Welcome to My Blog, here is a brief intro so you can know more about me and also have a mastepost of my fics and moodboards.
My name is Dilan, my pronouns are He/Him, I’m a trans man🏳️⚧️. I'm Aro/Ace🏳️🌈, but I do post NSFW and write smut so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. I'm 25, and a Capricorn. I speak both English and Portuguese (I'm Brazilian🇧🇷). I'm also Dyslexic.
My works on AO3
My current interests are Pro-Wrestling; Tokusatsu; Horror; Hair Metal bands (Bon Jovi and Guns N Roses are my faves)
My favorite wrestlers are: The Kliq as a whole (Shawn Michaels, Kevin Nash, Scott Hall, X-Pac and Triple H); Billy Gunn; Road Dogg; Chyna; Bret Hart; Owen Hart; Undertaker; Kane; Goldust; Mick Foley and JBL.
Current Wrestlers: Rhea Ripley; Damian Priest; Dominik Mysterio; Liv; Kenny Omega; Kota Ibushi; CM Punk; Swerve; Mox; Seth Rollins; Cody Rhodes; Randy Orton; Kevin Owens; Samy Zayn; Drew McIntyre; and many, many more...
My main ships are: Kane x X-pac; Hartbreak; HBTaker; Shawnter; Razor x 1,2,3 Kid; Kevin x Shawn; Scott x Kev. And any Shawn ship tbh, he just has insane chemistry with people.
Currently watching: Nothing right now
Currently reading: MDZS vol. 2; TCGF vol. 1
I mainly write fanfiction and do moodboards (but I'm really slow at doing both)
Side parings: JBL| John Bradshaw Layfield/Shawn Michaels
Summary: Bret Hart is staring down the barrel of financial ruin. With his father’s failing health and his younger brother bedridden after a tragic accident, the Hitman Protection Agency is on the verge of collapse. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and John Bradshaw Layfield—the ruthless CEO of Layfield Enterprises—presents an offer Bret literally cannot refuse. In exchange for paying every single medical bill, Bret must become the permanent, twenty-four-seven shadow for JBL's troublesome, much younger house husband, Shawn Michaels.
At twenty-eight, Shawn seems to be the epitome of a spoiled, erratic trophy spouse who takes a sick pleasure in testing Bret’s legendary patience. But as Bret steps into the suffocating opulence of the Layfield estate, the cold professional begins to notice the cracks in the gilded facade. Between heavy medical schedules, old injuries that tell a violent story, and a missing former bodyguard, Bret realizes that Shawn may not be looking for trouble.
Now, caught between the contract that keeps his family alive and a desperate man trapped in a golden cage, Bret must decide how far he's willing to go to protect a heart he was only hired to guard.
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: I had this idea when I saw that Shawn commented that Bret could've been his bodyguard. I've been working on this for a very long time, but finally the first chapter is out! I've also pre-written a couple of things.
Important Content Warnings for the overall story: Please be advised that this story deals with heavy themes, including domestic abuse (non-con/dub-con implications within a marriage), forced drug dependency, and financial control. JBL is the main antagonist here and acts as such.
English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: An Offer You Can’t Refuse- Also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Weight of Gilded Gates- Also on AO3
Chapter 3: Liquid Courage and Velvet Chains- Also on AO3
Chapter 4: The Merchandising of Heartbreak- Also on AO3
Chapter 5: Unspoken Rules and Quiet Subtext- Also on AO3
Chapter 6: The Shield in the Shadows- Also on AO3
Chapter 7: The Shadows After the Storm- Also on AO3
Chapter 8: The Velvet Lions and Gilded Vices- Also on AO3
Hartbreak Bodyguard!AU: A Price on Loyalty- Chapter 8: The Velvet Lions and Gilded Vices
Paring: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels
Summary: Bret watches as Shawn puts on a flawless, smiling performance for the press and JBL’s ruthless corporate associates, including Ric Flair and Vince McMahon. While monitoring the ballroom, Bret overhears a chilling conversation between JBL and Police Chief Mark Calaway regarding a police investigation. Overwhelmed by physical pain, Shawn uses alcohol to numb himself, creating a dangerous, reckless cocktail with the forced medications JBL gave him. Bret intervenes and takes an intoxicated Shawn to the restroom, where Shawn’s volatile emotions shift from petulance to heartbreaking vulnerability.
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: Chapter Content Warnings (Please read carefully): High-intensity psychological angst and emotional volatility. Substance abuse/Intoxication (A character uses alcohol to numb pain, resulting in a severe reaction with prescription drugs). Detailed depiction of physical illness/vomiting. Heavy implications of systemic control and terror. English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 2,525
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The blinding, rhythmic flash of a thousand camera shutters pierced through the warm summer night as the limousine pulled up to the red carpet of the grand exhibition hall. The moment John Bradshaw Layfield stepped out, followed closely by his young husband, the media erupted.
Bret stepped out of the front seat, his dark sunglasses shielding his analytical eyes as he scanned the perimeter. He watched in awe at the sheer speed with which Shawn’s defenses went online. The exhausted, broken young man from the dark bedroom had vanished entirely. Shawn flashed a radiant, effortlessly relaxed smile for the press, his arm coiling around JBL’s broad bicep with the practiced affection of a deeply infatuated trophy spouse. The mask didn't slip for a single, solitary second.
Inside the cavernous, crystal-chandeliered ballroom, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, top-shelf scotch, and raw corporate power. JBL moved through the crowd like a king, parading Shawn on his arm as he greeted his elite circle of associates. Bret stood a few paces behind, a silent shadow blending into the lavish decor.
