved you to the ground by now.”

Adam finally turns to him. “Sorry, are you trying to get into a fight?” Mox is in his Blackpool hoodie, a pair of sweats and – “Wait, what the fuck. Are you wearing Crocs?”

“They’re comfortable,” Mox retorts. He looks a little hesitant, off guard. “Shut up.”

“Oh, you come in here after you and your boys try to fuck me up four on one, damage my eye, and you’re the one telling me to shut up?” Adam can’t quell the rage anymore. He steps toward Mox. “Pretty sure you’re a bit less tough now that your boys aren’t around.”

“Fuck off,” Mox spits. “You wanna go?”

“No,” Adam says. “No, I don’t. I want to have a day – one fucking day – where one of your cronies or you don’t fuck with me. Okay? So let’s just get off this fuckin’ elevator and deal with each other in the ring.” He stares Mox down, and Mox looks away first, even if it is an eye roll.

“I’m not gonna fuck you up in an elevator,” Mox says, rolling his eyes. “Not enough room.”

“A poor craftsman blames his tools,” Adam says.

“And a stupid bitch taunts a guy in an elevator with no – ” He pauses. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel wh –”

The elevator stops with a jolt, and Mox and Adam stumble to the ground. “The fuck was that?”

Mox pulls out his phone, using it like a flashlight around the room. “I don’t know, genius, I’d say the power cut out and we’re stuck in an elevator.”

“Well, yes – duh!” Adam says. His eyes are laser focused on the light from the phone. “Call somebody.”

“I am,” Mox says.

Adam presses the emergency button on the elevator, but it, too, is useless.

“Yeah, I know you were waiting for me. I’m stuck in a fuckin’ elevator, Yoots, what the fuck do you want me to do?” Mox does some weird gesture in the dark, and Adam only knows it from the way the phone spins in the tiny space. “Just call somebody, tell them the elevator’s fucked up.”

Adam goes for a group text message, the one with Nick and Matt. Stuck in the hotel elevator. Can you call the lobby and get somebody to help? Keep me posted. He locks his phone and turns it over in his hand.

“Successful?” Adam asks. He lounges back against the wall. It may be in his head, but he’s feeling a little warmer than he had before.

“Go fuck yourself,” Mox half spits.

They stand there, Adam coordinating through text messages and Mox yelling randomly on his cell phone to anyone, it appears, from Claudio Castagnoli to Tony Khan, until there’s nothing to do but wait for the fire department to do their job. And wait they do.

“What’s your problem lately?” Adam finally asks. The silence is killing him, and he’s pretty sure this elevator is beginning to burn up. “You went from casually trying to kill me to, like, legitimately trying to kill me and everyone I care about.” He pauses. “And you let your boy blind me.”

“You’re not blind,” Mox snaps back. “You’ll be fine. I’ve been stabbed in the eye, too. And you just…You and the Bucks and Kenny are too perfect lately. Ever since they’ve come back they’ve been all squeaky clean and pure and shit.” He rolls his eyes. Adam’s eyes have adjusted  to the darkness, and he can see the outline of Mox against the wall. He looks older, somehow, in the darkness.

“Matt’d think that was hilarious,” Adam says. “Y’all went from Blackpool being this, like, prestigious wrestler’s club to being a group of angry teenagers beating up everybody who mildly annoys you.”

“Hey,” Mox says, pointing, “you have severely annoyed me for, like, months now.”

“Fine, whatever.” Adam’s rolling his eyes now. “You hate me, I hate you, fine. But why’d you have to bring Kenny into it?” He bites at his lip. “Why’d you have to hurt Nick and Matt?”

Mox shrugs, pacing the small floor. “Because it was the only thing that would get a reaction, alright? You always white knight it, step to us. We needed to get to you – and everybody else – in a way that was more permanent.”

Adam sighs. “Well, tearing Matt’s bicep will do that.” He meets Mox’s eyes across the room. “I should fuck you up for that, right now.”

“What’s stopping you?” Mox asks. He squares up.

“It’s an elevator,” Adam says. “We’re in an elevator, Moxley. Elevator fight scenes are fun and whatever, but we’d kill ourselves in, like, ten minutes. Just. No.”

Mox looks disappointed. “Damn it. Would’a been fun.”

