Chapter Text
There’s a clock on the wall across from him, some ancient analog face with hands pointing to the nine and twelve. He’s not sure how he got here, tattered sofa upholstery under his cheek, and where here is is hazy as the smoke-filled air as well. Some house party after his match earlier, plenty of douchey frat boys everywhere he turns. Fucking Sami’s idea, probably. Not sure where he is, either, but probably around somewhere.
But what Mox does remember are his words, spoken over the tail end of the guy next to him’s derision. “Nex’ one,” he’d slurred, righting his drink quickly when he tipped it dangerously to the side, licking up the neck of the bottle to catch the spilled droplets before they fell. “Next person through that door, I’ll show you. Can charm the pants offa anyone. I’ll get ‘em in bed. You’ll see.”
Everything’s a blur of light, indistinct colors shifting into each other. There’s already a pleasant buzz in his veins, the post-match high, only heightened by the alcohol he’s downed, when he sees him. Everything’s a relaxing gray, soft and muted, mellow around his heavy body, when suddenly bright, bright color. It’s startling, blinding him for a moment, and Mox closes his eyes and growls before peering over again. Guy’s still there, but looking at him a second time is a little easier, more of a glow than a blazing light. He’s glancing around the room, definitely seems unimpressed with whatever he sees.
Everything’s blurry, but even Mox knows, looking at the stranger, that he can’t say the same.
A quick turn around, and the tall frame disappears back through the doorway. Mox blinks once, twice, tries to clear the sunspots from his eyes. A hand claps him heavily on the shoulder. He bares his teeth before shaking it off. “There ya go, champ,” that guy next to him is laughing again. Looks like a total dickbag, wearing a fucking polo and everything. “Good luck with him.”
“Good fuckin’ luck enjoying fantasies while I go out and get the real thing,” Mox clenches his hand and makes to jerk himself, rolling his hips up and into his fist, punctuating it with an “Unh! Unh!” Dickbag Polo shoots him a disgusted glare, and Mox slaps the side of his face a couple times with a laugh. Kid might be fun, if there weren’t bigger and brighter things waiting for him outside this room. He manages to stumble to his feet, slow and sluggish, and chase the trail of fading light out the door. Doesn’t realize he’s drifting, leaning to one side until his shoulder slams into the doorway.
The impact makes him scowl, sours his mood a little. He fishes a lone, crumpled cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, sucking in the bitter coffee taste. Soothes him enough to remember he’s on a mission. Right. His glance flickers around the room, but the fuzzy glow isn’t anywhere to be seen. There’s a quiet looking room behind a slightly cracked door, and Moxley pushes it open to glance, before sliding inside with a smirk, closing it behind him. Bingo.
It’s a kitchen, just the two of them in here. Must have been the lights playing tricks, that brightness, because up close, he can see the dude’s face, his eyes as dark as the rest of him. The jackass has sunglasses hooked in his shirt, despite the fact that they’re inside and it must be near midnight. He’s sitting at the table, beer sitting in front of him, and Moxley grabs one of the other chairs, straddles it to sit the wrong way around. He takes another drag.
“Not into the celebrations?” he asks, letting the smoke drift out between the words. Big Guy squints at the cigarette unhappily but stays silent about it, glancing back down at the the phone he’s playing around with.
“I’m just waiting on some friends, so I can get out of here.”
“Oh, don’t wanna go home alone, huh? I can help with that. I’m more than willing. I’ll get you in bed, tuck you in real nice and everything.” He leers at the stranger, barely restraining himself from licking his lips. Maybe he does, a little. Over the top, probably, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.
“Are you serious, right now?” That gaze flicks back up to Moxley’s face and sticks there, like it hadn’t really looked at or taken him in until now. Mox smiles big and wide back, perfectly aware that it shows off his dimples to their best advantage. Makes him seem less threatening. Or so he’s heard. Not that this guy needs to worry about that—he looks pretty menacing on his own. “Ain’t there anyone else here that’s caught your eye so you can leave me alone?”
Mox smile falls a little at that. “C’mon, you honestly saying I haven’t caught yours?” The more he thinks about it, the more indignant he becomes. He’s easily of a higher caliber than any other guy he’s seen here, and most likely than any of the ladies, too. Another drag of the cigarette in his now shaking hand helps to calm him—the dim overhead light flickers as he blows the smoke straight at this guy’s face. Most of it ultimately dissipates before it reaches its target. “I’m a veritable banquet for the eyes.”