He watched as JBL huddled with the city's most ruthless moguls, men like Ted DiBiase, Bobby Heenan, Paul Heyman, and Eric Bischoff. Even Ric Flair was there, acting as if the tense standoff in his studio had never happened, throwing knowing, slick grins in Shawn’s direction. As the tycoons laughed over multi-million-dollar real estate deals, their eyes constantly lingered on the open collar of Shawn's dress shirt, openly appraising the exposed skin. They made low, vulgar jests about JBL's luck in keeping such a stunning "heartbreaker" at home, jokes that made JBL let out booming, prideful laughs. Shawn merely kept his polite, unbothered smile plastered to his face, his blue eyes entirely dead beneath the mask.
When JBL finally drifted away to discuss a private merger with a group of offshore investors, Shawn managed to quietly untangle himself from his husband's side, slipping away to a secluded table near the edge of the ballroom.
Before Bret could follow his assignment, a heavy, authoritative hand clapped down onto his shoulder.
He turned to find Vince McMahon standing beside him, holding a crystal glass of whiskey. The older billionaire looked at Bret with a sharp, piercing gaze. "How is your brother, Mr. Hart?" Vince asked, his voice a gravelly, smooth baritone. "I see Layfield took my advice in hiring you. A firm hand is exactly what that household needs."
"Owen is fighting hard, Mr. McMahon. Thank you for the recommendation," Bret replied, his professional mask perfectly intact.
Polite as his words were, an intense wave of bitter anger flared deep within Bret’s chest. He had to clench his fists inside his pockets to keep his composure. It was Vince’s utter, corporate negligence during that high-profile party that had directly caused Owen’s crippling accident, and seeing the man act so casually benevolent made Bret's stomach turn.
Eager to end the conversation, Bret’s gaze flicked back toward the ballroom floor, searching for Shawn.
Shawn was no longer alone at the table. Hunter Hearst Helmsley had joined him, leaning in close. As Bret watched from a distance, he felt a subtle jolt of surprise. Shawn was smiling, not the empty, blinding grin he gave the press or the businessmen, but a genuine, soft laugh that lit up his striking blue eyes. He looked entirely safe in Hunter’s presence. Bret, still harboring his deep-seated distaste for the arrogant, blue-blood executive from Connecticut, narrowed his eyes. He figured Hunter was just using his influence to manipulate the vulnerable young model.
But there was something else Bret’s security training failed to calculate. Ever since they had arrived, Shawn had been drinking. Non-stop.
He was masking his physical agony by downing glass after glass of heavy liquor, entirely indifferent to the fact that the powerful, sedating medications JBL had forced him to take earlier were actively weaponizing the alcohol in his bloodstream. In a matter of forty minutes, the chemical cocktail completely shattered Shawn's internal filters, plunging him into a heavy, reckless state of intoxication.
JBL strode back over to the table, accompanied by a towering, imposing man with long, slicked-back dark hair and piercing, cold eyes. Bret instantly recognized him: Mark Calaway, the city’s Chief of Police, famously known in the underworld as The Undertaker.
The two powerful men began to converse in low, gritty tones. They weren't whispering, allowing Bret to catch every single word with crystal clarity.
"Is Cena still causing you problems with the embezzlement audit, John?" Calaway murmured, his deep voice carrying the weight of a coffin lid shutting.
JBL let out a dry, irritated hiss. "Not recently. I imagine you talked to your boy?"
"I did," the police chief replied, his jaw tight. "But he’s stubborn. He keeps digging where he shouldn't. I'll ensure his department files stay buried, but keep your house clean."
Bret’s internal radar pinged sharply at the mention of John Cena. A chief of police actively covering up an audit for a billionaire CEO was the textbook definition of corruption, and the knot in Bret's stomach tightened.
Suddenly, a loud, slurred laugh cut through the quiet corporate meeting.
The alcohol had completely taken over Shawn’s system, leaving him uncharacteristically affectionate and clumsy. He was leaning heavily against Hunter, draping an arm around his shoulder, before turning to throw his arms around JBL's neck, his movements wild and entirely uncoordinated. His defensive Heartbreak Kid armor was entirely gone, replaced by a dangerous, drug-fueled loop of self-destruction.
As Shawn reached across the table, his trembling fingers wrapping around yet another glass of champagne, Bret finally stepped out of the shadows. His professional tolerance had reached its limit.
Bret intercepted Shawn’s hand, his iron grip gently but firmly clamping down on his wrist before he could lift the glass. "I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Michaels," Bret said, his voice a low, unyielding command.
"Let go of me, bodyguard!" Shawn hissed, a sudden, erratic wave of drunken irritation flaring in his eyes. He violently wrenched his arm back, trying to break Bret’s hold, but his lack of coordination betrayed him. His elbow clipped the edge of the table, sending the full glass of champagne toppling directly onto his pristine, custom silk shirt, the dark liquid instantly staining the fabric.
Shawn let out a sharp, choked gasp of frustration, staring down at his ruined clothes.
Before JBL or the Chief of Police could make a scene out of the disruption, Bret firmly caught Shawn by the upper arm, anchoring his unstable weight. "Excuse us, Mr. Layfield," Bret said smoothly, shifting firmly into professional mode. "I'll take him to the restroom to clean up."
With JBL throwing them a warning, murderous glare, Bret guided the stumbling, heavily intoxicated young man away from the elite wolves of the ballroom, steering him directly toward the privacy of the grand executive restrooms.
Once the heavy door of the executive restroom swung shut, cutting off the muted roar of the ballroom jazz, the sudden silence felt almost ringing. Bret guided Shawn toward a plush velvet sofa in the vanity area. Shawn sat down heavily, instantly crossing his arms tightly over his chest and pouting his lips in a sharp display of silent resistance.
Bret grabbed a disposable linen towel from a silver tray, running it under the cold water tap. Looking at his assignment, Bret couldn't help but think that Shawn looked exactly like his nieces and nephews when they were throwing a temper tantrum. The only unsettling difference was that his siblings' kids were actual children, while Shawn Michaels was a twenty-eight-year-old grown man.