“We’ve fought enough in the past few months,” Adam insists. “We don’t need to add an elevator stipulation.”

Mox laughs a little, tension bleeding through it. “Fought enough is right. Jesus, I haven’t had a break.”

Adam watches him. There’s no relaxing, shoulders still high and tense. “Seriously, man,” Adam says. “What’s wrong?”

Mox makes a strange sound, something almost torn out of him. “It’s too much fucking pressure,” Mox groans, scrubbing his hands across his face. “Jesus, Cowboy, you got no idea how – how much they put on me.” He drops his head between his knees. “I never asked to lead BCC. I never asked.”

Adam lets that sink in, to both the elevator’s atmosphere and himself. “Yeah,” Adam says, quiet. “Yeah, I can – I can see that being a problem.”

Mox lifts his head and, to Adam’s shock, he laughs. “You’re being nice about this. Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” Adam says back. “What, I’m gonna be a bitch and tell you that you suck at trying to emulate Regal? Hell yeah you’ll suck doing that. They don’t need another Regal, man. They need you.”

Mox stares at him. There’s a glimpse of confusion in his eyes as he studies Adam. “They don’t need me,” he says, breaking eye contact.

“They do,” Adam says. “Look, the four of you would have collapsed if you weren’t making sure BBC –”

“BCC!”

“Blackpool Bottoms Club. I know what I’m talking about.” Adam continues. “BBC wouldn’t have held up like it did without Regal if you weren’t there to keep them together. I want you dead sometimes, yeah, but I’m man enough to admit that you’re a good leader and a good man.” He pauses, remembering why he can’t feel his fingertips or see through his left eye. “Well. Sometimes a good man.”

Mox laughs, dropping is head back against the elevator. “Sometimes. Nice.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Adam says. He hauls himself to his feet, not willing to let the bare skin of his legs touch the elevator carpet any longer. “You tried to blind me.”

“Bryan tried to blind you,” Mox corrects.

“You were complicit,” Adam says. “An accessory to murder or whatever.”

“Accessory to maiming. You’re not dead yet.”

Adam rolls his eyes, shaking out his shirt. “It’s getting way too hot in here. Think the power’s out all over the building?”

Mox shakes his head. “It’s not hot in here. At all.”

“Then you’re a mutant,” Adam replies. He can’t stand it anymore – even just the tee shirt is too much to stand. He doesn’t know if it’s the elevator or the lack of an air conditioner or his discomfort at being near Mox, but he strips off the tee shirt. The relief at the cool again against his chest doesn’t last, though. Mox’s stare pulls him out of it.

“Oh, calm down,” Adam snaps. “You’ve been a lot closer to me wearing this much.”

“Yeah,” Mox mutters. He shakes his head. “What? I mean, you wear pants in the ring. This is,” he points to Adam, “not a lot.”

Adam stares at Mox. “Are you being weird about me having my shirt off?”

“Yes, but not on purpose.”

Adam freezes. “Excuse me?”

“What, you look at me, too,” Mox says. He doesn’t even look defensive, more entertained. “Are you surprised?”

“At what?!” Adam is struck motionless by the warring desires to cover himself up and flex.

“Oh.” Mox laughs, a little low. “I thought you’d, like, figured it out when you talked about the MMA circle jerk.” His grin gets a little dirty, a little darker. It reminds Adam of the two of them in the ring – deadly, determined, focused. He looks Adam up and down. “You really think I can’t appreciate a good looking guy?”

Adam opens his mouth, closes it. And processes. “I – what?”

“Look, I’m not going to do anything, and if you’re uncomfortable I’ll stop, but yeah, of course I notice you.”

Adam resists to inexplicable urge to ask why Mox isn’t going to do anything. Instead, against his more logical wishes, he says, “I’m not uncomfortable. Just, you know. You checking me out a week or so after trying to kill me?” He shrugs. “Kinda desperate, don’t you think?”

Finally, Adam gets a reaction. Mox's eyes widen. “Desperate?!”

Adam laughs. “Stuck in an elevator, I’m the only option.” He chances a step toward Mox. “Could be an earthquake out there. Maybe we’re the last two alive.”