Said eyes sweep over him once more and the stare turns dark before it’s directed away from him and back at that phone. “Yeah, a banquet of moldy bread crusts and stale beer, maybe.”
Mox is actually left speechless for a moment. Never before has he been so insulted in his own house—any house, he amends silently, though, honestly, any house he steps into is his house. And by a complete stranger, even. This utter asshole glances back up at him with a completely dismissive air and asks, “You still here?”
He reaches over the table, at risk of tipping himself all the way out of this rickety chair, and snatches the damn phone out of the guy’s hands. Over the tail end of his enraged hey!, Mox slams it down on the table and falls back into his seat. “You can have this back when you start appreciating the gift of my presence, which I am generously giving you.” He has this hulking man’s attention now, fully on him. He has a feeling that glare wouldn’t be reduced any by the sunglasses he’s wearing by not wearing.
“Wasn’t aware I should be concerned with the offerings of ants.” And Mox is laughing, he can’t stop fucking laughing because he’s so infuriated and he’s so horny and this guy’s voice has the unique quality of sounding so smooth but somehow exactly like a fork scraped over a glass and he’s not sure there’s anything perfect in the world, but this moment is a close contender.
“You fucking prick. Awfully high and mighty, full of yourself, aren’t you? What are you compensating for?” His cigarette has burnt so low that it’s starting to singe his fingers. What a waste. He puts it out on the table, watching the dark, ashy burn mark form.
The guy is still looking at him disapprovingly, and it only gets worse after that display. Mox wonders if that’s his default setting, or if it’s all just for him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
And the thing is, yeah, Mox would, and this dude doesn’t seem the least bit disinterested anymore, engaging in whatever this is with him. This weird, competitive, reverse flirting. Mox shifts on the unforgiving wood against his ass, realizes with a start that he’s half hard already. Wonders if Tall, Dark and Haughty is, too.
“Okay, okay, enough,” he starts, with the (mostly) full intention of making peace between them, he swears, but the rest comes out anyway, “Think we got off on the wrong dick.” Harsh Gaze over there looks incredulous, that ever present frown deepening.
“Uh, you sure you don’t mean wrong foot?” he asks, and Mox grins toothily at him.
“Nah, I meant wrong dick. But I would still like to get off on yours.” Guy’s eyes widen momentarily before he grins and stifles a laugh, eyes down and away, shakes his head and smoothes his face immediately after like he’s trying to hide it. It’s one part annoying and three parts charming, and Mox hates absolutely all of it. “I’m Jon. Moxley. You?”
There’s a pause that seems to stretch out for several minutes while those dark eyes stare at him, trying to puzzle out if this is some kind of trap, and obviously it is, because Mox has no intention of leaving here without him. But he can see the instant the change occurs, when something in that intense face shifts and locks into place, knows he’s said or done something right and he’s been granted access, now. “Leakee,” he says eventually, shaking a couple pieces of hair out of his eyes. Those things look like they could stare through solid steel. His lips feel dry. He licks them a little.
“Seriously? Is that your first name?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, leaning further over the back of the chair. The two legs behind him raise off the ground. Feels like he’s going to spill out onto the table at any second. “Last name? Or is it, like, one name? Like Bono? Because if so, man, I don’t think you pull it off.”
Leakee stares at him, unamused, because apparently the guy’s as hot-and-cold as the showers in Moxley’s shitty motel rooms. “It’s a last name. Nobody calls me by my first name.”
“Which is?” Moxley presses, though it doesn’t matter in the slightest. He doesn’t know why he’s still in this uncomfortable wooden chair, talking to Leakee, when there are probably twenty other people at this party he could fuck with a quarter of the effort he’s putting in here. But, well, he made a bet. And he’s ice cold in everything he does. He doesn’t lose. “C’mon, I showed you mine,” he whines with a little laugh when Leakee hesitates.
He breathes out slowly, like he’s facing the executioner’s block. Really, unless it’s Francis or some shit, the nerves really aren’t necessary. It’s like pulling fucking teeth with this guy. “Roman,” he says, not dropping eye contact with Mox for a second. “It’s Roman.”