"I can take care of myself just fine," Shawn muttered, his slurred voice carrying a fragile edge as he stared at the marble floor. "I don't need a babysitter."
"I would beg to disagree," Bret countered smoothly, the unprofessional retort slipping past his lips before his conscious mind could stop it.
Shawn sharply turned his face away with a petulant hiss as Bret knelt down, carefully pressing the damp towel against the stained silk of his dress shirt.
But then, the atmosphere in the room shifted with dizzying speed. The dangerous chemical cocktail of hard liquor and forced sedatives made Shawn’s emotions incredibly volatile. In a fraction of a second, the petulance evaporated. A slow, heavy, seductive smile curved Shawn's lips as his striking blue eyes focused intensely on Bret’s face. He leaned forward, deliberately invading Bret's space as his hand reached out to trace the lapel of Bret's dark suit.
"You're... really strong, you know that?" Shawn purred, his voice dropping into a low, slurred drawl. His eyes raked over Bret's shoulders, open flattery bleeding through his hazy smile. "Handsome, too. A real knight in a dark suit..."
Bret felt a furious, burning flush creep up his neck, his hands freezing against the towel. The abrupt mood swing left him completely dizzy, his analytical brain stalling as he stared back at Shawn, momentarily startled and genuinely unsettled by the sudden vulnerability and the overt flirtation.
Shawn watched Bret's reaction, his hazy mind instantly interpreting the bodyguard’s wide, shocked eyes as a look of profound disgust and rejection. The seductive smile vanished as if it had never existed, and his features crumbled into a look of raw, suffocating misery. Bret could physically see the sudden, overwhelming wave of sadness crashing over the younger man.
"Why do you hate me?" Shawn whispered. His voice sounded so small, so devastatingly fragile, that Bret barely managed to catch the words over the gentle hum of the restroom's ventilation system.
Before Bret could even formulate an answer, Shawn abruptly bolted from the sofa. He staggered blindly into one of the private stalls, collapsing heavily onto his knees in front of the porcelain bowl as his physical body finally rejected the chemical poison running through his veins.
Bret didn't hesitate. He stepped into the stall and dropped to his knees beside him. Without a word, he reached out, using one large, calloused hand to securely hold Shawn’s long hair back out of the way. Shawn retched violently, his entire lean frame shaking with agonizing tremors. Every few moments, the dry heaving would pause, and Shawn would weakly rest the side of his pale, sweating face against the cold porcelain rim, his wide, glassy blue eyes staring up at Bret with a look of absolute, helpless exhaustion.
Bret stared down at him, his mind flashing back to the aftermath of the photoshoot. Under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the restroom, stripped of his cocky armor, Shawn looked terrifyingly, impossibly young. Remembering the gentle, protective look Rey had given Shawn in the kitchen, Bret finally understood the butler's paternal instinct. There was a profound, quiet tragedy to this boy that had nothing to do with being a spoiled model.
The heavy restroom door clicked open. Bret’s spine went rigid, expecting to see JBL’s imposing frame walking in to deliver another cruel reprimand. Instead, it was Hunter Hearst Helmsley.
Bret braced himself, fully expecting the wealthy Connecticut blue-blood to look down at the messy, undignified scene with a face full of disgust before walking right back out. But to Bret’s utter shock, Hunter didn't blink. He bypassed the sinks, grabbed a fresh towel to run it under the cold water, and immediately knelt down on the other side of the porcelain bowl, completely ignoring Bret’s presence.
Hunter's focus was one hundred percent on Shawn. With practiced, incredibly gentle movements, Hunter used the damp cloth to tenderly wipe the corners of Shawn’s mouth, clearing away the tears that had leaked from his eyelashes and the cold sweat glistening on his forehead.
"I'm tired, Hunt..." Shawn whispered, his voice sounding so incredibly small, devoid of any of the natural strength or sharpness he usually carried.
Hunter offered a soft, deeply sorrowful smile, his thumb gently caressing Shawn's damp cheekbone. "I know, Shawnie. I know."
They didn't say anything else. There was a deep, unspoken history of protection in the way Hunter continued to clean Shawn’s face, his fingers gently smoothing back the stray strands of honey-blond hair with an innate, quiet tenderness.
When the sickness finally subsided and Shawn managed to slowly pull himself up, both Bret and Hunter anchored his unstable weight, guiding him over to the marble sinks so he could rinse the bitter taste from his mouth.
Hunter turned to Shawn, his tone firm but protective. "You need to go home, Shawn. I'll ask my personal chauffeur to take you and Mr. Hart back to the estate."
Shawn’s eyes went wide with sudden, frantic panic, his head shaking violently as he gripped the edge of the sink. "No! No, we have to stay! I have to stay! John will... John will kill me if we leave early."
Bret’s brow furrowed, a cold prickle of genuine worry flaring in his chest at the sheer terror in Shawn's slurred voice. But Hunter seemed to understand the invisible rules of the cage better than Bret. His posture relaxed, and he raised his hands to gently soothe Shawn’s shoulders. "Okay. Okay, no going home. But you're going to stay sitting at the table for the rest of the night. And absolutely no more alcohol. Deal?"
Shawn let out a shaky breath, nodding weakly. "Deal."
The return to the ballroom was quiet. Shawn spent the remainder of the corporate gala anchored to the edge table, the perfect mask of the trophy husband locked back into place whenever a photographer passed by, though his eyes remained entirely vacant. Hunter came over to chat with him every few minutes, keeping a protective watch, and a few high-profile guests, like Linda and Stephanie McMahon, dropped by to offer brief, polite conversation.
By the time the limousine finally pulled back into the cobblestone driveway of the Layfield estate, the clock on the dashboard read nearly two in the morning. Shawn had completely fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep against the leather seats halfway through the drive.
