From Shadows to Forever

by VioletPhan

Summary:

No one ever knew. Not Adam, not the locker room, not even the fans who watched the candles burn and the blood spill. But behind every ritual, every stare across the ring, every bruise hidden beneath black sleeves... was a love that spanned decades. From the shadows of the Ministry to quiet nights on the porch, this is the story of Jay and the Deadman told one moment at a time.

Notes:

Call me crazy for what I'm thinking or writing. I really wanted to see how many characters I could pair Jay aka Christian with. I paired Jay with Undertaker when I happened to watch the Attitude Era, and when Christian joined the Ministry. And I thought..... Why not? Even though they didn't have much interaction after that.

Each chapter is a different story, so even if you miss or read the later chapters before the first one, it won't affect. I'm not good at writing long fics (but will try in the future). English is not my native language, so if you have any suggestions, please send a message or leave a comment.

More tags will be added later.

Chapter 1: Shadows and Candles

The moon hung low, a pale sickle caught in the skeletal rafters of the cathedral chamber’s stained-glass window. Red, violet, and amber light spilled through the lattice, shimmering across the worn stone floor like ghostly flames. Midnight had long passed, and the arena above was a distant memory, its roars and chaos muted by layers of earth and stone. Jay moved like a shadow through the quiet halls, his boots whispering against the cold flagstones. The chill clung to his skin, seeping through his leather jacket, and he pulled his heavy cloak tighter around his shoulders. He glanced back once, no sign of Gangrel or Edge, no stir from the Brood’s chamber. Good. No one would follow.

He knew the path by heart, needing no torch to guide him. Down the winding steps, where the air grew heavier with the scent of damp stone. Past the crumbling altar, its edges worn by time and neglect, untouched by even the Ministry’s boldest. Through the narrow passage where the cold smelled ancient, older than the rituals that bound him to the Brood. His pulse quickened, not from fear but from the pull of what waited beyond the wooden door tucked behind a forgotten arch. The iron handle creaked under his hand, but Jay slipped inside with the quiet reverence of a believer entering sacred ground.

The chamber was still. Waiting.

And then, he saw him.

The Undertaker stood at the far end, a towering silhouette against the faint glow of moonlight. His long black coat trailed like smoke, pooling at his boots, and his presence filled the cavernous room like a heartbeat. His gloved hand hovered over a single candle, then sparked it to life. One by one, he moved along the perimeter, lighting each dusty candle in a slow, deliberate ritual as if performing a ritual. The flames flickered, casting golden halos on the stone walls, pushing back the darkness that had cloaked the chamber for decades. Wax dripped, pooling like tears, but Taker’s movements were steady, unhurried.

Jay watched in silence, his breath catching. Taker never used candles for himself. He thrived in the dark. He had no need for warmth. No use for comfort. But he lit them anyway, every night Jay came here. For him. The thought settled in Jay’s chest, heavy and warm, like the cloak draped over his shoulders. His lips curved into a faint smile, barely visible in the flickering light, but enough to carry a story of its own.

When the final candle flickered to life Taker turned, his green eyes catching the candlelight, softer than they ever were in the ring or among the Ministry’s shadows. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Jay moved forward, slowly and quietly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly. His boots scuffed softly, the rustle of his cloak echoing in the vast chamber. In the center of the room, Taker had already spread a thick black cloak across the cold stone floor, its edges frayed but soft, waiting for Jay like an unspoken promise.

Without a word, Jay knelt, then lowered himself onto the cloak, curling his legs close and burying his hands in the folds of his own robe. He looked small like this, fragile against the towering stone walls, his blond hair catching the molten glow of the candles. The shadows danced across his face, deepening the curve of his lashes, softening the sharp edges he wore as Christian in the Brood. Taker approached silently, his boots soundless despite his size, and knelt beside him. Then he sat fully, his weight settled into the earth like a mountain at rest.

Jay didn’t resist when those strong arms reached out. He leaned into the pull, letting himself be drawn gently into Taker’s lap, his back resting against the broad chest that seemed to hold the weight of the world. The leather of Taker’s coat was cool against Jay’s cheek, but the warmth of the man beneath it was enough. Taker draped the heavy cloak around them both, its folds wrapping them like a second embrace, shielding them from the world beyond these walls.

Taker’s hand moved slowly through Jay’s hair, fingers threading through the blond strands in a slow, unconscious rhythm. Like wind through wheat fields, like waves lapping at a shore, the motion soothed something deep in Jay’s soul. He let out a soft breath, his cheek pressed to Taker’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. The tension that had followed him from the Brood’s chamber, the weight of their rituals, the sharp edge of Edge’s ambition, the haze of Gangrel’s fervor all melted away, leaving only this moment.

Neither spoke. Words didn’t belong here. The silence was their language, more intimate than any sound. It held everything: the trust Jay placed in Taker’s arms, the care in Taker’s quiet rituals, the unspoken bond that grew in these stolen nights. Out there, Jay was Christian, all smirks and swagger, a vampire bound to the Brood’s blood-soaked theatrics. Here, he was just Jay, and Taker asked nothing more of him.

Jay’s thoughts drifted, lulled by the steady rhythm of Taker’s hand. He thought of the candles, their flames burning for him because Taker chose to light them. He thought of the Ministry, its dark machinations swirling above, and how none of them reached this chamber. He thought of Taker, who stood like a pillar against chaos, yet softened for him in ways no one else would ever see. The Undertaker didn’t sleep, didn’t rest, but he stayed, holding Jay now breathing slowed, his body growing heavy with sleep.

The candles burned on, their swaying shadows painting the walls in slow, hypnotic patterns. Outside, the night grew colder, the wind howling through cracks in the cathedral stones, but within this sanctuary, there was only stillness. Only warmth. Jay’s last conscious thought was of the flames, their golden light, a quiet rebellion against the dark, kindled for him. Because Taker cared, in his silent, unshakable way.

And in that sacred silence, Jay slept.

Chapter 2: Forbidden Bath

The roar of the crowd lingered in Jay’s ears, a fading echo swallowed by the low hum of pipes and the occasional groan of settling concrete beneath the arena. His body screamed with every step, muscles burning, bruises blooming across his ribs like dark flowers. One arm hung limp, useless after a hard fall from the top rope, and a crust of blood clung to his hairline, matting his blond strands. Pain was part of the act, part of being Christian, the Brood’s sharp-edged vampire, all swagger and defiance in the ring. But tonight, it felt heavier, sinking into his bones. He didn’t complain. He never did.

He staggered against the cold corridor wall, a quiet gasp slipping past his lips. The dim light flickered, casting jagged shadows, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. Then a shadow fell over him, larger, steadier, inevitable. Large hands, leather-gloved and certain, slipped beneath his thighs and shoulders, lifting him effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing. Jay didn’t resist. He knew that presence: the scent of earth and smoke, the steady beat of a heart that rarely revealed itself.

The Undertaker didn’t speak. He never needed to. He just carried him.

Jay let his head rest against Taker’s chest, the leather of his coat cool against his cheek. The pain in his side pulsed, a dull rhythm, but he focused on the warmth of Taker’s body, the faint thud of his heartbeat. They moved through a passage Jay hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind a rusted grate in the arena’s underbelly. It was deeper, colder, older than the rest, as if the modern world hadn’t touched it. Torches lined the stone walls, not electric bulbs, but real flames, their amber glow dancing like specters. Jay’s eyes fluttered, unsure if this was real or a dream woven from exhaustion.

The corridor opened into a cavern, vast and hushed. Steam curled upward from a shallow spring, its surface glowing faintly, lit from below by something unseen, holy, haunted, or both. The water shimmered, its mist weaving through the air like whispered secrets. Jay blinked, awe cutting through the fog of pain. He’d never seen this place, never even heard whispers of it among the Ministry. It felt like a secret Taker had kept, even from his own.