Mox takes in Leakee’s statuesque face, what looks like it could be a very nice physique under the ridiculous jacket he’s wearing, and scoffs. “Yeah. Yeah, of course it fuckin’ is.”
He rests his head on top of his arms, gazes over at Leakee who does not appear to understand the obvious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just, you look like you could be a marble carving of a gladiator or a god or some shit, I don’t know. A god that will be praying to me, tonight.”
“Oh, my God,” Leakee mumbles under his breath, “not giving this up, are you?” He leans across the table, gets closer to Mox than he has been so far. “You’re pretty confident about that, considering you haven’t even bought me a drink or dinner.” And Mox has been fighting his whole life, one way or another—he’s well aware of what a challenge sounds like when he hears it. It’s his time to strike.
He lets out a hum that could be construed as agreement. “Might. You’re still leaving with me, either way.”
There’s another long pause while Leakee considers this. He’s thinking about it entirely too much when it’s just about two hot dudes getting off. There’s a huff of breath right before he finally answers, disgusted with himself, maybe. “Okay.”
They don’t stop for anymore beer and there are no diners open, but Leakee leads him to a little house a couple blocks away anyway, climbing the creaky steps of the front porch. Leakee puts his key in the lock, twists it, and—nothing. He repeats the motion again, but the key doesn’t turn. The cool October night air is blowing down the back of Moxley’s shirt, raising goosebumps on his arms.
“How much did you fuckin’ drink, anyway?” he scowls, snatching the key and trying it for himself. It’s stuck in place. Leakee glares at him as he wiggles it back and forth.
“Apparently too much, if I’m letting strays follow me home.”
Mox gives the key a hard twist once more, but to no avail. They’re locked out. He can tell a lot of stories, Mox can, but he never thought there would come a time when he would be cockblocked by a door.
Throwing his head back in frustration, he catches sight of the window above the awning, open to let the mid-autumn breeze in. He quirks his mouth for a second, trying to calculate the distance.
“Boost me,” he demands, turning back to Leakee, who’s pinning him with a stare that says he in no way plans to.
“Not a chance,” he confirms, shaking his head. “I’m not giving you free reign in my house to steal shit or whatever.” He’s shaking in his own jacket, however, and the temperature seems to be dropping by the minute. Mox could take him back to the motel, but, well, he’s a little turned around and is going to have enough trouble finding it on his own without constant nagging at his side, and it’s fucking cold and he wants to be indoors now.
“Jesus Christ, do you wanna get into the place or not?” he asks, stomping his feet to try and warm his legs. Leakee regards him much like a parent watching a toddler’s tantrum they’ve seen fifty times over. “You have, what, fifty pounds on me, champ? You ain’t comin’ anywhere near my shoulders.” He rubs his hands together, wishes he hadn’t wasted his last cigarette.
For someone so contrary, Leakee’s resolve is remarkably weak. Two minutes later, Mox has one foot in his palm and both hands gripping the hopefully sturdy windowsill. He’s not ready when Leakee shoves him upward, launching him halfway through the opening, his stomach landing hard on the bottom edge and knocking the wind out of him. He claws himself through the window, rolling into the empty bedroom, and lies on the floor, trying to catch his breath again. Outside, there’s a hissing sound, and he’s not sure if Leakee’s snickering at him or if it’s just the wind in the leaves.
When he gets to his feet, Mox surveys the room in the darkness. Clean, mostly empty, pretty bare. A temporary dwelling, at best. There’s a dim light coming from the hallway, illuminating several necklaces on the wooden dresser across from the foot of the bed, and the pendant dangling from one leather strap catches his eye. Like two cups next to each other. He wasn’t going to take anything, but this is cool, and if he’s going to be treated with nothing but suspicion, Mox would rather earn it. He pockets the thing.
When he finds his way to the front door and pulls it open, Leakee rushes through as if he'd been pressed against the wood, listening for every move Mox was making. He nearly tumbles to the floor under the sudden weight, catching his balance on the couch behind him.