JBL stepped out of the vehicle first, smoothing down his tuxedo and turning a cold, demanding look toward the backseat. "Mr. Hart. Carry him up to his room. Once you're done, come down to my office immediately. We need to speak."
"Understood, sir," Bret replied.
He slid across the seat, carefully reaching in to slide one arm beneath Shawn's knees and the other securely behind his upper back, lifting him out of the limousine bridal style. Bret braced his muscles, expecting the heavy resistance of a grown man who stood at almost six feet tall with an athletic, sculpted build.But as he pulled Shawn flush against his chest, Bret's breath caught.
Shawn Michaels was terrifyingly light. He felt frail, almost hollow, as if his entire body was made of nothing but feathers and air. It was a terrifying realization for a seasoned security professional. As Bret marched up the grand marble staircase with the sleeping young man in his arms, his heart hammered heavily against his ribs. The official narrative was dead, the illusion was gone, and the Hitman was beginning to realize that the golden cage wasn't just a prison, it was slow starvation.
Shawnter Medieval!AU: The Prince and The Barbarian King
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Main Paring: Shawn Michaels/Triple H;
Side parings: Billy Gunn/"The Road Dogg" Jesse James; X-pac/Kane; Scott Hall/Kevin Nash; Rey Mysterio/Eddie Guerrero; Goldust/Undertaker
Summary: Shawn is the eldest son of king Vincent and to his father's disappointment he's also an omega, meaning he is only useful as a bargaining chip, his worth directly measured by the marriage alliance he can bring to his kingdom. In an attempt to save the kingdom from being taken by the Barbarian King Hunter Hearts Hemsley, King Vincent swears his son's hand in exchange for peace. Now Shawn has to navigate life in a completely new environment, with a culture he knows nothing about and to make matters worse it feels like his future husband is just as annoyed with this marriage as Shawn is. While Shawn and Hunter are trying to fall in love it seems forces behind the scenes don't want this alliance to take place and will stop at nothing to prevent it.
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Omega Verse; Alternate Universe-Medieval; Alternate Universe-Royalty; Arranged Marrige; Falling in Love; Enemies to Friends to Lovers; Found Family; Eventual Smut; Eventual Happy Ending; Scenting; Mating Bites; Mating Bond; Courting Rituals; Slow Burn; Other Aditional Tags to Be Added
Notes: English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: A New Life- also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Road to the Mountains- also on AO3
Chapter 3: The Cold Tower and Hidden Smolders- also on AO3
Chapter 4: Thorns and Winter Gardens- also on AO3
Chapter 5: Wildflowers and Hidden Embers- also on AO3
Shawnter Medieval!AU: The Prince and The Barbarian King-Chapter 9: The Lakeside Trap
Paring: Shawn Michaels/Triple H
Summary: While foraging for plants near the lower mountain lake to soothe his mind after a bitter argument, Prince Shawn finds himself ensnared in a terrifying lakeside trap. Surrounded by eight disciplined Alphas, Shawn quickly realizes this is no longer an assassination attempt, but a coordinated abduction orchestrated by a sinister alliance. Fighting back viciously with his agility and wit, Shawn is ultimately compromised by a brutal blade strike to his leg. But just as all hope seems lost, King Hunter erupts through the fog like a devastating thunderstorm.
Notes: The plot thickens… What may have changed in Bischoff plans to want Shawn alive? Also Hunter to the rescue!!!! This might be exactly what Shawn and Hunter needed to break through their walls. English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 2,495
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The lower mountain lake was a mirror of dark crystal, completely undisturbed save for the gentle ripples caused by the biting alpine breeze. Towering pines surrounded the perimeter, their branches dusted with a light layer of morning frost.
Shawn knelt by the edge of the damp earth, a small iron trowel in one hand and a leather satchel by his side. His mind was a chaotic storm of furious thoughts, his signature rose scent flaring with a sharp, thorny agitation. He was still absolutely seething about what had happened in the training courtyard the previous day. Every single terrifying fear he had carried regarding his future husband had been proven right. Hunter was nothing but a crude, heartless brute who only cared about his own fragile Alpha ego, willing to break a loyal knight's knee just to make a point.
Shawn aggressively dug the trowel into the dirt, muttering under his breath. A barbarian. A complete, unprincipled monster.
But as he moved down the path to look for fresh plant clippings, his eyes caught a sudden, vibrant splash of blue jutting from the rocks.
Shawn froze. He slowly reached out, his fingers hovering over a small cluster of resilient mountain flowers. They were exactly the same wild blossoms Hunter had clumsily harvested and awkwardly thrust into his face days ago. Seeing them growing here in the wild, stubborn, rough, but undeniably beautiful, caused Shawn’s frantic breathing to slow down. The violent thorns in his scent softened, a deep wave of reluctant calm washing over him. He leaned closer, gently caressing a petal, thinking about gathering a few to arrange around the bouquet Goldust was keeping in the center of the winter garden.
Maybe... maybe I was too harsh on him, Shawn thought, though he immediately mentally slapped himself for the weakness.
Suddenly, Shawn’s instincts flared. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood completely on end, and a heavy, instinctual dread dropped straight into his stomach.
Then came the scent.
It was a terrible, putrid smell, a suffocating wave of sour sweat, cheap grease, and bloodlust. Alphas. Specifically, Alphas who were actively tracking a target, their predatory pheromones flooding the air. Shawn’s inner Omega screamed a terrifying, primitive warning: You are the prey.
Shawn scrambled to his feet in a microsecond. He abandoned the trowel, his hand instantly locking around the hilt of the sharp hunting dagger he had tucked into his belt.
A heavy boot snapped a twig behind him. Shawn spun around, his blue eyes narrowing into slits as a burly Alpha stepped out from behind a massive pine tree. Within seconds, three more men emerged from the shadows, completely cutting off his path back toward the fortress trail.