Taker knelt beside the spring, setting Jay down with a care that belied his towering frame. His gloved hands moved with surgical precision, peeling away the torn remnants of Jay’s shirt to reveal pale skin mottled with bruises. The marks were fresh, dark, and angry, spreading across his ribs and shoulder. Taker’s touch was reverent, never rushed, never cruel. He traced one bruise with his thumb, a faint frown creasing his brow, then slipped off his gloves, revealing hands scarred and calloused from years in the ring. He dipped them into the water, the surface rippling under his touch.

A low murmur rumbled from Taker’s chest, words Jay couldn’t understand. Latin, maybe, or something older, from a time before arenas and spotlights. The water shimmered where his fingers moved, then settled into a still, almost sentient calm, as if it were listening. Jay watched, mesmerized, his breath shallow. The air smelled of minerals and ancient stone, tinged with the faint smoke of Taker’s presence.

“Easy,” Taker said, his voice a low rumble, the first word he’d spoken. He guided Jay toward the spring, one hand steadying his back. Jay winced as he eased into the water, the warmth stinging his bruises before soothing them. He sank to his collarbone, a sigh escaping as the heat seeped into his aching muscles, loosening the knots of pain. The water felt alive, wrapping around him like a second skin, washing away the grime of the match.

Taker followed, kneeling behind him, his powerful thighs framing Jay’s smaller frame. The water barely reached Taker’s waist, but he seemed unconcerned, his focus entirely on Jay. His hands moved to Jay’s hair, fingers working through the blood-crusted strands with a gentleness that made Jay’s chest tighten. Water trickled down his neck, warm and cleansing, as Taker washed away the evidence of the night’s brutality. Another hand brushed along Jay’s arm, over his ribs, pausing at each bruise as if mapping them, committing them to memory. Each touch was deliberate, an offering, neither hungry nor pitying, just care, pure and overwhelming.

Jay’s breath hitched. No one had ever touched him like this. Not the fleeting grips of lovers, not the rough camaraderie of the locker room. This was different, sacred, like the candles Taker lit for him in their hidden chamber. His head dropped back against Taker’s shoulder, the damp leather of Taker’s coat grounding him. “You don’t have to…” he started, his voice barely above the ripple of water, raw with vulnerability.

Taker didn’t answer. His hands spoke instead, smoothing away the sweat, the blood, the invisible weight Jay carried from match to match, night after night. Every motion was deliberate, a ritual as old as the spring itself. Jay’s throat tightened, the warmth of the water and Taker’s touch stripping away the armor he wore as Christian. Out there, he was a performer, a pawn in the Brood’s blood-soaked theatrics, the Ministry’s dark games. Here, he was just Jay, fragile and human, and Taker held him like he was something precious.

“No one’s ever touched me like this,” Jay whispered, the words slipping out, shaky and raw, a confession he hadn’t meant to voice. His eyes stung, not from pain but from the weight of it, the care, the silence, the way Taker saw him when no one else did.

A pause, heavy and still. Then Taker leaned forward, his shadow enveloping Jay, and pressed his lips gently to Jay’s forehead, just between the brows. The kiss burned, not with lust or power, but with something older, unspoken, sacred. Jay’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath catching. The world beyond the spring, the arena, the Brood, and the Ministry faded into mist.

In that hidden cavern, far from blood and fire, titles and pain, there was only water, breath, and the steady beat of two hearts in the dark. Jay let himself melt into Taker’s embrace, the warmth of the spring and the weight of those hands anchoring him. The silence between them held more than words ever could, a promise forged in the glow of the forbidden spring.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 3: Marked in Secret

The chamber beneath the arena was a furnace of candlelight, the air heavy with smoke, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Robes rustled like whispers in the dark, chains clinked softly, and Latin chants echoed off the stone walls, their meaning lost to time but their weight undeniable. The Ministry of Darkness stood in a wide circle, their faces cloaked in shadow, eyes gleaming with fervor as the ancient ritual unfolded. It wasn’t their first initiation Jay had seen others marked, bound to the Ministry’s cause, but tonight, the air crackled with something different, something unspoken.

Jay stood at the center, shirtless, his pale skin glowing under the flickering flames. His wrists were bound with black ribbon, loose enough to be symbolic but tight enough to remind him of his place. His chin was lifted, his blue eyes calm, though his pulse thrummed beneath his skin. He didn’t flinch as the High Ritual Dagger passed from hand to hand, its obsidian hilt catching the light. The circle of robed figures watched, their chants rising, until the blade reached the one man who could wield it with true purpose.

The Undertaker stepped forward.

His presence was a thunderclap held in silence, his long black coat trailing like a shadow across the stone floor. The others stepped back, their voices fading to a low hum, as if the room itself bowed to him. Jay met his gaze, steady and unafraid. He had known this moment would come, had accepted it with the quiet grace that defined him, not as Christian of The Brood, but as Jay, the man who trusted Taker beyond reason.

Taker raised the dagger, turning it slightly so the firelight danced along its edge. His gloved hand was steady, his green eyes unreadable to the others but heavy with meaning for Jay alone. Without a word, he took Jay’s left wrist, his touch firm but gentle, and drew the blade across the skin in a precise, curving line. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was deliberate, tracing a sigil older than the Ministry, older than the arenas they filled with spectacle. A symbol of binding. Of belonging. Blood welled up, glistening like dark wine in the candlelight, and trailed down Jay’s forearm in thin, sacred lines.

Jay’s jaw clenched, a faint hiss escaping his lips, but he didn’t cry out. The pain was sharp, fleeting, nothing compared to the bruises and scars he carried from the ring. He held Taker’s gaze, the world narrowing to the space between them, the dagger, the blood, the unspoken truth that this mark was more than ritual.

The Ministry’s chants grew louder, a crescendo of approval, their voices echoing like a storm. To them, this was theatrics, a show of power to cement Jay’s place in their ranks. They cheered as Taker raised Jay’s arm high, the blood dripping onto the stone floor, a sacrifice to their cause. The circle tightened, robes swaying, faces alight with zeal. But none of them noticed the way Taker looked at Jay. None of them saw the silence that passed between them, heavy with a truth the Ministry could never claim.

This wasn’t for them. Not really. It was for him.

Hours later, the chamber lay empty, the torches burned to embers, the robes hung away in some forgotten crypt. The world had moved on, another city, another show, another night on the road. But in the upper floor of the chapel-turned-hideout, behind a locked door only one other soul had ever passed through, Taker stood alone. The room was sparse, lit only by a sliver of moonlight through warped window panes. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, its surface clouded but reflecting the faint outline of his bare chest.

He held the same dagger, its blade still stained with Jay’s blood. The air was quiet, no chants, no firelight, no audience. Only the sound of his steady breath and the wind howling softly outside, rattling the ancient glass. Taker pressed the tip of the blade to the skin just over his heart, the point biting into flesh with a reverent sting. He didn’t wince, didn’t pause. His hand moved with the same precision he’d used on Jay, carving the sigil, curve for curve, angle for angle into his chest. Blood beaded across the wound, warm and slow, trailing downward like ink on parchment.

To him, it wasn’t pain. It was a vow.

When he finished, the dagger clattered onto the altar beside him, its purpose served. Taker pressed a black cloth to the wound, the fabric soaking red, and sat back on the stone bench, his breath even, eyes half-lidded. The mark throbbed, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a silent rhythm that echoed Jay’s own. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of it settle, the sigil, the blood, the promise it carried. Out there, he was The Undertaker, the Ministry’s dark sovereign, a figure of fear and myth. Here, he was just a man, bound to another in a way no ritual could capture.

