Work Text:
The luchador stood angrily before the cheap wooden desk, a lamp reflecting off the golden oak veneer to paint the hard planes of their mask with impatient light. Dario Cueto stared somewhere behind their mask, steepling his fingers, palms slightly cupped as if they were gently cradling something between them. He liked to think it was as though he was holding the wrestler, their fate. I own you, he thought, bringing his slim copper hands flat together briefly before releasing the tension of the moment with an expressive hand wave.
“I am so sorry to disappoint, my friend, but unfortunately to enter the trios championship that’s just what you’re going to have to do.” He smiled, teeth white and eyes cunning. “I know you have had some,” he circled his hand, thinking of the best word, “disagreements with this team before, but I’m afraid you three will just need to work things out.”
Dario watched the other man struggle between an angry retort and punching his boss in the face, the taut muscles on the luchador’s arms flexing in repressed action. Dario stayed relaxed, tilted back in his chair, uncaring. With his baby brother, The Monster Mantaza, now wearing the championship belt, he felt a delicious wealth of confidence and power, fed by the Temple’s intoxicating new acme of violence. As if the luchador also remembered the merciless reigning champion, he finally turned without a word and left Dario’s office. The slammed door sent a shudder through the flimsy walls of the office, an aftershock of anger.
Nothing was more satisfying to Dario than creating these unique opportunities, matching unwilling wrestlers and forcing them to work together to win their gold. Well, almost nothing.
He checked his watch, confirming that there was plenty of time before that night’s match. With a practised, oiled movement he slid from his chair and moved to the door of his office, locking it. After that reassuring click of security, Dario checked the blinds, they were closed tight, as they always were even when the glass was temporarily replaced by plywood due to an unexpected paroxysm of violence in the ring. Secure in his privacy, he dropped back into the chair and opened a desk drawer. From underneath thick banker stacks of cash, he drew out a slim silver tablet, unfolding its battered case to reveal a small keyboard.
With a few swift keystrokes, Dario brought up his true obsession. The writing program showed an unfinished story, his outline marching in careful bullet points below the half-filled screen of text. He began typing.
Joey Ryan punched his locker door. He’d been so close to pinning Cage. He hadn’t had a good win yet and he’d been hoping his match against The Machine would end up with him on top. The audience was already loving him, why wouldn’t they, Joey was basically the coolest dude they’d probably ever seen. He smiled, his trademark moustache twitching up in the way he knew wet every seat in the house.
He opened the battered locker door to gaze at his glory. As he posed, gazing into the little magnetic mirror, twirling his sucker from one side of his mouth to the other, a shadow fell across his reflection. Joey turned angrily, ready to defend his visage from an un-ideal lighting situation. He found himself looking into an apparently unending chest, muscles barely restrained by the fragile cotton of a black t-shirt. Joey fidgeted, trying to find a way to meet The Machine’s eyes without looking like a yokel gaping at a skyscraper. The close quarters made it difficult, but he finally settled on leaning back at a casual angle against the lockers.
“Maybe if you practiced your moves as much as your poses it’d be you with the pin tonight.” Cage said, dryly.
Joey scoffed, “hey man, not all of us go plug in somewhere to charge at the night. I got obligations, I need to look good.” He turned back to his locker, grabbing his jacket and pants and slinging them over his arm. He’d change later. Taking a half step back to shut the locker door, Joey realised Cage had stepped closer, the heat from their recent match reaching out to sweep across his still-oiled skin.
“Not even going to shower? You’re going to ruin the seats of your car.” Cage’s wall of heat slipped tighter against Joey’s back, if he wanted to turn and face The Machine he’d have to either twist up against the cold lockers or brush that broad chest.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I drove home covered in baby oil,” Joey moved as he spoke, slipping past Cage in a smooth sidestep and turn that gained him distance from both the wall of lockers and the wall of man, barely touching either. He’d been faster than Cage in the ring, no reason why he wouldn’t be in the locker room.
Cage smiled, though it could have been a figment of Joey’s imagination. Something lit with humour for a moment, the corner of his mouth, his eyes, but before Joey could catch it he went tumbling backward over the bench bolted squarely between the locker bays. Cage carefully navigated around the low seats and loomed over him, extending his hand. Joey hesitated.