“Oof. You’re a little pushy, anyone ever tell you?” Moxley makes a show of brushing off his jacket after he rights himself, but Leakee grabs the collar of it and reels him in for a kiss. It’s rough and angry, as if he’s upset that Mox came around and ruined a perfectly good evening of sitting around being antisocial and miserable, but Mox didn’t ask him to come walking into that living room just then. He could have left Leakee alone, if he hadn’t. He could have let him be.
“Think that’s you,” Leakee mutters, backing Mox against the sofa again and pushing his jacket down his shoulders. “Was enjoying my night until you strong-armed me into this.”
Mox snorts, pulling at Leakee’s jacket in turn. “Yeah, right, seemed like it. And now you’re gonna love it, so. You’re welcome.” He dives in to steal another kiss, dragging the sleeves down, running his hands over Leakee’s arms after the extra fabric is removed. What he finds gives him pause.
He tears his mouth away when it begins to run again. “You asshole. Fucking chiseled Roman granite muscled motherfucker.”
He doesn’t even know what words his lips are forming—Leakee’s hands moving up under his t-shirt don’t help with it any. Mox is hardly one to lose his mind over a few nearly chaste touches, but the slow speed with which Leakee’s fingers drag across his lower stomach is the worst good thing he’s felt in recent memory. Mox groans when short fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh there.
Leakee is smug, not just the look on his face but the entire air surrounding him, and those sunglasses are still, amazingly enough, hooked in his shirt. Mox grabs at them, puts them on his own face and pulls Leakee into another kiss, ignoring the nosepads smashing into his face. The edge of discomfort, little bursts of pain, just helps the whole thing feel more real.
When they break apart again, both panting harshly, Leakee rips the glasses off his face and drops them gently on the floor. “You in the habit of touching things that aren’t yours?” He pulls Mox’s shirt off, his palm resting against the base of his throat. It sends a thrill up his spine.
“I’ve got my hands all over you, don’t I?” To prove his point, he pushes Leakee’s shirt up and over his head, dropping it to the ground. Pauses again, distracted by the tattoo he uncovers. “The hell is this?” Mox asks, tracing over the triangles on his shoulder. The thing is tribal, bold lines interlocking intricately, flowing seamlessly, and he gets the distinct impression that it’s not something someone like him should be touching. He keeps his fingers there, anyway.
“Just a tribal tattoo. Samoan.” The way Leakee says it, a little guarded, eyes somewhere else when he glances up, gives Mox the impression that it’s far from just a tattoo.
He lets his fingertip errantly trace a band once more. “Cool.” But it’s time to get back to business. Short work is made of his belt, and the jeans he was wearing pool on the floor with it. He’s about to return the favor, finally get them both naked, when Leakee suddenly shoves him over the back of the sofa.
Mox can’t quite catch himself on the seat, flips onto the floor in front of it. “Fuckin’ ow, what the hell is wrong with you?” he complains loudly, but his mouth goes a little dry when Leakee walks around toward him, hands pushing his own jeans off his hips slow and dirty. He’s not laughing out loud at Mox, but by the time he’s dropping to his knees on the floor, too, Mox can see his eyes are.
His answer is simply pulling Mox’s black briefs down and off, fucking finally, casting them aside where Mox sees he’s laid a condom he must have pulled from his pocket or something. He takes his own off, but Mox starts growling up at him, because he has an awful fucking lot of skin on display and none of it is being touched.
When those hands are on him again, they’re slow and forceful along his sides, across his nipple, and what little patience he had saved up breaks. “Oh my God, would you just fucking touch me already?” Mox snaps, trying to dig his torso further into the floor and his hips up. Leakee scowls at him but finally acquiesces, wrapping a big hand around his cock and giving it a few strokes. He leans down to suck a bruise into Mox’s hip, and when his hand squeezes just right, Mox lets out this completely whorish moan that may have been humiliating if he had any shame to speak of. Leakee looks up with a grin.
“You know, you’re embarrassingly easy. Let someone hurl insults at you for twenty minutes and beg for dick anyw--”
Mox grabs the back of Leakee’s head by his hair, hovering just over the head of his cock, and pushes him down onto it. His mouth is so wet and hot, and better put to use this way. “I’m sorry, what was that?” He can’t get the rest of his smart ass comment out, though, because after leveling another glare at him—those are quickly losing their effectiveness—Leakee fucking gets after it, a combination of hand, tongue, and the slightest hint of teeth that’s just not quite enough. The scrape of them against his cock makes Mox wish for bite marks over the rest of his body.