A knock sounded at the door, soft, hesitant, almost inaudible. Taker didn’t speak, but the door creaked open, and Jay stepped inside, barefoot, his wrist freshly bandaged. His blond hair was loose, falling over his shoulders, and his eyes were wide, searching. He said nothing at first, his gaze drifting to the blood on Taker’s chest, then to the sigil carved there, matching his own. Right over his heart.

Jay’s breath caught, a soft sound that broke the silence. “You…” he whispered, his voice raw, trembling with something between awe and ache.

Taker met his eyes, steady and unyielding, and said only one thing. “It was never just the show.”

Jay stepped forward, slow and careful, as if the moment might shatter. His hand trembled as he reached out, pressing his palm gently over the fresh wound. The blood soaked into his skin, warm and steady, a connection that needed no words. Their eyes locked, the room fading until it was just them, the sigil, the vow, the truth that bound them tighter than any ribbon or chain.

The marks would fade, their bodies would heal, but this would remain. Not the Ministry’s spectacle, not the Brood’s theatrics, but something deeper, carved in secret, sealed in blood. Jay’s fingers lingered on Taker’s chest, his touch light but unwavering, and Taker’s hand found his, covering it, grounding them both.

The wind howled outside, the moonlight casting faint shadows across the floor. The world, the arenas, the road, the endless performance felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was this, the sigil they shared, the blood that marked them, the promise that would outlast robes burned and names forgotten.

A vow made in secret. A love that endured in silence.

Chapter 4: The Night He Almost Got Caught

The hotel hallway was supposed to be quiet, but to Jay, every creak and hum felt like a spotlight. Midnight had long passed, the roar of the crowd from tonight’s show now just a dull ache in his bones. The roster had scattered to their rooms, exhausted from another grueling night on the road, another city, another match, another set of bruises. Jay’s heartbeat pounded like a war drum, echoing in his ears as he crept down the long stretch of carpet. Shadows clung to the walls, too deep, too sharp, and his fingers trembled as they brushed the doorknob at the end of the hall.

The Undertaker’s room.

He didn’t knock. That was the rule, unspoken but ironclad. Knocking drew attention, and attention was a risk they couldn’t afford. Not with the Brood’s watchful eyes, not with the Ministry’s whispers, not in a world where secrets could unravel everything. The door was always unlocked for him, and only for him. Jay turned the handle, the faint click deafening in the silence, and slipped inside, his breath shallow. The room smelled of leather and cedar, a faint trace of smoke that always clung to Taker. He exhaled, ready to step forward, when footsteps echoed from around the corner.

His breath hitched. The sound grew louder, deliberate, not the aimless shuffle of a night janitor. Someone was coming.

Jay spun, heart racing, eyes darting for a hiding place. The room was sparse, all dark wood and heavy shadows, lit only by a sliver of moonlight through the window. Heavy velvet curtains pooled on the floor, thick as spilled ink. Without thinking, he dashed behind them, pressing his body against the cold glass, the fabric muffling his ragged breaths. His boots sank into the carpet, leaving faint impressions he prayed wouldn’t betray him. He pulled the curtain tighter, leaving only a hairline gap to peer through.

The door creaked open.

“Taker?”

Jay’s heart plummeted. Adam.

Through the sliver of curtain, Jay glimpsed him, Adam, his longife friend, his brother, standing in the doorway. His long blond hair was loose, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but his eyes were sharp, cautious, searching. “I thought I heard something,” Adam said, voice low, tinged with curiosity. “Wasn’t sure if it was...” He paused, frowning. “You good?”

The Undertaker stood like a monolith, filling the doorway, his long black coat trailing to the floor. His frame blocked the hallway’s dim light, casting Adam in shadow. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, his green eyes unreadable under the brim of his hat. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken tension.

“I don’t sleep much,” Taker said, his voice a low rumble, gravel laced with quiet authority. “Old pipes, maybe. Or the wind.”

Jay pressed a hand over his mouth, willing his heartbeat to slow. It thundered in his chest, loud enough he feared Adam might hear it. If Adam took one step inside, if he glanced at the carpet and saw the faint indentations of Jay’s boots, it would all be over. The world would known and Jay sure they will never let it go. It may break them all Jay’s life, Christian’s life, depended on this moment staying hidden.

Taker didn’t move aside. He stood like a sentinel, his presence a wall between Jay and the world. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Adam shifted, his boots scuffing the carpet, and Jay’s stomach twisted. He could picture it, Adam stepping forward, his eyes catching the curtain’s slight tremble, the game ending before it could truly begin.

“You’re not… expecting anyone, are you?” Adam asked, his tone light but probing, like he sensed something just out of reach.

A pause, so long it seemed to stop time. Jay’s knees trembled behind the curtain, his breath burning in his lungs.

“I don’t take guests,” Taker said, his voice flat, final, like the toll of a bell.

Relief crashed through Jay, a shuddering wave that nearly buckled his legs. Adam gave a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah, maybe I imagined it.” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone else to appear. “Night, man.”

The sound of his retreating footsteps was the sweetest music Jay had ever heard. The door clicked shut. The lock turned, a soft scrape that sealed the world out.

Silence.

Jay didn’t move, not yet. His body stayed pressed against the glass, the curtain heavy around him, until he heard the soft creak of Taker’s boots on the carpet. A hand, warm and strong, reached behind the curtain, parting the fabric with a gentleness that belied its strength. Taker pulled him out, steadying him as Jay stumbled into the open. Their eyes met, and Jay tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat, tangled in the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Taker’s expression didn’t change, but his hands moved to Jay’s shoulders, grounding him. Then they slid to his waist, pulling him close with a quiet urgency, as if Jay were something precious that had nearly been lost. The room felt smaller now, the shadows thicker, as if the walls themselves had held their breath.

“You’re mine,” Taker murmured, his voice low, a rare strain cutting through the usual gravel. “Always mine. But I’ll protect you, even from suspicion.”

Jay buried his face against Taker’s chest, fingers curling into the dark fabric of his shirt. The adrenaline hadn’t faded, his skin still prickling, his pulse racing like he was still in the ring. But in Taker’s arms, the fear began to bleed away, replaced by the slow warmth of safety, of belonging. The scent of leather and smoke enveloped him, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“You scared me,” Jay breathed, his voice muffled against Taker’s chest. “He was right there.”

“I know,” Taker said, his hand finding the back of Jay’s neck, fingers threading through his blond hair. “But he didn’t see. He won’t.”

The words were a promise, steady and unshakable. Jay let himself sink deeper into the embrace, his body relaxing against Taker’s. The room was quiet now, the shadows softening, but the weight of the near-miss lingered. Out there, Jay was Christian, bound to the Brood’s blood-soaked theatrics, always performing, always watched. Here, in this room, he was just Jay, and Taker saw him, truly saw him, when no one else did.

The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting faint patterns on the carpet. The world outside, the endless road, the matches, the secrets of the Ministry felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was this: Taker’s arms, the steady rhythm of his heart, the way he made the chaos disappear. Their love lived in these moments, in silence and shadows, fragile but fierce, surviving against all odds.

Jay closed his eyes, letting the truth settle between them, unspoken but absolute.

Chapter 5: Thunderstorm Comfort

The storm rolled in just past midnight, its low growl rumbling over the horizon like a beast stirring from sleep. Rain lashed against the windows of their house, a relentless static that filled every corner, drowning out the silence. Thunder cracked, sharp, sudden, splitting the sky, and Jay flinched beneath the covers. His fingers were clutching the edge of the blanket as if it could shield him from the sound. His breath hitched, shallow and quick, and he cursed himself for it. He was Christian, the Brood’s defiant vampire, a man who’d faced steel cages and blood-soaked rings without hesitation. But thunder? Thunder reached into his chest, wrapped tight around his lungs, and squeezed, pulling him back to a place he thought he’d left behind.