Shawn recognized their dark, unmarked leather armor instantly. They were dressed exactly like the "hill bandits" who had ambushed the carriage on the trail ten days ago. But as Shawn braced himself for a lethal struggle, his sharp eyes noticed a critical difference. The ambush on the pass had been an assassination attempt; these men, however, weren't moving with killing intent. Their stances were wide, their ropes ready, and their eyes scanned Shawn like bounty hunters looking at a prize.
For some reason they didn't want him dead anymore. They wanted him alive.
The lead mercenary took a slow, heavy step forward, a disgusting, yellow-toothed grin cutting through his bearded face. "Well, well... look at the little bird all alone in the woods. No giant knight to hide behind today, prince."
Shawn didn't panic. He slowly shifted his boots on the loose gravel, scanning the tree line for a structural escape route. But as he looked to his left and right, four more figures broke through the fog, surrounding him entirely. Four Alphas had turned into eight. His options for flight were rapidly dropping to zero.
Realizing he was completely outnumbered, Shawn decided to leverage his greatest weapon: his mind. He needed information, and he needed to break their focus. If he could provoke them into attacking blindly, he could use their overextended momentum to drop a few and tear a hole through their perimeter.
"Eight Alphas just to capture one 'fragile bird'?" Shawn shot back, his voice dripping with an incredibly sharp, sweet venom as he offered a mocking tilt of his chin. "My, my... Lord Bischoff must be paying you by the dozen because your courage is remarkably thin. Tell me, does your master know you need a full army just to harass a prince, or are you all just naturally this pathetic?"
The lead mercenary’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a dangerous flash of anger at the insult. Shawn prepared his body to slip under the first overextended lunge…
But nobody moved.
The mercenaries stayed perfectly in formation, their weapons low, their eyes steady. Shawn felt a cold sweat break out as a sudden realization hit him with absolute horror: They aren't going to underestimate me.
Their internal information from the Western courts was flawless. Pat Patterson had detailed exactly how the prince leveraged his speed to exploit an Alpha's weight. They weren't going to rush him blindly like common thugs. They were treating him like a trained combatant.
To make matters worse, the eight Alphas suddenly unleashed the full, unrestricted force of their dominant pheromones. The air around the lake became thick, heavy, and sickeningly toxic as a suffocating wall of aggressive Alpha aura pressed down on Shawn from all sides, deliberately trying to trigger his biological Omega submission traits to force his knees to buckle.
Shawn gasped for air, fighting the wave of nausea as the disgusting scent assaulted his nose. His hands trembled slightly under the sheer weight of the pheromones, his inner Omega screaming to give up and hide. But Shawn clamped his jaw shut, his fierce McMahon pride flaring like wildfire in his veins as he raised his dagger, refusing to bow.
"Come on then, you bastards," Shawn whispered through his teeth, his blue eyes blazing. "Let's see if your technique matches your smell."
Even with his strategy compromised, Shawn was far from defenseless. He was experienced, intensely agile, and fueled by a desperation that sharpened his reflexes to an absolute point. As the first Alpha stepped too close, confident that the heavy wall of submissive pheromones would keep the prince paralyzed, Shawn lunged. He dropped low, dodging a sweeping grab, and drove his shoulder into the man's thigh, using the Alpha’s own bulky weight to flip him hard onto the rocky ground.
Before the others could react, a second mercenary swung his blunt training sword downward. Shawn twisted his body, letting the blade slice through empty air, and delivered a vicious, snapping kick directly into the Alpha's face. The solid crack of his boot meeting bone sent the man reeling backward, blood erupting from his nose.
There it was. A temporary breach in their suffocating circle.
Shawn didn't waste a single millisecond. He knew that against eight trained, coordinated Alphas, he stood absolutely zero chance in a prolonged melee. Survival meant flight. He needed to reach the fortress trail, sound the alarm, and bring the king’s guards and warriors down upon them.
He bolted through the gap, his legs pumping as he tore into the dense forest. But as the freezing wind whipped against his face, a cold realization dropped into his stomach. Because he had been forced to take the very first opportunity that presented itself, the breach in their formation had opened on the exact opposite side of the castle. He was running deeper into the wilderness, away from safety.
Shawn didn't slow down. He gritted his teeth, shifting his trajectory as he ran, attempting to carve a massive, sweeping arc through the trees that would eventually loop him back toward the main fortress path.
Just a little further, he told himself, his chest heaving. Just create enough distance…
A sudden, blinding flare of white-hot agony exploded in his leg.
One of the faster mercenaries had managed to close the distance, swinging his heavy broadsword low. The steel bit deep into Shawn's calf, slicing clean through the leather of his riding pants and into the muscle. Shawn let out a sharp, choked gasp as his leg gave out entirely, sending him crashing hard into the dirt and loose gravel. Crimson blood instantly began to bloom across the black linen, soaking into the frozen earth beneath him.
The lead mercenary caught up, panting heavily as he stood over the fallen prince, his disgusting, sour Alpha scent rolling off him in triumphant waves. He kicked Shawn's hunting dagger out of his reach, looking down with a terrifying, predatory grin.
"The boss wants you alive, little bird," the Alpha sibilated, wiping a splash of dirt from his own face. "But he did say to get you at any cost. Personally, I don't think your ability to walk is essential for him. He doesn't need your legs, prince. He just needs you to carry his pups."
A wave of violent, sickening nausea hit Shawn’s stomach at the vile comment. The sheer horror of what Bischoff had planned for him made his blood boil with a desperate, animalistic rage. He refused to be a breeding slave. He refused to give up.
As the mercenary reached down to grab his collar, Shawn brandished his bare hands, clawing at the man's face. When the Alpha pinned his wrists into the dirt, Shawn bared his teeth and bit down with everything he had onto the man's thick forearm, tearing through the leather guard until he tasted the copper tang of the mercenary's blood.