When his hand wraps itself a little too tightly in Leakee’s hair, he pulls off, and Mox groans at the loss of his mouth. He’s rewarded, though, with the feel of fingers skirting across the v of his hip and down across his inner thigh, tips pressing against him. Something’s missing, though. “Lube?” he asks, as Leakee blinks down at him, looking wide-eyed and prettier than he has any right to. “Don’t mind it burning, but I don’t fucking want it to hurt.”
“It’s upstairs,” Leakee replies, looking equal parts startled and chagrined. And he fucking should, with Mox here under him practically dying to get boned for the first time in months. “I could go get it, but I didn’t think you’d want me to interrupt.” His hips have been moving in a gentle rock against Mox ever since he stopped sucking him off and moved further up his body, his cock rubbing against Mox’s thigh almost, almost like he’s fucking him already, and he guesses he can see Leakee’s point.
“Fine,” he sighs, and pulls Leakee’s hand up to his mouth, nearly causing the other man to collapse on top of him. He sucks the two longest fingers into his mouth, coats them with saliva, and is pleasantly surprised when Leakee doesn’t look at him with disgust. His eyes are darker than they were before, and they’re intent on Mox’s face, so he makes a show of it, moving them in and out, dragging his tongue up the side.
He drops the hand when he’s done, and a few seconds later, a finger presses against him. "You know," he says, before another movement can be made, "I'm not some fucking virgin. You can go get that lube, now."
Leakee grumbles to himself as he gets up, and Mox watches his ass disappear up the stairs. Fucking beautiful. Makes him regret his earlier decision to get fucked, because that ass is screaming to be wrecked. Leakee is obviously confident, and with good reason. Doesn't mean Mox won't enjoy taking him down a few pegs.
He returns quickly enough, tube in hand, cock bobbing against his stomach as he walks. His body is glorious, better than those fucking statues and paintings and all that shit. Mox covets it in every possible way imaginable.
When Leakee drops to his knees in front of him again, eyes down turned to open the bottle but in a way that could be mistaken for submission, Mox groans loudly because there's only so many sights a man can take. Leakee glances up from in between Mox's thighs, fire in his eyes, and that's even hotter.
"Gonna blow your mind," he tells Leakee, who snorts as Mox shimmies down and presses his ass against his cock.
Leakee smirks down at him. "Is that so."
A finger presses into him without warning. It only pushes in a few times, barely enough to even get a feel for it, before the second one is joining it. That takes his breath away—it really has been a long time since he’s been on this end. “Fuck,” he bites out, tries to make it sound sharp, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” until his lips are still moving but nothing is coming out anymore. Those fingers are scissoring inside of him, and when they curl just right, white hot stars burst in front of his open eyes and he remembers just how Leakee looked in that dirty, rundown living room. Immediately, the extremities disappear.
“Hands and knees,” Leakee demands after rolling the condom on, eyes narrowing when Mox doesn’t immediately comply. Leakee’s known him for, like, an hour and a half by now. He should know it’s not that easy.
“No way, I’m not turning my back to you,” Mox says, even though he doesn’t really give one shit about that. It just sounds like something Leakee would say, and he wants to spoil even a little bit of the other man’s enjoyment for making this so difficult. He doesn’t like the sensation of being this far underwater, out in the deep end. “I’ll ride you.”
Leakee just stares for a second, then scoffs. “I’m not getting rug burn all over my back for this.” Like it’s okay for Mox to. Par for the course, as far as he can tell. Another pause, for a moment, then, “Like this, I guess,” and lifts Mox’s legs up to rest over his shoulders.
“Woah ho ho,” Mox’s eyes widen at his new position. “Not that flexible, don’t really want to be broken in half.” Leakee actually looks like he’s gonna consider that, for a split second, before he bends down to kiss Mox again, folding him in the process.
“Think you’ll live,” he tells Mox, who’s feeling out of breath already, and, after a moment where the head of his dick slips over his hole, slides into him with one solid push. He’s vaguely aware of a strange choking sound that sounds like it’s coming from him. It’s too much too fast, stinging and burning a cadence of goodfiregood up his spine, and a long, drawn-out moan escapes him. Leakee waits a few seconds, choosing now, of all times, to be a fucking gentleman, until Mox kicks his heel into the area where he thinks his kidney is and he gives a grunt before starting to move.