“Aren’t you the smart one?” Mox asks. He takes another step forward. It feels strange to be moving so slowly. Him and Mox, it’s usually a brawl with no hesitation. Right now, though, it feels like moving through syrup. “They don’t get earthquakes down here.”

Adam doesn’t know what comes next. “You’re just trying to make me forget that you’re desperate.”

“Shut up.”

Adam thinks saying, “make me,” is cliché, so he leans in then, kissing Mox.

Mox laughs against his lips. “You’re so predictable.”

Adam grabs him by the waist, steering him into the side of the elevator without a hand rail. He reaches up, catching Mox’s jaw. “This predictable?”

Mox’s eyes flicker from Adam’s eyes to his lips. “I mean, a little.”

Adam rolls his eyes and gives in to bad decisions, kissing Mox again. Their teeth clack, hands scrabble against skin. He gasps against Mox’s mouth as blunt nails dig into Adam’s back. Adam’s skin sings with the sharp sting of it, remembering the last time this happened. Adam slides his lips along Mox’s jaw, bites down, hard, and laughs when Mox moans.

“Jesus.”

“You scratch, I bite,” Adam says, sliding his hands around the waistband of Mox’s sweatpants.

“I bite, too,” Mox laughs. “You know that.”

Adam goes at him again, daring him to prove it, and Mox’s teeth catch his lips. Adam can’t help the low moan from his throat.

“Yeah?” Mox asks. Adam dives in for another kiss, breaking only to yank Mox’s hoodie off. He pulls back and giggles.

“Oh, shut up,” Mox mutters. “Yuta stole my BCC shirt, Bryan stole my AEW shirt. It was my only option.”

“You’re wearing a Dean Ambrose shirt?!” Adam exclaims. He can’t hold it back. “Oh, that’s funny.”

“It was just – you were wearing a Willie Nelson shirt.”

“I’m not wearing the, like, Clark Kent of myself,” Adam grabs the hem, but stops himself before pulling it off, for the comedy of it all. “Jesus, you’re weird.”

“It’s just a shirt.” Mox wraps a hand around the back of Adam’s neck and pulls him back in. Adam slides his fingers into Mox’s waistband again, waiting for permission.

“Jesus, yes, come on, get your hands on my dick.”

Adam rolls his eyes, but shoves Mox’s sweats down anyway. “Wow. Romantic.”

“Look, man, you want romance, you’re fuckin’ in the wrong elevator.”

Adam locks eyes with Mox as he licks his palm, then leans in, hand curling around Mox’s cock. “I don’t think I am.”

Mox’s laugh is half a gasp, head tilted back against the cool metal of the wall, eyes shut. “Me either.”

Sounds dissolve into heavy breathing and slick, wet sounds where Adam’s hand slides against Mox’s cock. Mox’s hips move lazy, slow, as Adam works. Adam leans in, sucking a bruise into Mox’s neck and getting a moan in return.

“Desperate,” Adam singsongs into Mox’s ear.

“Fuck you,” Mox gasps. He starts panting.

“Surprised you’re not going for my hair,” Adam laughs, biting at Mox’s neck to build a nice little reminder for later. “Talked a lot about it recently.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Adam makes his laugh mean. “Or was that just wishful thinking? Want me to pull you around by the collar of your shirt, throw you across the elevator?”

Mox says something that was probably bitchy, but he’s coming all over Adam’s hand, arching up into it. His face fades into this serene little smile. Adam thinks he looks a lot less stressed, like this.

Working on a hunch, he lifts his hand to Mox’s lips. Mox shakes his head. “Jesus, you're - fuck.” He leans in and licks Adam’s fingers dry, down to the webbing, punishing eye contact the whole time.

Adam swallows, suddenly horribly aware of how hard he is.

“Don’t make that face. I’ll get you.”

Somehow, even when he’s dropping to his knees in front of Adam, fingers in the waistband of Adam’s gym shorts, Mox looks smug and annoying. “You good if I blow you?”

“I – yes, you dumbass.” Adam wishes there was hair to pull, something to yank him around by. Maybe Mox had a point.

Adam braces himself against the wall and Mox’s mouth surrounds him, a warm, wet, heat that sends his brain into adrenaline mode. He’s not sure of the etiquette of getting a hate blowjob in an elevator, so he forces himself to look down.