He hated it. Always had. The unpredictability, the way it shattered the quiet without warning, it didn’t matter how many matches he’d survived, how many bruises he’d worn like medals, how much blood he’d spilled for the spectacle. The storm’s raw power stripped him bare, leaving him feeling small, like the kid who used to hide under the bed during summer storms. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, the fabric damp with sweat, and tried to will the fear away. It was irrational, stupid, he told himself. But logic never mattered when the next rumble came, louder now, shaking the glass in its frame, rattling the old house like a warning.

Jay curled tighter under the blanket, knees drawn to his chest, teeth clenched as his heart thudded faster than it ever had in the ring. He didn’t want to be found like this, not by Taker, not by anyone. He was supposed to be stronger, tougher, the guy who smirked through pain and played his part in the dark theatrics of their world. But the storm didn’t care about his persona, and neither did the fear clawing at his insides, sharp and unyielding.

Another bolt of thunder roared, so close it seemed to split the roof. Lightning flashed, jagged and white, illuminating the bedroom for a heartbeat before plunging it back into darkness. Jay’s body jerked, a soft gasp escaping before he could stop it. He pressed himself deeper into the mattress, willing himself to be invisible, to disappear into the shadows of the room. His hands trembled, and he hated himself for it, hated the way the storm could unravel him when nothing else could.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. They were too soft, too heavy to be casual, too quiet to startle. The bedroom door creaked open, a low groan that blended with the rain’s rhythm. Jay froze, his breath caught, not daring to move. He didn’t want Taker to see him like this, curled up, trembling, anything but the fearless front he wore for the world. But the mattress dipped behind him, the weight of a massive body settling with a quiet certainty that needed no announcement.

Taker didn’t speak. He didn’t mock, didn’t question, didn’t press. He simply slid under the covers, his warmth flooding the space as he folded himself around Jay from behind. Long arms wrapped across Jay’s chest, one hand resting firmly over his heart, as if Taker could feel the frantic rhythm and calm it with touch alone. The scent of leather and smoke clung to him, mingling with something earthier, grounding Jay even as another rumble shook the house. Taker’s chest pressed against his back, a steady wall against the chaos outside, and Jay’s eyes stung, his throat tight with a mix of shame and relief.

He didn’t deserve this, not Taker, this man who could silence arenas with a glance, choosing to shield him from something as simple as a storm. The room flickered with another pulse of lightning, but Taker’s presence was steadier, a fortress against the night’s fury. His chest rose and fell in a slow, unhurried rhythm, and a low hum began deep in his throat, not words, not a song, but a sound like a growl softened into something gentle, constant, alive. It vibrated against Jay’s spine, a tether pulling him back from the edge of panic.

Jay closed his eyes, letting the vibration sink into his bones, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. Another thunderclap roared, violent and close, and he jumped again, his body betraying him. But Taker’s arms tightened, just enough, pulling Jay flush against his chest, their bodies fitting together like they were made for this moment. The hum continued, deliberate now, weaving through the storm’s chaos like a thread of calm. Jay’s fingers found Taker’s hand, the one pressed over his heart, and he gripped it tightly, as if he could anchor himself to that strength. His nails dug faintly into Taker’s skin, but Taker didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.

The fear didn’t vanish, not entirely. It lingered like a bruise, tender and raw, but Taker’s presence dulled it, smoothed its edges into something manageable. Jay’s breathing slowed, syncing with the rhythm of Taker’s chest, the hum vibrating through him like a lullaby. He thought of the ring, the way Taker moved like a force of nature, untouchable, feared, a legend carved in shadows. Yet here, in this bedroom, he was just a man, Jay’s man, holding him through the storm with a tenderness no one else would believe. The contrast made Jay’s chest ache, a mix of gratitude and awe that this was his to hold, even if only in secret.

Taker shifted slightly, his nose brushing Jay’s hairline, the gesture so soft it nearly undid him. Jay turned, just enough to press his forehead against the underside of Taker’s jaw, the faint stubble there grounding him further. The storm raged on, rain pounding the roof, thunder rattling the walls, but it felt farther away now, muted by the warmth wrapped around him. Taker’s hand moved to Jay’s hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, slow and steady, as if it were second nature. The hum returned, deeper now, almost a melody in a language that needed no translation.

“Thanks,” Jay whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the rain. The word felt too small for what he meant, for the gratitude and awe swelling in his chest. Taker, this monolith of a man, feared by so many, was here, humming for him, holding him, shielding him from the storm and the world. Jay’s fingers tightened around Taker’s hand, his thumb tracing the calluses there, scars from years of battles that mirrored his own.

Taker didn’t respond with words. He never needed to. His grip tightened slightly, his fingers moving through Jay’s hair with a rhythm that matched the rain, steady and unending. The storm could rage all it wanted, but it couldn’t reach them, not here, not now, and never. Jay let himself sink deeper into Taker’s embrace, his body relaxing, the fear fading like a distant echo. The house creaked, the windows rattled, but the warmth of Taker’s arms was a sanctuary, a place where Jay could be small, vulnerable, and safe.

“You always know,” Jay murmured, his voice soft, almost lost in the hum. “When I need you… you just know.”

Taker’s hum paused, just for a moment, and Jay felt the faintest shift, a tightening of Taker’s arms, a brush of lips against his temple, so light it might have been imagined. Then the hum resumed, wrapping around them both, a quiet promise that needed no explanation. Jay smiled, his eyes fluttering closed, the tension in his chest unraveling.

For the first time that night, when thunder cracked again, shaking the roof above, Jay didn’t flinch. The fear was still there, a quiet shadow, but it couldn’t touch him, not with Taker’s heartbeat against his back, not with the hum filling the dark. The storm could roar all it wanted. In this moment, in this bed, Jay was safe.

And that was enough.

Chapter 6: When it’s too loud, come find me

The rush of performing was a fire in Jay’s veins, a high that carried him through every dive, every flip, every roar of the crowd. But backstage, the world behind the curtain could swallow him whole. The chaos was a storm of its own crew shouting directions over the clatter of rolling cases, lights flashing from every corner, the air thick with the smell of sweat, metal, and the faint tang of energy drinks spilled on concrete. The distant roar of the crowd never seemed to fade, a relentless pulse that echoed through the arena’s bones, vibrating in Jay’s chest. For someone who lived for the spotlight but wilted under the noise, it was exhausting, a sensory overload that left him frayed at the edges.

In the middle of that storm, Jay carried a secret, small and sacred. Tucked in the back of his wallet, behind a crumpled receipt and a faded photo, was a worn scrap of paper, its edges soft from handling. A single line was scrawled across it in Taker’s sharp, deliberate handwriting: When it’s too loud, come find me. Jay never showed it to anyone. He never needed to. The words were a lifeline, a promise he carried like a talisman, grounding him when the world spun too fast.

He always knew where to go. Down the long concrete hallway, past the catering table with its trays of sandwiches and coffee urns, past the crates of cables and the crew members barking into headsets, there was a quiet side door to a storage room that hardly anyone used. The handle was cool under his fingers, the metal worn smooth, and every time he reached for it, a flicker of anticipation sparked in his chest. Would Taker be there, waiting? And...Taker always was.

Jay slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, muffling the arena’s chaos to a soft, distant hum. The room was a stark contrast to the frenzy outside, dim, cluttered with forgotten props and folded chairs, the air carrying a faint musty scent of dust and old canvas. In the corner, Taker sat in a folding chair, his long legs stretched out, his head tipped back against the wall like he had all the time in the world. His black coat was draped over a nearby crate, his hair loose and catching the faint light from a single bulb overhead. He looked up the moment the door closed, his green eyes piercing through the shadows, seeing straight through the storm Jay carried in his chest.

Without a word, Taker lifted an arm, the gesture as natural as breathing.