"Vicious little bitch!" the Alpha roared in pain, pulling his arm back and delivering a brutal, ringing slap across Shawn's face.
The force of the blow sent Shawn’s head snapping to the side, his vision blurring as a trail of blood cut through his lips. He lay pinned in the dirt, the overwhelming wall of toxic Alpha scents and his own pooling blood making his consciousness waver. The options were gone. The circle was closing.
When it seemed like all hope was lost, a sudden change in the wind shattered the suffocating atmosphere.
Through the putrid, foul stench of the mercenaries and the copper tang of his own blood, a crisp, blindingly familiar aroma sliced through the air like a lightning bolt. Freshly fallen rain.
A sound that was less a human shout and more a devastating roar tore through the trees.
Before the lead mercenary could even turn his head, King Hunter Hearts Hemsley erupted from the fog like a literal force of nature. He looked like a god of war descended upon the earth. His massive warhammer swung in a devastating, blinding arc, connecting squarely with the lead Alpha's chest. The sound of cracking ribs echoed across the lake as the mercenary was sent flying fifteen feet through the air, crashing lifelessly into a thick pine trunk.
Hunter’s rain scent instantly exploded into a blinding, thunderous tempest, a dominant, suffocatingly powerful Alpha aura so pure and territorial that it completely crushed the toxic pheromones of the remaining mercenaries, forcing them to stumble back in instinctual terror.
Hunter was a hurricane on the battlefield. He dismantled the mercenaries. He swung the massive warhammer with a terrifying, effortless ease, shattering shields and breaking bones with every thunderous blow. When a mercenary tried to blindside him from the left, Hunter dropped his weapon, grabbed the man by the throat with his bare, calloused hand, and lifted him completely off the ground before slamming him headfirst into the frozen rocks. He delivered a brutal, snapping kick that shattered another attacker's knee, moving with a relentless, unstoppable fury.
The remaining mercenaries managed to land a few desperate cuts, their steel flashing through the fog, but it was as if Hunter couldn't even feel them. The shallow wounds didn't even make him flinch. His green eyes were completely wild, locked in a hyper-focused state of pure, protective madness.
In a matter of mere minutes, the entire clearing fell dead silent. All eight Alphas lay scattered across the dirt, completely defeated, groaning or entirely still.
Hunter stood in the center of the carnage, panting heavily, his massive chest heaving as the stormy rain scent slowly began to settle. Dark blood was smeared across his face and his bare torso, most of it belonging to the mercenaries, but as he dropped his warhammer and turned toward Shawn, the prince noticed with a sudden spike of fear that Hunter was severely injured himself. A deep, jagged slice cut across his chest, and his left arm was drenched in crimson; a mercenary’s blade had completely severed his heavy leather arm guard, leaving a deep, gaping wound that was pouring blood onto the snow.
But the Barbarian King didn't seem to care. He didn't even look at his own bleeding arm. The only thing existing in his universe was Shawn.
Hunter scrambled across the dirt, throwing himself onto his knees beside the prince. His hands, usually so rough and brutal on the handle of his hammer, were trembling with an intense, desperate worry as he reached out, completely terrified to touch Shawn for fear of hurting him further.
"Shawn," Hunter choked out, his deep voice cracking with a raw, vulnerable panic the prince had never heard from him before. His eyes frantically scanned Shawn’s bruised face, finally locking onto the deep, bleeding gash on his calf. "Shawn, gods... your leg. You're bleeding. Did they... did they touch you anywhere else? Look at me, please."
Shawn stared up at him, his blue eyes wide as his own rose scent flared with a sudden, overwhelming realization. The warrior standing over him wasn't trying to claim a prize. He wasn't acting out of political duty. The sheer, frantic terror rolling off Hunter's rain scent was flooded with genuine, profound affection. The King of Kings was completely terrified of losing him.
"Hunter... Hunter, look at your arm," Shawn tried to say, his voice shaking as he reached up, his fingers lightly brushing against the edge of the King's deep arm wound. "I'm... I'm fine. It's just a cut. You're the one bleeding out. You need Rey. You need a doctor right now."
But Hunter couldn't even process the words. The Alpha armor had completely dropped, leaving nothing but a man desperate to keep his mate safe. "It doesn't matter," Hunter muttered frantically, ignoring the blood dripping from his own chest. "You're hurt. I'm taking you back."
Without waiting for a response, Hunter carefully slipped his massive, bleeding arms under Shawn's back and knees, lifting the prince into his arms as if he weighed nothing at all. Pressing Shawn securely against his broad chest, letting their scents—rain and roses—finally bleed into one another, Hunter turned and began to sprint back up the mountain trail toward the fortress, his heart hammering violently against Shawn’s cheek as he ran with a terrifying, driven haste.
Summary: Shawn and Hunter have been together for years, but due to the circumstances of their job they've been forced to keep it a secret. During Triple H's solo induction to the WWE Hall of Fame Hunter decides to show the world to whom Shawn Michaels truly belongs to.
NSFW MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Tags: Fluff and Smut; Established Relationship; Coming Out; Old Married Couple; Old man yaoi; Blow Jobs; Anal Sex; Creampie; Top Triple H; Bottom Shawn Michaels; Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Notes: As you can notice from the setting this has been in the works since last year's HOF, but it's finally done and just in time for Shawn's birthday. So Happy Birthday Shawn!!!! English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 2,865
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Shawn had just finished his induction speech for Hunter. He was extremely proud of his husband for finally getting his solo induction to the Hall of Fame, but a part of him was quite sad about the fact that they still had to keep their relationship a secret. One would think that after so many years of hiding it, it would’ve gotten easier, but it was quite the opposite.
Although society grew more accepting of same sex couples, management wouldn’t allow them to go public with their relationship. First it was Vince and his insistence in maintaining ‘kayfabe’, he constantly told them it would confuse the viewers because Hunter had an on screen relationship with Steph. Now it was the board, especially TKO, who claimed that it would alienate part of their viewers, and therefore it would be bad for business.