Mox looks bored, somehow, mouth around Adam. He arches an eyebrow.

“What, you want me to fuck your throat or something?” Adam asks. “Ask nice.”

Mox pulls off. “Fuck off. But, yeah.” He shivers, just a little. "Yeah."

“Blackpool Bottoms Club,” Adam says under his breath, but he fucks Mox’s throat, slow and devastating and fucking unreal. “Jesus, you’re good at this.”

Mox grabs the back of Adam’s thighs to pull him in deeper, like it was a challenge.

“No one likes a showoff,” Adam snaps. He’s lying, though. He likes Mox showing off. A lot.

The heat in the room feels concentrated to the places where Mox’s skin meets his, where his tongue laps at the head of Adam’s cock. Mox drags his nails down Adam’s thighs when Adam slows down.

“I – fuck, you jackass,” Adam says. He’s about to come, though, the spark of heat and pain going right to his dick.

Mox looks at him like, like you didn’t like that, and Adam has to go back to rendering the man unable to make those annoying faces, picking up the speed.

“Gonna come,” Adam says, voice hardly more than a grunt. He uses one hand to brace himself against the wall and the other to grip at the collar of Mox’s shirt. “Better – better pull off if – oh, fuck.”

Mox technically heeds the warning, diving down on Adam’s cock and swallowing as Adam’s eyes straight up roll back in his head. The only sign he’s not blacking out is his legs are steady beneath him, streaks of sting from Mox’s nails singing through him. He exhales hard, head thunking against the metal wall.

“Okay,” Adam says, breathless. “Mox, I – off.”

Mox pulls back, using his hoodie to clean up spots of come on the edges of his mouth. Adam’ll be thinking about that image every goddamn time they meet in the ring from now on. He adjusts his shorts, tucks himself back in. “So,” Mox says. “I’m still gonna fuck you up once we meet in the ring again.”

“You’re gonna try,” Adam corrects. “And fail. Like last time.”

Mox shoves Adam’s shoulder back against the wall, but Adam just grins, closing his eyes as he leans against the wall. He adjust the askew eyepatch. He can’t even begin to imagine when that happened. “What?” Adam asks. “You lost the death match, man. Am I wrong?”

There’s a tense silence. “No.”

Adam opens his eye. “I made you tap.”

“Shut up.”

Adam shrugs. His hairs a mess, it’s gotta be, so he pulls out the hair tie and shakes his hair out.

“What the fuck is this, a shampoo commercial?” Mox asks.

Adam rolls his eyes and ties his hair back up. “Your insults suck.”

“Your insults suck.”

Adam snorts. “If I wanted my comeback, I would have licked it out of your mouth.”

Mox slips, half falling down the wall.

Adam laughs. “Caught you off guard with that one, didn’t I.”

“Where is this coming from?” Mox asks. “You’re usually so…” He trails off. “I’m not used to this side of you.”

“You usually aren’t around me after I’ve gotten laid,” Adam says. He reaches down for his shirt, pulling it over his head. He’s not hot anymore. “Chills me out.”

“I can tell,” Mox mutters.

It takes a few more seconds, but the weight of everything they’ve done begins to settle on Adam.

“Are we gonna, like,” Adam considers his words, “tell people about this?”

Mox shrugs. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” Adam says. “Yeah, probably a good thing.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’d never hear the end of it from Matt.”

Mox raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I just fucked the enemy,” Adam deadpans. “He doesn’t like it when we fuck the enemy.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Mox says. He wanders over to the buttons and reaches out to press them again, when a voice blares through the speakers.

“Is this Mr. Moxley and Mr. Page?”

“Yes,” Adam says. “What’s the ETA on getting out of here?”

“ETA,” Mox mutters. “Who the fuck are you?”

Adam kicks at his shins.

“About two minutes, maybe less, gentlemen. I’m Captain Marks, fire department. We’ll have you at the next floor in just a second. Have to let the elevator recalibrate.”

Recalibration, apparently, involves a few loud noises, six jolts, and a quick drop down to the next floor.

The door slides open and there stand Tony Khan, two firefighters, Brandon Cutler, and Wheeler Yuta.