Jay crossed the room, his boots scuffing softly against the concrete, and sank into Taker’s lap like it was the only place he’d ever belonged. He tucked himself against the warm, solid weight of Taker’s chest, his cheek pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt, the faint scent of leather and sandalwood enveloping him. Taker’s arm closed around him, big and steady, the way it always did, the way that said you’re safe now. Jay let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his body relaxing into the familiar curve of Taker’s frame.

“Too loud?” Taker’s voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated against Jay’s ear, grounding him further.

Jay nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always.”

The reply earned him a quiet hum, a sound that seemed to sink into his bones, soothing the frayed edges of his nerves. Jay closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of Taker’s breathing settle him, each inhale and exhale a steady anchor in the chaos. The distant roar of the crowd, the clanging of metal, the relentless buzz of his own thoughts, all of it faded, replaced by the quiet of this stolen corner of the world. The storage room was their refuge, a sanctuary carved out amidst the storm, where the weight of the arena couldn’t reach them.

Taker’s hand moved slowly, his fingers tracing gentle circles on Jay’s lower back, the touch light but deliberate. Jay felt the tension in his shoulders unravel, the ache from his last match, a bruise on his hip, a twinge in his neck all fading under the warmth of Taker’s presence. He thought about the note in his wallet, those simple words that had become a beacon in his life. Taker had written it years ago, after a night when Jay had nearly broken down from the pressure, the noise, the relentless pace of the road. It was a promise, unspoken but kept every time, that Taker would always be there, waiting to pull him back from the edge.

After a while, Jay tilted his head back, his eyes meeting Taker’s. The look in those green eyes was familiar warm, steady, carrying a depth that needed no words. Jay leaned in, brushing his lips against Taker’s in a soft, lingering kiss, the kind that carried all the weight of comfort and gratitude. Taker kissed him back, slow and unhurried, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Jay’s neck, holding him close. The kiss was a quiet vow, a moment of stillness in a world that never stopped moving, and Jay felt his heart settle, the storm in his chest quieting.

When they pulled apart, Jay rested his forehead against Taker’s, his breath mingling with the warmth of Taker’s skin. “You always know,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost reverent. “How to make it quiet.”

Taker’s lips curved, a rare, faint smile. “You make it easy,” he rumbled, his thumb brushing along Jay’s jaw, grounding him further.

Jay lingered in Taker’s lap a moment longer, soaking in the warmth, the safety, the unshakable presence of the man who’d become his home. Then he slid off, his feet touching the concrete, his body lighter, as if the weight of the night had been lifted. He reached into his wallet, pulling out the note, its edges worn from years of handling. He didn’t need to read it anymore, the words were etched into his heart, but he unfolded it anyway, tracing Taker’s handwriting with his fingertip.

Backstage would always be chaos, a whirlwind of noise and motion that threatened to pull him under. But as long as he could find this room, find Taker, it would always mean home. Jay tucked the note back into his wallet, folding it with care, and gave Taker one last glance, a smile tugging at his lips. “See you out there,” he said, his voice steady now, ready to face the storm again.

Taker nodded, his eyes warm, and Jay slipped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The noise rushed back, but it didn’t overwhelm him this time. He carried Taker’s warmth with him, a quiet strength that made the chaos bearable.

Chapter 7: A Secret Call

The Canadian night was sharp, the cold biting at Jay’s neck where the collar of his jacket didn’t quite close, a chill that seeped into his bones as he slipped away from the arena. The city streets around the venue were quiet now, the post show chaos fading into a hush, with only a few stragglers lingering near the loading docks, their voices muffled by the distance. Jay kept his head down, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his breath clouding in the frigid air. The faint hum of production trucks lingered in the background, a reminder of the world he was leaving behind for a moment.

He didn’t want to go back to the hotel just yet. The thought of the empty room, the bed too big, the silence too heavy, made his chest ache with the familiar pang of missing Taker. Three days apart. In their world, three days was nothing, a blink in the endless cycle of tours and matches. But to Jay, it felt like a eternal, each moment stretching longer without Taker’s steady presence to ground him.

He turned the corner behind the building, his boots scuffing against the cracked pavement, and spotted what he was looking for: an old phone booth tucked between a rusted dumpster and a row of bare, skeletal trees. It was barely lit, its glass fogged with grime and scratched plastic, but when Jay tested the receiver, a faint dial tone hummed to life. That was all that mattered.

He stepped inside, tugging the door closed behind him, the creak of the hinges swallowed by the quiet. The glass fogged quickly from his breath, sealing him in a small, intimate hush that felt more private than it had any right to. He dropped a handful of quarters into the slot, the coins clinking softly, and waited for the mechanical hum to settle before lifting the receiver. His fingers, chilled from the night air, punched in the seven-digit number carved deep in his memory and heart, each press deliberate, a ritual in itself.

The phone rang twice, each tone a heartbeat in the silence. Then that voice answered, thick with sleep and gravel, warm enough to chase the cold from Jay’s skin. “Yeah?”

Jay leaned against the glass, his lips curling into a smile, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound. “Hey. Miss me yet?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make Jay’s heart thump in anticipation, a flutter of warmth spreading through his chest. “Always,” Taker rumbled, his voice low and steady, like a tether pulling Jay back to himself. “Where are you?”

“Back of the building,” Jay said, his breath fogging the glass further. “Found a payphone that looks like it should be condemned, but it’s got charm.”

Taker snorted quietly, the sound warm and familiar. “Figures you’d find the one phone that still uses quarters.”

Jay smirked, his fingers tracing the worn edge of the booth’s metal shelf. “I’m old-fashioned.”

“No, you’re reckless,” Taker said, a teasing edge in his voice.

“Same thing,” Jay shot back, grinning into the receiver, his voice lighter now, the weight of the show slipping away.

Taker’s low chuckle rolled through the line, a sound that made something flutter low in Jay’s belly. The tension of the night, the roar of the crowd, the chaos of backstage, the strain of being around too many people for too long, melted under the warmth of that voice. There was a pause, heavy with unspoken connection, and then Taker spoke again, his voice softer. “You should’ve called sooner.”

Jay’s eyes fluttered closed, his head resting against the cool glass. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Taker said, his voice dropping lower, a quiet confession. “Not really. I was hoping you’d call.”

Jay’s chest tightened, a tender ache that wasn’t quite sadness but something deeper, more alive. “Three days is too long,” he murmured, his voice raw, the words spilling out like a secret.

“I know,” Taker said, his tone heavy with longing. “Missed you the second you got on the plane.”

Jay laughed quietly, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re getting soft, Deadman.”

“I’m getting honest,” Taker corrected, his voice steady but warm. “Different thing.”

Jay bit his lip, his heart swelling with the weight of Taker’s words. He leaned harder against the booth’s wall, his fingers curling tighter around the phone cord. “I’ve never missed a person like this before,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “It’s stupid, but I kept catching myself during the show, wanting to turn and tell you something, or look for you backstage. Then I’d remember. You’re not here.”

“I’m always with you,” Taker said quietly, his voice a low rumble that felt like a hand on Jay’s heart. “Even when I’m not.”

Jay swallowed hard, the words sinking deep, grounding him in the cold booth. “What if I flew back early?” he asked, half teasing, half hoping.

Taker exhaled through the line, a soft sound of longing that made Jay’s chest ache. “Then you will be in my arm at sunrise.”

“Would you wait up?” Jay ask, his voice start breaking like he going to cry.

“I already am.” Taker voice still calm, deep but there is still have the softness in it. 

The booth was cold, the air sharp against Jay’s cheeks, but he didn’t feel it anymore. He imagined their bedroom back home, the heavy curtains blocking out the world, the warmth of Taker’s body in their oversized bed, the way the sheets always carried his scent of cedar and sandalwood. He missed the quiet mornings, the coffee they’d share in silence, the low rasp of Taker’s voice before he’d fully woken. He missed the heavy thud of Taker’s boots on the floor, the way his arms would wrap around Jay in the kitchen, the silence that only felt complete when they shared it.