So Shawn wrote his speech and changed every reference to his and Hunter’s real relationship into friendship, the words “husband” and “lover” were changed to “best friend”. Their true love for each other masked into nothing more than a friendship, a powerful one, sure, but still not the truth.
When Hunter’s music hit Shawn was overcome with a mix of emotions, still as he heard the first few cords of the song he felt relief. Hunter’s theme was probably the one song you never wanted to hear while you were standing at a WWE stage, but for Shawn it had always represented something else, it meant that the love of his life was there, that his safety net was right below him in case he fell. Even when they were supposed to hate each other, Shawn couldn’t help but swell with happiness as the song played.
As the final chords of his theme music faded, Hunter didn't walk straight to the podium. Instead, he stopped right in front of Shawn. The crowd was already cheering, expecting the usual DX antics, the playful jokes they had shared for decades.
Hunter reached out, his large hand cupping the back of Shawn’s neck, his thumb brushing against Shawn's hairline just beneath his cowboy hat. Shawn looked up, expecting a quick, performative peck on the cheek or lips, the kind they used to tease the crowd with to get a reaction.
But when Hunter leaned in, it wasn’t a joke. It wasn't a quick play for the cameras.
Hunter pressed his lips firmly against Shawn’s, deep and lingering, holding him in place with a possessive intensity that made Shawn’s breath catch in his throat. It lasted too long to be a DX stunt. The arena's cheers faltered for a second, replaced by a wave of confused, sudden whispers as the camera caught every detail of the raw emotion on their faces.
When Hunter finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with a lifetime of unspoken promises. He didn't let go of Shawn's neck right away.
He then walked to the podium speaking right into the microphone, while Shawn was still standing in the same place in shock. Hunter’s voice boomed through the entire room as he spoke.
"For thirty years, you all watched us out here. You laughed when we pushed the boundaries, you cheered when we kissed on screen, and you thought it was just an act. You thought it was DX being controversial," Hunter said, his voice steady, sending a shockwave through the corporate executives watching backstage.
He looked at Shawn, whose eyes were wide with a mix of terror and overwhelming love.
"But tonight, I want to clear something up," Hunter continued, a proud, defiant smile touching his lips. "Those kisses were never a joke. They were never a storyline. They were the only moments in this ring where I was allowed to show the world the truth. Every single one of them was real. And it’s time everyone knows that the man standing in front of me isn’t just my best friend. He is my husband."
Shawn practically fled the stage, leaving Hunter on stage to finish the rest of his speech. His boots clicked loudly against the concrete floor of the hotel corridors, his mind spinning so fast he could barely breathe. He ignored the stunned stares of the production crew and the referees. He needed to be in a closed room. Now.
The moment he slammed the door of Hunter's private dressing room behind him, the silence hit him like a wall.
Shawn tore off his cowboy hat, tossing it onto the leather couch, and immediately began pacing from one side of the room to the other. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He was shocked. He was furious. But underneath the terror, a terrifying wave of relief was trying to break through, and that only made him more anxious.
Twenty minutes later, the heavy electronic lock clicked. Hunter walked in. He looked completely unbothered, loosening his silk tie with one hand while closing the door with the other.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Shawn exploded before Hunter could even take a full step into the room. He stopped his pacing, pointing an accusing finger at his husband. "What the hell was that, Hunter? What did you just do out there?!"
Hunter didn't answer right away. He just leaned his large frame against the door, a faint, incredibly soft smile playing on his lips as he watched Shawn.
"Don't you look at me like that!" Shawn snapped, his voice cracking slightly with pure adrenaline. "TKO is going to lose their minds! They explicitly told us no. The board is going to have your head on a spike by tomorrow morning! We could get fired, Hunter! Do you understand that? Fired! Blacklisted from the very company we helped build! They can erase us from history if they want to!"
Shawn started pacing again, his hands moving wildly as he laid out every single nightmare scenario. "And you didn't even tell me! For twenty-five years we protect this, we protect us, and you just blow it all up on a whim? You should’ve talked to me! You should’ve asked me if I was ready to face the fallout of…"
"Shawn."
Hunter’s deep voice cut through the room. He didn't sound angry or defensive; he sounded completely at peace.
He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, closing the distance between them. Shawn stopped talking, his chest heaving as he stared up at his husband, his eyes wide and defensive. Hunter didn't say another word. He simply reached out, his large, warm hands coming up to cradle Shawn's face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear Shawn hadn't even realized had fallen.
"Let them try to erase us," Hunter whispered, his smile widening just a fraction as he looked down at the love of his life. "Let's see them try to run a WrestleMania without us."
Hunter didn’t give him a chance to overthink. He leaned down and captured Shawn’s lips in a kiss so deep, fierce, and dripping with raw passion that all the corporate anxiety in Shawn’s mind instantly evaporated. Shawn groaned into the kiss, his hands instinctively flying to Hunter’s shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his suit jacket as he kissed his husband back with everything he had.
Shawn tried to look stern when they finally broke apart for air, their foreheads rested against each other, both breathing heavily, but his eyes were dark with desire.
"I’m still angry at you," Shawn whispered, his voice trembling slightly, trying to hold onto his remaining defenses.
Hunter’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile, his hands sliding down to Shawn's waist. "Of course you are, sweetheart."
Shawn pulled back, taking Hunter by the hand and leading him over to the leather couch. He pushed Hunter down onto the cushions, stepping back just enough to strip off his own vest and loosen his shirt.
"Strip!" Shawn said, his voice sharp and commanding. Hunter did as his husband wished, taking off his shirt and laying bare on the couch, with a relaxed pose, his arms crossed behind his head.