“So, uh, what went on with you two?” Yuta asks. His eyes widen as he catches sight of the hoodie in Mox's hand, for some reason. “Mox – ”

“Not a single word, kid,” Mox says. He strides out of the elevator like all of this was nothing. "It's not goodbye, Hangman," Mox says over his shoulder with a wink. "It's see you later."

Adam walks out of the elevator, not sure what to make of that. 

“You look weird,” Brandon says, hesitant. He turns to Tony. “Tony, does he look weird?”

“I wish so hard to be excluded from this narrative,” Tony says. “Go – just go. Go back to your hotel rooms.”

“What is wrong with everybody?” Adam mutters.

Brandon snorts. “I – sorry. But we heard what you just said. Right before we spoke to you.”

Adam blinks. “Which was…?”

Brandon’s face splits into a huge grin and the firefighters start to laugh.

“What?”

Brandon looks way too delighted for this to be a good thing. “You fucked the enemy.”

Adam wishes he were still stuck in the elevator.

#HangMox #WELL HERE THIS IS #wrestleprompts #in which Sara writes #wtf #anxious millennial dreamboat #madly in love with leather daddy jon moxley #They're so stupid and I love them so much #Let me know if anything else needs to be tagged #I kinda went fugue state on editing this one

[royalbelial]

@wrestleprompts || Prompt: Proposal at the Beach

Title: Not quite making it official Rating: Gen Pairing: Hook x Danhausen

The setting sun was tinting the world in red and gold, as they where walking down the beach. Everything looked so much more precious than when the sun was up high and the soft sound of the ocean's waves put Hook in a state of tranquillity he hadn't felt in a long time. Danhausen next to him was quiet as well, wich was rare. A gentle breeze got caught in his hair, as he looked at his partner. It hasn't been love at first sight. It was a slow process and it was still going, but now, as he looked at Danhausen, he was getting sure, there would not be anybody else who could make him feel that way. Maybe that thought was foolish, given that he was still so young, but he believed it to be true. In the end, having faith was all one got.

And if he had so much faith in his relationship with Danhausen, shouldn't he make it official? His heart jumped at the thought, but it also made him nervous. What if everything he got would be washed away because he was pushing things too far too soon? So maybe he should take it slow. „D? Have you ever thought about marriage?“, he wanted to know and Danhausen stopped in his tracks. „Marriage?“, he repeated, „No, that's not something that had crossed Danhausen's mind before.“ „But you wouldn't be opposed to the thought?“, Hook carefully asked. „Hm, Danhausen doesn't think so“, he answered, „Marriage is the human ritual to bind two people together until their death, yes?“ „Yeah, that's one part“, Hook confirmed, „It's also a promise to take care of one another, to share everything, the good and the bad.“

Danhausen looked thoughtfully at Hook. „Is Hook proposing the marriage bond to Danhausen?“, he assumed and Hooks heart skipped a beat. Okay, he better did not say or do anything stupid now. But actually... he swallowed and looked back at Danhausen. Slowly he got down on one knee and Danhausen raised his eyebrows, not quite understanding, but still feeling the weight of the situation. „Look, marriage is this huge deal, like really huge... and... and... I don't even have a ring“, he said with a shakey breath, „Oh, you usually propose with a ring...“ Hook took Danhausen's Hand and let his thumb slide over the ring finger. „But I'll get you one, not tomorrow, or this week, but we will get there... so this is not a marriage proposal per se, but a proposal, that I will, one day, propose.“

The smile on Danhauesn's face was soft and warm. „Then Danhausen will wait for that day.“

#wrestleprompts #gen #hookhausen #hook x danhausen

[sheinthatfandom]

Prompt: "I need advice" (time passes) "never mind I already did the stupid thing"

Rating: teen

Word count: 569

Pairing: Daniel Garcia/Nigel mcguinness, unrequited Daniel Garcia/Bryan Danielson and complicates feelings with Yuta could be seen as ship.

Authors note: written for @wrestleprompts there’s a Easter egg for the quality of a memory by hereforwords and as always ty to my wifey @icecream-and-gadreel for giving it a read and letting me pull her into this fandom. No beta we die like the part of Danny’s heart that belonged to Bryan

Untitled

“I love Jon moxley, and him ripping at peoples mouths. I love Claudio Castagnoli and him destroying people. Know who else I love?”