“I’m wearing your shirt,” Jay murmured, glancing down at the old black one with frayed sleeves, its fabric soft against his skin. “The one you left in my bag.”

“I knew you would,” Taker said, a smile in his voice.

“It smells like you,” Jay admitted, a little sheepish, his cheeks warming despite the cold.

“I left it for you on purpose.”

Jay laughed softly, the sound bright in the dim booth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re mine,” Taker replied, his voice firm, unwavering.

The words made Jay go still, his breath catching. He pressed the receiver tighter to his ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Say that again.”

“You’re mine,” Taker said, firmer now, each syllable a vow. “Every day. Every city. Every time you roll out of that ring and need someone to ground you. I’m there. Always.”

Jay closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the ache to feel Taker’s arms around him, to trade the cold glass of the booth for the warmth of his chest. “I love you,” he whispered, the words raw and unguarded.

“I know,” Taker rumbled, his voice soft but certain, wrapping around Jay like a blanket.

Silence fell, rich with everything unspoken, everything safe. Jay glanced at his watch, the faint glow of the dial showing the late hour. “I should probably hang up before I max out the entire quarter stash in my pocket,” he said, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

Taker chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Come home soon,” he said, his voice thick with the edge of gravel, like a slow pull of smoke.

“First flight out,” Jay promised, nodding to himself. “I will.”

He hung up gently, the click of the receiver soft in the quiet alley, and stepped out of the booth, the cold air rushing back to meet him. He turned, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Taker was leaning against the brick wall beside the booth, arms crossed, his eyes shining with quiet amusement in the dim alley light. He looked relaxed, dressed in all black, his hair loose and slightly damp, his boots scuffed from the road. Jay’s heart rocketed into his throat, his breath catching.

“Jesus Christ!” Jay gasped, his hand flying to his chest.

Taker pushed off the wall, his movements slow and deliberate, a faint smile curving his lips. “Talking to anyone important?” he asked, his voice carrying the same gravelly warmth from the phone.

Jay stared, his mouth open, stunned. “You.....you were just ......I thought....”

“I am the lord of darkness my dear, if you still remember that” Taker said, completely unfazed, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Followed you when you turned down the alley.”

Jay blinked, his shock giving way to a breathless laugh. “You absolute psycho stalker.”

Taker stepped closer, closing the distance in three long strides, his presence filling the narrow space. “You soul and mind keep calling me from alleys like some love-struck runaway, it to loud and you expect me not to follow?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, but laced with something deeper.

Jay laughed again, the sound bright and shaky, and stepped into him without thinking, his hands sliding around Taker’s waist, his head pressing against the familiar warmth of his chest. Taker’s arms came around him instantly, wrapping him in a warmth that felt like armor against the cold night. The scent of leather and sandalwood enveloped Jay, grounding him, chasing away the ache of the past three days.

“I hear the echo,” Taker murmured against his hair, his voice soft, almost reverent. “That little hitch in your voice when you said you missed me. I was already standing behind you.”

“You hopeless bastard,” Jay said, his voice muffled against Taker’s shirt, a smile tugging at his lips.

Taker grinned, the expression softening his features. “Yours, though.”

Jay pulled back just enough to look up at him, his eyes shining in the dim alley light, his heart full. “Take me home?” he asked, his voice soft, a quiet plea.

Taker nodded, his hand resting on the back of Jay’s neck, grounding him. “Every time.”

Chapter 8: Too Big for One, Perfect for Two

The house was quiet in that rare, late night way, when the world outside slowed to a hush and every shadow settled into place. The bedroom was a cocoon of warmth, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp on Taker’s nightstand, its amber light casting gentle patterns across the walls. Taker sat propped against the headboard, his broad shoulders stretching the loose cotton of his black sleep shirt, a hardcover book resting easily in his massive hands. The occasional rustle of a turned page was the only sound in the room, a soft counterpoint to the faint hum of the heater and the distant chirp of crickets outside.

Everything in the room had been chosen with Taker in mind. The bed frame, custom built to accommodate his towering frame, stood sturdy and wide, its dark wood polished to a soft sheen. The mattress was long enough that his feet never dangled off the edge, a luxury after years of cramped beds. The thick blankets, deep gray and heavy, could cover him from shoulder to toe, wrapping his broad form in warmth. For Taker, comfort had always meant space, space to move, to stretch, to breathe, to exist without the world pressing in.

For Jay, it was the opposite. Comfort meant closeness, the press of warmth, the certainty of another’s presence.

The bathroom door clicked softly open, and Jay emerged, his hair damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. He wore an old pair of drawstring pajama pants, the fabric soft and faded, and one of Taker’s black shirts, its hem hanging loose on his smaller frame, the sleeves slipping past his wrists. He crossed the room barefoot, the hardwood floor cool under his feet, and paused at the foot of the bed, his silhouette softened by the lamplight.

“You’re still awake?” Jay said softly, a hint of surprise in his voice, his eyes catching the way Taker’s fingers held the book, steady and sure.

Taker didn’t look up right away, his gaze lingering on the page, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t sleep yet” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that filled the quiet room. “Waiting for you.”

Jay’s lips twitched into a smile, warmth blooming in his chest at the simple admission. He moved around the bed, his steps light, and stopped beside Taker’s knees, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “Shift over a bit” he said, his tone playful but certain.

Taker gave him a mildly amused look over the top of his book, his green eyes glinting in the soft light. “There’s an entire mattress, Jay. You’ve got plenty of space.”

“Too much space,” Jay replied without hesitation, already moving. Before Taker could argue, Jay eased himself onto his lap, swinging one leg over until he was straddling him, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Taker’s hips. His smaller frame fit against Taker’s chest as if it had been carved for it, his head settling just above the steady thump of Taker’s heart. Jay’s hands slipped beneath, his fingers curling lightly into the fabric of Taker’s shirt, anchoring himself to the warmth.

“You want to read with me in this position?” Taker asked, one brow raised, his voice laced with dry humor.

“Nope” Jay said, settling more comfortably, his cheek pressed against Taker’s chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat a steady lullaby. “I’m planning to sleep here. You’re my favorite place to rest.”

The words were simple, spoken with a quiet sincerity that made Taker pause. He closed the book with a soft thud, placing it on the nightstand, the leather cover catching the lamplight. Without a word, he reached for the blanket draped at the foot of the bed, pulling it over both of them, tucking it carefully around Jay’s shoulders. His large hand settled against Jay’s back, the touch warm and grounding, a silent acknowledgment of the weight behind Jay’s words.

Jay’s breathing slowed, his body sinking into the warmth of Taker’s chest, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood enveloping him. Every so often, he shifted slightly, not out of discomfort but to feel the small, reassuring tightening of Taker’s arm around him, a reflex that said I’ve got you. The road had been long, the matches brutal, leaving bruises on Jay’s ribs and a lingering ache in his shoulders, but here, in Taker’s arms, the world felt softer, safer.

“You know” Jay murmured after a moment, his voice heavy with the pull of sleep, “this bed might be the perfect size for you, but it’s too big for me alone. Feels empty when you’re not in it.”

Taker let out a quiet sound, half agreement, half something softer, a rumble that vibrated through Jay’s chest. “Guess that makes for two of us” he said, his voice low, carrying a warmth that settled deep in Jay’s bones.

The clock on the nightstand ticked on, its steady rhythm matching the slow rise and fall of Taker’s chest beneath Jay’s ear. The lamplight cast a warm glow over them, softening the hard lines of Taker’s face, his eyes tracing the way Jay’s lashes brushed his cheeks, his expression unguarded in the quiet. The world saw Jay as quick witted, sharp tongued, always ready with a joke or a smirk, a spark of energy in the ring. But here, in the stillness of their bedroom, Jay let himself be soft, vulnerable, curling into Taker like he was the only thing keeping the world at bay.