The way he’s moving—it’s not slow, but Mox doesn’t know what else to call it. Feels very deliberate without being methodical, like the emphatic way you press the pen into the very last period of a note you really, really mean. He’s not sure what that means, whether it’s just Leakee’s style or if he just really, really wanted to fuck Mox. Because from this angle, the way he’s looking down at him, it seems a whole lot like the latter, and ever since that first flash of brightness, Mox really, really wanted to be fucked by him, too.
Leakee grabs his wrist and pins it down, though Mox isn’t going fucking anywhere, and his other hand is pressing against his lower stomach, balancing him. Their rhythm is gradually picking up speed and Leakee is screwing him deep enough he can’t quite catch his breath, hair falling in his face and those dark eyes watching him closely from behind it. Mox regrets not taking him up on his original suggestion for position, because it’s weird, being this close to Leakee’s face and looking into his eyes with Leakee looking back.
A hand wraps around his dick, timed perfectly with his thrusts, because apparently everything about this asshole is as close to perfect as humanly possible. Mox isn’t going to be able to stand, tomorrow, but this makes it worth it--the ache of being filled with a nice dick, the pulls on his cock accompanied by slight twists of the wrist that’re so close to how he touches himself, the way it sparks in his veins and sets his teeth on edge and feels like his entire body is being touched.
“Yeah, yeah, right fuckin’ there,” he guides, his vision lit up by brightness every few strokes, and over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he hears Leakee mutter something that sounds like I know how to fuck, and, yeah, yeah, the man does.
Leakee is thrusting into him so forcefully it’s jarring his head around, pressing Mox’s imprint into the carpet, and Mox idly thinks how it’s good they’re not on a bed, it would probably break, and then Leakee would have to sleep on the floor and remember how they’re sleeping on the floor, right now, which doesn’t sound so bad, actually, and he’d really like to be able to claim that he’d broken a bed, once, would add so much fuel to his future conquests—
Then Leakee tries to snap him in half, again, leaning far forward enough to rest his forearm over Mox’s throat. The pressure on his trachea is unsettling and hot when it’s already become hard to breathe, he can’t concentrate on anything but the waves of good radiating from low in his abdomen and it’s funny, he’s trying to force a giggle out but it won’t leave his mouth, and maybe there won’t be enough air to fill his lungs again when they’re done but it seems like he could survive anything, right now, and—
It’s over too soon, but not soon enough, and the combination of once again sucking air into his lungs coupled with the orgasm is as intense as anything he’s ever felt. Mox twists his head to the side, bites into Leakee’s arm as it braces him. Leakee strokes his cock a few more times, just before it becomes too sensitive, and whispers, “Y’like that, Jon?” like it’s a secret they share, like it would be okay to admit he did.
It’s the first time Leakee’s said his name, and it’s the wrong one. “No one calls me Jon,” he challenges, hard as it is to get words out in his current position. “‘S stupid. Call me Mox.”
Leakee’s laughing at him, Mox can tell before he even hears it, can feel it in his thrusts, says breathlessly right before he comes, “Jon.”
He dresses quickly, after, pulling on the armor of his clothing in the always awkward aftermath. Leakee’s stretched out on the couch when he breaks the silence. “Should we, like, exchange numbers or something?”
Moxley laughs, slides his shirt on over his head. “I’m just an ant with nothing to offer, aren’t I? And I don’t know that you’re worth remembering.” Which is a lie, he’s gonna remember being this thoroughly fucked for a long time, but when will he be in Georgia next? He’s never gonna see this guy again. “‘Sides, I won my bet, now. And you have a wacky story to tell your grandkids someday about that time you let some gutter trash break into your house.” He leans over the sofa and pinches Leakee’s cheek quick before he pulls back and away from Mox. There’s a storm brewing on his face. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s not the silence from earlier, charged with electric anticipation. Mox almost misses the derisive laughter.
“Get your lock checked, man. I’ll see myself out,” he calls over his shoulder, out of the front door before he has to hear any of the asshole comments at his expense.
He’s all the way to the main road before he realizes he doesn’t even know the guy he made that bet with.