With a damp sweaty hand Danny pulled out his phone typing quickly to the one friend he could trust with this.

I need advice

I’m about to do something that might be really dumb

“Wheeler Yuta.”

While waiting nervously for an answer he bit his lip and tapped his foot repeatedly against the floor. His mind replaying the same scene on repeat.

“I love, Wheeler Yuta!”

The voice of his hero, the man who was everything to him, the one he idolized and craved so much from but refused to give anything back. The man who had a stone wall around his heart never allowing anyone in or allowing love to come out. The man who made him crave his attention and the brief moments of kindness and closeness until he was nearly ready to throw away the man who single handedly paid his medical bills, keeping his family from losing everything under his debt. And, the closest friends he had in the company, the ones who took him under their wings, his two dads.

He tapped the screen to turn it on again, still not seeing any new notifications.

“I love Wheeler Yuta!”

Yuta…. Always Yuta. On the indies it was Yuta, Daniel debuted on AEW first but was never signed until after Yuta a year later. In ROH the pure belt always found a way back to Yuta, and now Bryan… Bryan who named Danny as the first potential student of the BCC, Bryan who chased after him for weeks to convince Danny to leave Jericho, Bryan who held back love and affection until you were ready to crawl over broken glass on your belly just for a taste.

“I love Wheeler Yuta!”

“Fuck this!”

“nm I’m doing the stupid thing”

He shoved his feet into a pair of slip ons before leaving his hotel room. The playing card, with the room number written on it, is still in his pocket though he memorized the number already. He made his way up the stairs not bothering to wait for the elevator knowing he’d risk changing his mind if he did. In what felt like one breath to another he was in front of the door and raising his fist before he could overthink it. Nigel opened the door and a small smile played on his lips as he realized it was Daniel at his door.

Danny didn’t wait for Nigel to speak, and he didn’t want to hear Bryan’s voice again so he reached out and pulled the older man into a searing kiss right at the doorstep. Nigel didn’t pull away; didn't move back and tell Daniel no, tell Daniel this wasn’t actually what he wanted like somehow he knew better than Danny what his own needs and wants were. No, Nigel was licking back into his mouth being an active participant and not making Daniel feel like some creep going after his coworker.

When the air began to cut off and make his chest burn with the need to breath he finally pulled away. Nigel, who had one hand on the small on Dannys back, placed the other on the side of Daniel's face, his thumb rubbing against sore lips.

“Brave boy.”

The exhale that came out of Daniel was bone deep.

#aew #aew imagine #daniel garcia #nigel mcguinness #Daniel Garcia x Nigel mcguinness #wrestleprompts #Loren writes #my fics #my writing #bryan danielson #wheeler yuta #Daniel garcia/Bryan danielson one sided #Daniel garcia/Nigel mcguinness

[quietbatperson]

Week 7: "It's not goodbye, it's see you later." @wrestleprompts

Word Count: 1144 Rating: G (cw: alcohol)  Pairing: Orange Cassidy/Chuck Taylor (AEW) Notes: Set after Orange’s match with Trent, hence the AAC having its old name.

Standing in his silent hotel room Orange thought back on the decisions that had brought him to that point. It had been a long time since there had been a ‘his’ and not a ‘their’ in front of anything. Other than his All Atlantic Championship… and that’s where the issues had begun.

Once again it had been Kip who had torn them apart. This time with his devious mind games rather than the brute force of Miro. Orange shuddered at the memories of rough hands snatching Chuck away before he could even say goodbye. Forcing a microphone in front of him to say those things Orange knew weren’t true but still made his heart ache. Maybe Kip didn’t even know how close to the mark he had gotten back then. Chuck wasn’t only his best friend- he was something much more than that. Something the years had shaped them into together.

There was a television on a plain wooden stand in the corner, mocking him with a reflection of a sad, lonely man when his pacing took him in front of it. He closed his eyes to block it out and thought of happier times, pressed close to Chuck’s side in so many interchangeable rooms as he gave a running commentary of whatever sports match he’d put on. Orange didn’t really pay much attention to any of them outside of wrestling but Chuck’s passion more than made up for his own lack of interest. If he was in a certain kind of mood he’d point out which team member he found the most attractive or wanted to smooch until Orange would finally roll his eyes and cut him off with a kiss of his own. 