Taker’s hand moved in a slow, steady rhythm along Jay’s back, the motion protective and reassuring, a silent promise that needed no words. Jay’s fingers tightened in Taker’s shirt for a moment, then relaxed as he drifted further toward sleep, his body growing heavy against Taker’s chest. The contrast between them, Jay’s smaller frame against Taker’s massive one, felt like a perfect balance, a harmony built in the quiet moments they stole from the chaos of their lives.

Outside, the night deepened, the crickets a soft chorus beyond the windows, but inside, time seemed to slow. Taker adjusted his position slightly, careful not to jostle Jay, his arm tightening just enough to keep him close. This, more than the roar of the arenas or the adrenaline of the ring, was what Taker craved when the day was done, not just the quiet, but the closeness, the reminder that Jay fit perfectly in his arms, needing nothing more than to be exactly where he was.

Jay mumbled something incoherent, his voice lost to the haze of sleep, and Taker’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You’re warm” Jay slurred, the words barely audible against Taker’s shirt, his leg curling in a little more as if to close any remaining gap between them.

“Big guys tend to be” Taker replied, his voice soft, a teasing edge softened by affection.

Jay made a quiet hum of agreement, nuzzling closer, his breath warm against Taker’s chest. Taker didn’t move, letting the moment stretch, the weight of Jay’s body grounding him in a way nothing else could. The bed, built for one oversized man, felt too big without Jay’s presence, too empty without the warmth of his smaller frame curled against him.

Taker waited until Jay’s breathing fell into the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep, his body lax and heavy. Only then did he let his own eyes close, the lamplight casting a final glow over them before he reached out to switch it off, plunging the room into soft darkness. The bed, the house, the world, it was all the right size now, with Jay here, fitting perfectly where he belonged.

Tomorrow, the road would call again, the arenas demanding their energy, their strength. But tonight, there was nowhere else either of them needed to be, wrapped in the warmth of each other, in a space made for two.

Chapter 9: I Was Your TAG PARTNER. How Did I Not Know?!

Adam had no intention of uncovering anything scandalous when he started digging through the old gear bin in the corner of Jay’s closet. All he wanted was that ridiculous leopard print vest Jay used to wear back in the early 2000s, hideous, flashy, pure wrestling chaos, perfect for the throwback segment they’d planned backstage. Jay had waved him from the living room, where he was sprawled across the couch, sorting through a stack of old DVDs with a soda in hand. “Check the bin in the closet” Jay had said, his voice casual, his blond curls catching the afternoon light filtering through the window. “It may be buried under a bunch of old gear.”

The closet smelled faintly of leather and mothballs, a time capsule of their years on the road. Adam rummaged through the bin, pushing aside a tangle of retired costumes, championship belts, and odd props, a studded wristband, a cracked kendo stick, a single fingerless glove. He found the vest quickly enough, its garish leopard print still as ugly as he remembered, folded next to a shredded pair of velvet pants that screamed early career Jay. But then something else caught his eye, tucked beneath a faded bandana. Curious, Adam pulled it out, expecting another piece of wrestling memorabilia.

It was a photo, old and faded, its edges bent with time. The image stopped him cold. It showed a much younger Jay early twenties, shirtless, his skin flushed with a post match glow. His hair was a wild mess of damp blond curls, his lips swollen and parted, like he’d just caught his breath after something intense. But what made Adam’s jaw drop was the state of Jay’s skin. A deep, unmistakable bite marked his collarbone, the indent of teeth clear and deliberate. Faint bruises trailed up the side of his neck, shaped like massive fingers, possessive, intimate, raw. This wasn’t a backstage prank or part of a wrestling angle. This was private. Real.

Adam stared at the photo for a long moment, his brain buzzing with static, the closet’s dim light casting shadows across the image. His fingers tightened on the edges, careful not to crease it further, as a thousand questions collided in his head.

“Hey, Jay?” he called, his voice a little off kilter, cracking slightly as he stepped out of the closet.

Across the room, Jay was still sorting DVDs, half distracted, the soda can sweating in his hand. “You find the vest?” he asked, not looking up, his voice light.

Adam didn’t respond to the question. He crossed the room slowly, holding the photo loosely between his fingers, his boots scuffing against the hardwood. When Jay finally turned and caught sight of what Adam was holding, there was no panic, no rush to snatch it away. Just a pause, a flicker of recognition in his blue eyes, followed by a slight shrug, as if Adam had found a grocery receipt instead of a bombshell.

“Oh. Yeah. Taker did that,” Jay said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.

Adam’s thoughts screeched to a halt, his mouth opening slightly. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice higher than usual, not quite his own.

Jay took a sip of his soda, leaning back against the couch, his expression infuriatingly calm. “It was after a match. He got a little… intense that night. Think it was during the Ministry days, one of those hotel weekends after a long tour.”

Adam blinked, then blinked again, his brain struggling to process. “The Undertaker did this to you?” he asked, holding up the photo like it was evidence in a courtroom.

Jay nodded, unfazed, taking another sip. “Yeah. Teeth, hands....the works. He got a little… possessive.”

There was a long, painful pause as Adam’s mind desperately tried to reboot. He looked from the photo to Jay, then back again, the image burning into his retinas. “You’ve been… with him?” he asked, his voice rising, a mix of disbelief and betrayal.

Jay tilted his head, his lips twitching as if he was wondering how Adam had missed this for so long. “Since, like, ’99,” he said, shrugging again. “There were a few breaks, but yeah. It’s been a thing.”

Adam sat down hard on the edge of the sofa, the springs creaking under him, the photo still clutched in his hand. “I was your tag team partner,” he said, his voice a mix of shock and indignation. “Your best friend, brother. We traveled together, shared rooms, and ate bad diner food at 3 a.m. I carried your half-conscious ass out of TLC matches, sat with you in hospital waiting rooms, taped up your ribs when you could barely breathe.”

Jay smiled, his eyes softening with affection. “You are the greatest brother that I ever wish for” he said, his tone warm, sincere.

“You were getting yourself fucked by the Lord of Darkness behind my back!” Adam snapped, brandishing the photo like a prosecutor. “You’re telling me, while I was helping you wrap your ribs, he was marking your neck like a claim?”

“Well,” Jay said thoughtfully, swirling his soda can, “he usually waited until after the show.”

Adam ran both hands over his face, groaning, the sound muffled by his palms. “I hugged him at your birthday party,” he said, his voice rising again. “He told me I was ‘a good man.’ Was that a thank you for not flirting with his property?”

“Probably,” Jay said, his grin widening. “He gets weird when he drinks whiskey.”

“You live with him?!” Adam’s voice cracked, his eyes wide with horror.

Jay nodded, move close leaning back on Adam's knee, his posture relaxed. “We’ve got a quiet place outside of Austin. Nice view, big bed.”

Adam looked physically ill, his face paling as he dropped the photo onto the coffee table like it was radioactive. “All these years… You let me complain about my breakups, drag you out clubbing, whine about my bad dates. And the whole time, you were going home to the Deadman?”

Jay’s expression remained infuriatingly calm, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “You never asked.”

Adam groaned again, louder this time, his head tipping back as he stared at the ceiling. “He’s huge, Jay. He’s like… big enough to carry you around one handed.”

Jay’s grin turned wicked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I know.”

“I carried you through matches, and he was carrying you off to...” Adam stopped, slapping a hand against his forehead, a string of curses spilling out. “I need bleach for my brain. And maybe a priest.”

Jay sit up straight, setting his soda can on the coffee table with a soft clink, his movements calm, almost apologetic. “You’re taking this very dramatically,” he said, his voice teasing.