“I already beat you up tonight, why would I bother doing it again?” He reached down, grabbing Joey by the forearm and bodily lifting him into a standing position as though the smaller man wasn’t also a heavyweight. They stood like that for a moment, Cage’s hand easily circling Joey’s arm, only the distance of heat between them.
Dario looked up from his typing. He set the tablet aside and walked around his desk, running his hand lightly around the edge, fingers dancing over the ashtray, the lamp, the glossy red bull statue and the clipboards of rosters. In concert, his mind flickered from one possibility to the next as he thought about exactly where he wanted to go next in the story. It was tempting to plunge deeply and directly into turgid excess, especially with rough specimens like Joey Ryan and The Machine. He made a note to himself to use the verb “pistoning” at some point, purely out of principle.
But Dario had a reputation to uphold. In the Temple, he was known for his love of violence. But on the forums where he posted his work, anonymously, of course, he was known for a maddening tendency towards drawn out tension and ‘fade to black’ that robbed his readers of any sort of final, graphic, release. He enjoyed the cruel restraint of it.
He settled back into his chair, tablet propped in its keyboard cradle on the desk. With a flourish, he continued.
Cage gently released his grip, though Joey still felt the memory of the pressure and texture of the other man’s fingertips. He’d been held more roughly in the ring less than an hour before but this light touch seemed to have pinned him just as effectively. With the same calloused fingertips, Cage swept across the oil slick highlighting Joey’s collarbone, The Machine’s pinky almost brushing his chest hair. Joey tried very hard to keep breathing as Cage rubbed his fingers together.
“The amount you oil should be illegal. It’s practically cheating, how it allows you to squirm out of holds.” Cage leaned closer and Joey realised he was in the same position as before, lockers behind him, The Machine a wall before him.
“Nobody cares about the rules, not anymore.” Their proximity, and something about the way Cage said “squirm” had started blood beating up Joey’s chest and across his groin, catching his breath in a way he hoped wasn’t obvious in his voice. “Dario wants violence, we wants a show. I give them a show.”
Cage dragged his eyes from Joey’s technicoloured shin guards up to his matching briefs, lingering for an aching moment before following the glistening body hair to mirrored shades. “Yeah,” Cage’s words had measured weight, each one falling heavily into the pit of Joey’s stomach. “You sure do give them a show.”
There was no maybe about how hard Joey was right now, not to him and not to Cage. The Machine slid closer and brought a heavy but gentle hand up to the side of Joey’s face. He leaned into the touch instinctively and glimpsed a softness in Cage’s eyes as he spoke,
“You did almost pin me.” There was no distance between them now, their combined heat sparking like a summer thunderstorm in electric need. Cage wet his lips and continued, “I wonder if you’d like to try again?”
Joey felt Cage’s length pressed hard against him, the throbbing pressure matching his own aching desire. He reached up, mirroring The Machine’s touch as he replied, “try? I know I’ll end up on top this time.” Joey’s moustache twisted in a smile as his voice, thick with need, sent a jolt up the massive body against him. He pressed closer, twisting his hips, as he added “but, I’m keeping the glasses on.”
Lightly touching his lips in thought, Dario stared past the tablet screen, his fingers drifting back down to the keys.
The cool metal of the lockers at his back sent chills up Joey’s spine in concert with the pulsing heat of Cage’s body pressed up against his. He arched his back as The Machine leaned down to bring his mouth to Joey’s glistening skin. Cage’s fingers threaded their way up the nape of his neck and into his hair, tugging gently.
With a soft growl of need, Joey hooked his leg behind Cage’s and deftly spun him, reversing their position so it was The Machine backed against the lockers. Responding readily, Cage moved his mouth lower, nearly lifting Joey off his feet as he hungrily worked his way down. Joey barely kept his balance as Cage’s mouth—
A sharp knock interrupted Dario’s train of thought. He swiftly folded the case around the tablet and slid it back under the pile of money in his desk drawer. The knocking grew more impatient. With a snarl contorting his mobile face, Dario threw open the door, leaving the intruder mid-knock, fist raised. It was the luchador from earlier, seething below the surface with an infrared glow of anger. They barely made eye contact with Dario as they capitulated, agreeing to his terms.