His restless legs took him to the minibar next and the tiny overpriced bottles tempting inside. Once upon a time his dark glasses had been for more than appearances. He’d lived that part of his life in a haze, staggering from one match to the next, trying to drown out both the doubters and his own self-doubt. They told him that Orange Cassidy wasn’t supposed to care about anything. So he didn’t. Especially not himself. 

“You’re a mess, OC,” Chuck had said one night, effortlessly lifting him up from the cold concrete floor he had slumped onto. There was a fondness to his tone that Orange didn’t feel like he deserved. Without the wall to support him he buried his face in Chuck’s broad chest instead, trying to hide from him and the whole world in equal measure. Chuck didn’t let him hide for long, pulling off his sunglasses and wiping away the hot tears he hadn’t even noticed had started to fall. The strange smile Chuck gave him was nothing like his usual cocky grin. “It’s okay. I’m a mess too, dude,” he whispered as he kept stroking across his cheek and Orange could only cling on tighter. From then on they had been truly inseparable. When anybody tried to say someone like him didn’t have a place in wrestling Chuck was always there to have his back. There were others who had come and gone but however far away he went Chuck would always be back by his side- in the ring and the home they’d made together- soon enough. Even continents hadn’t been enough to keep them apart, Orange forcing himself to smile every time as he waved him off at the airport gate, ignoring the way the designer sunglasses they could afford now would mist up all the same.

Kip was a whole other entity. The distance between them his schemes had created wasn’t physical but mental. They could still touch and hug but the wedge he had driven between the Best Friends had only grown wider over the weeks. He’d been easy to write off as crazy, sitting with a box on his head and berating the lifeless cardboard rather than admit his own faults. Somehow he’d sharpened that madness into something calculating and dangerous. Even without his newfound allies he was a force to be reckoned with. He’d set his mind on the title but not until he’d taken away everything else Orange loved first. 

When Orange had physically fought Trent in the ring he had barely been able to fight down the treacherous part of himself that liked it. Seeing the hurt in Chuck’s face as he turned back on the ramp was enough to wipe out any pride from his victory. A deep shame filled him and then panic as Trent and Chuck disappeared into the tunnel. He passed by Penelope without a second thought and Kip’s arrogant dancing down the ramp was merely another obstacle. As soon as he was out of sight of the crowd he started running, backpack and the damned title thrown carelessly in Danhausen’s direction. The strange little man followed him almost blindly and Orange wondered if the demon’s own hidden darkness made him immune from the curses of others.

A flash of rainbow in the back caught Orange’s eye and he kept running, any pain in his body after a hard won match forgotten. Trent rounded a corner but almost as if he could hear Orange’s desperate mental begging Chuck looked back once more, freezing on the spot. Chuck held a hand out and nodded to the hidden figure of Trent, who must have carried on his way, before approaching. 

“Please, Chuck,” Orange never usually asked for much. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for. 

“Orange, we can’t. I need to go,” Chuck pleaded in return. 

“Okay,” said Orange, keeping his voice measured. Well practised calm while his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Trent’ll be waiting.” 

“Okay,” Orange echoed. The pounding had reached his ears.  At least this time he would have the chance to say what he’d been denied before… “Bye, Chuck.”

“Orange, wait!” Chuck called out as Orange started to walk away. He brought one of his big hands up to cup his face and turn it towards him. Orange leaned into the touch as Chuck’s thumb brushed across his cheek, scratching at his beard. As they looked into each other’s eyes Chuck’s face softened into the smile Orange thought of privately for him. He opened his mouth then closed it again without saying anything. After a moment he said something so quietly Orange was barely sure he had spoken at all, “Later.” 

Later. Orange had used his chance to say goodbye but Chuck hadn’t returned the sentiment. Chuck was gone but even this time wouldn’t be forever. Daring to hope, Orange moved with once uncharacteristic speed and threw open the hotel window as wide as it allowed. The previously lifeless room was filled with the noise of distant birds singing and the thrum of the city below. “See you later,” he whispered, letting the breeze carry the words away. 

#wrestleprompts #chorange #wrestling fanfiction #aew fanfiction #qbp writes