“I’m traumatized!” Adam shot back, his voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

Jay’s smirk softened into a mischievous smile. “Are you mad… jealous?” he teased, leaning in slightly.

“No!” Adam snapped, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something, maybe not jealousy, but certainly a wounded pride. He rubbed his face, trying to erase the mental images flooding his mind, the images of Jay,  his sweet little best friend, wrecked under that massive body. He remembered the shady hickeys he’d noticed on Jay back in the day, the funny gait after certain nights that Jay disappeared without a word, the soft moans when Jay sat on hard benches...it all clicked into place, a puzzle he hadn’t known he was missing pieces for. “I do really need to bleach my brain” he muttered, his voice quieter now, defeated.

Jay reached out, patting Adam’s shoulder with mock sympathy, his touch light but warm. “Love you too” he said, his tone affectionate, playful.

“Don’t talk to me” Adam grumbled, his face still buried in his hands.

Jay smirked, unfazed. “So… still want to borrow the vest?”

Adam stood up, muttering curses under his breath as he stormed out of the room, the leopard print vest forgotten on the floor. Jay’s laughter followed him, bright and unrepentant, echoing through the house.

Jay picked up the photo from the coffee table, his eyes softening as he traced the bite mark with his thumb, a quiet fondness settling over him. The memory was vivid, sweaty hotel sheets, Taker’s hands pinning him down, the raw intensity of that night after a grueling match. He tucked the photo back into the box, nestling it among the old gear, his quiet little secret now unearthed. As he heard Adam’s muffled, hopeless scream from the bathroom. “Why didn’t I know?!” Jay shook his head, chuckling fondly, the warmth of the memory lingering in his chest.

Chapter 10: His Voice in the Morning

The bedroom was a cocoon of warmth, the kind that made the world outside feel like a distant memory. Soft morning light slipped through the gap in the heavy curtains, painting faint stripes across the rumpled sheets. Jay stirred, his blonde hair a messy halo against the pillow, his blue eyes blinking open to the quiet. The king-sized bed felt vast, but it was anchored by the solid presence beside him, The Undertaker, the man sprawled out like a mountain range under the blankets.

Jay shifted, propping himself on one elbow, and let his gaze trace the familiar lines of Taker’s face. His long hair spilled across the pillow, dark and slightly tangled, his features softened by sleep but still carrying that edge of intensity. Even at rest, he was larger than life, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Jay’s lips curved, a quiet fondness settling in his chest. Mornings like this, when the world hadn’t yet demanded their masks, were his favorite.

He didn’t move right away, content to watch Taker in the rare stillness. But what he craved most was Taker’s voice before his man had a first sip of coffee, before the day smoothed out its edges, when it was deep and gravelly, like stones dragged across a riverbed. It was a sound that could command an arena or unravel Jay with a single word, and he’d never get enough of it.

Jay reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against Taker’s arm, testing if he was awake. A low rumble came from Taker’s chest, not quite a word, more an acknowledgment of Jay’s touch. His green eyes cracked open, glinting in the dim light, and Jay’s heart gave a familiar lurch.

“Morning,” Jay murmured, his voice soft, teasing. “You awake enough to talk?”

Taker’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk. “Barely,” he rumbled, his voice exactly what Jay had been waiting for it rough, slow, like it had to claw its way out of sleep. The sound sent a shiver down Jay’s spine, and he bit his lip to keep from grinning too wide.

“Good,” Jay said, shifting closer, his head resting on one hand as he looked down at Taker. “Got a question for you.”

Taker’s eyebrow arched, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t move, just watched Jay with that steady, piercing gaze. “This early?” His voice was a low growl, each word dragging like it carried the weight of the morning.

Jay’s smile widened. “Yeah. What’s, uh… what’s the best match you ever had? Like, one that stuck with you.”

Taker exhaled, a sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle, the vibration of it settling into Jay’s bones. “You woke me up for that?” he said, voice still thick with sleep. “WrestleMania, ‘97. Felt untouchable.” He paused, eyes flicking over Jay’s face. “Why?”

Jay shrugged, playing innocent, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Just curious.” He shifted again, the sheets rustling as he pressed closer, his leg brushing against Taker’s under the blanket. “What about… worst hotel you ever stayed in?”

Taker’s chuckle was deeper this time, a rumble that made Jay’s chest hum. “Some dive in Chicago. The bed was like sleeping on concrete.” His hand moved, slow and deliberate, finding Jay’s waist under the sheets, fingers splaying wide. “You gonna keep this up?”

“Maybe,” Jay teased, his voice lighter now, but his gaze never left Taker’s. He loved this game, tossing out random questions just to pull that voice out, to feel it wrap around him like a physical touch. “Favorite city you’ve wrestled in?”

Taker’s eyes narrowed, catching on to Jay’s ploy, but he played along, his voice low and unhurried. “New York. Madison Square Garden’s got a pulse like nowhere else.” His thumb brushed over Jay’s hip, a quiet claim. “You’re fishing for something. What is it?”

Jay laughed softly, the sound muffled against the pillow as he leaned closer, his face inches from Taker’s. “Just like hearing you talk,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That voice… does things to me.”

Taker’s smirk grew, a glint of something dangerous and warm flickering in his eyes. “That so?” he rumbled, the words slower now, deliberate, each one sinking into Jay like a stone into still water.

Jay nodded, his heart picking up speed. He propped himself higher, looking down at Taker, the morning light catching the sharp angles of his face. “One more,” he said, his voice barely audible, laced with a challenge. “Tell me you love me. In that scary voice.”

Taker stilled, his hand tightening on Jay’s waist. For a moment, the room was silent, the air thick with anticipation. Then he shifted, rolling onto his side to face Jay fully, his massive frame casting a shadow over the bed. His eyes locked onto Jay’s, dark and intense, and when he spoke, his voice was a growl, low and deliberate, the kind that could hush a crowd or stop a heart.

“I love you,” he said, each word heavy, precise, “like death loves silence.”
Jay’s breath hitched, his entire body melting under the weight of that voice, that promise. It was like being pinned, not by force but by the sheer intensity of Taker’s presence. His hands found Taker’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his worn tank top, anchoring himself as the words echoed in his mind. “Goddamn,” he whispered, a shaky laugh escaping. “You’re gonna ruin me with that.”

Taker’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but close enough to make Jay’s heart stutter. “Good,” he rumbled, his hand sliding from Jay’s waist to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Jay didn’t resist, letting himself be drawn in until their foreheads touched, Taker’s breath warm against his skin.

“You keep asking for trouble,” Taker murmured, his voice still that perfect, gravelly drawl, “and I’m gonna keep giving it to you.”

Jay’s laugh was soft, breathless, his eyes half-closed as he soaked in the moment. “Promise?” he whispered, his fingers tracing the line of Taker’s collarbone.

Taker didn’t answer with words. Instead, he closed the distance, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to Jay’s lips. It was gentle at first, then deeper, Taker’s hand steady on his neck, grounding him in a way that made the world fade away. Jay melted into it, his body relaxing against Taker’s, the sheets tangling around them.

When they pulled apart, Jay’s cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes bright with something unguarded. “You’re too good at this,” he muttered, but his smile betrayed the warmth spreading through him.

Taker’s chuckle was low, vibrating through the bed. “You started it,” he said, his voice still rough, still perfect. He settled back against the pillows, one arm pulling Jay close, tucking him against his side. Jay nestled there, his head on Taker’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat, the echo of that voice still lingering in the air.

They stayed like that, the morning stretching out slow and quiet, the world beyond the bedroom irrelevant. The sheets, the warmth, the weight of Taker’s arm, it was theirs, a sanctuary built on stolen moments. And that voice, the one Jay chased every morning, was the thread that wove it all together, binding them in a way that needed no words.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of My everyone x Christian (Jay) universe