Shawn got on top of him, moving with deliberate slowness, his actions designed to keep Hunter suspended in a state of restless anticipation. Every touch was light, every movement calculated to maintain his position of power. He followed the lines of Hunter's chest with a focused intensity, relishing the way he could make the usually composed man lose his breath.
Shawn kissed his husband's right peck, then took his nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly causing Hunter to groan. Then he moved to his left peck, once again Shawn kissed it, very careful not to disturb the pacemaker, whispering "Thank you, for keeping him safe" to the machine.
Hunter’s chest heaved, his heart hammering right beneath the skin Shawn had just revered, entirely undone by the depth of his husband’s love. But Shawn wasn't done torturing him yet.
Shawn smirked, sliding his body down along Hunter's length, pushing Hunter's trousers down to fully expose him. Hunter’s hips twitched upward in anticipation, but Shawn placed a firm, warning hand on his thigh.
"Don't move," Shawn whispered against his skin. "You just lay there."
Shawn lowered his head, finally taking him into his mouth. He started with agonizing slowness, taking in just the tip, swirling his tongue around the head until Hunter let out a ragged, low growl. Shawn looked up through his lashes, his eyes locked onto his husband’s face, enjoying every twitch of Hunter's jaw.
He didn't take him all at once. Instead, Shawn used a devastating combination of deep, wet strokes followed by sudden, cruel withdrawals. He would slide down, letting Hunter feel the warm contrast of his throat, but just as Hunter’s hips began to instinctively lift from the couch to find a rhythm, Shawn would pull completely away. He would leave Hunter glistening and cold in the dressing room air, smirking as he trailed a wet finger down the length instead.
The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the wet, rhythmic sounds of Shawn’s mouth and the ragged edge of Hunter’s breathing. Shawn hummed against him, the vibration sending a jolt straight to Hunter’s hips. He sucked with a firm, relentless pressure, his hand wrapping around the base to restrict him, controlling the pace so perfectly that Hunter was completely off-balance, suspended on a knife-edge of pure frustration.
Hunter’s knuckles turned white as his large hands gripped the leather edges of the couch, his entire body tense, trembling from the prolonged anticipation. He wanted to thrust, he wanted to take what he needed, but every time his muscles flexed, Shawn would stop entirely, staring him down with that cold, challenging gaze until Hunter forced his hips back down.
Knowing he had pushed Hunter to the absolute brink, Shawn took him deep one last time, swirling his tongue aggressively before pulling away with a soft, deliberate pop. He crawled back up Hunter’s body, leaning in for a wet, breathless kiss to allow Hunter to taste himself on Shawn’s lips.
That was the opening Hunter had been waiting for. Driven past his limit by the relentless teasing, Hunter's restraint completely shattered.
With a sudden, fluid burst of movement, Hunter regained the initiative. He reached out, his massive hands locking around Shawn's waist, and in one agile motion, he flipped them over on the couch.
The transition from control to raw urgency was instantaneous. Hunter didn't waste time trying to match Shawn’s slow, calculated torture; he didn't have the luxury of patience anymore. Their bodies weren't thirty anymore, they were older, weathered by decades of physical abuse in the ring, their skin bearing the permanent maps of scars, surgeries, and time. They didn’t have the stamina for hours of endless rounds, and they both knew it.
Hunter immediately hooked Shawn’s knees, pulling his pants off and pushing his legs wide over the leather armrest of the couch.
"Look at you," Hunter growled, his voice thick and rough as his eyes scanned Shawn's body. Shawn’s abs were still remarkably defined, a testament to his strict discipline, but his skin was softer now, beautifully mature, and dusted with silver-flecked body hair. Hunter leaned down, the rough texture of his thick beard scraping against Shawn’s skin, making Shawn shiver. "Fucking beautiful. You’re still the most beautiful thing in this entire industry, Shawn. My perfect husband."
"Hunter, please..." Shawn gasped, his fingers immediately clawing into the muscles of Hunter’s back. The adrenaline from his backstage lecture was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, heavy ache between his thighs. "Don't tease me. Just... I need you."
"I've got you, sweetheart. I've always got you," Hunter murmured, quickly holding Shawn’s hand, his thumb rubbing over the gold wedding band on Shawn's finger before he quickly grabbed a bottle of lube from the dressing room drawer. He prepped them both with frantic, wet strokes, his breath hot against Shawn’s neck. He wasn't gentle, but he was incredibly thorough, his large fingers stretching Shawn open just enough to ensure he wouldn't hurt him.
Shawn arched his back, a breathless sob escaping his lips as he felt the heavy weight of Hunter’s massive frame settling fully between his thighs. He looked up, his vision slightly blurred, taking in the sight of his husband, the broader waist, the heavy chest, the silver in his beard, and those dark, fiercely possessive eyes that had looked at him the same way for thirty years.
"Take it, Shawn. Open up for me, baby," Hunter whispered, a heavy command wrapped in pure worship.
With one deliberate, powerful thrust, Hunter buried himself inside his husband.
Shawn’s eyes rolled back as a loud, undone cry ripped from his throat, his hands tightly gripping Hunter’s broad shoulders. The sheer fullness of it was overwhelming, sometimes Shawn felt Hunter had gotten bigger with age, girthier.
Hunter let out a deep, guttural groan, freezing for a second as his muscles clenched, absorbing the intense, tight heat of Shawn wrapping around him.
"God, you feel so good," Hunter panted, his hips beginning a heavy, punishingly deep rhythm. Each stroke was deliberate, a brutal mix of age-defying strength and desperate affection. "You grip me so perfectly. Still mine. Every single bit of you is mine, and now the whole world knows it."
Shawn couldn't even form words anymore. He could only nod, his hips instinctively moving to meet each of Hunter’s deep thrusts, the slaps of their skin echoing sharply in the quiet room. His older body was pliant, completely surrendered to the man who had just risked their entire corporate legacy just to call him husband in front of millions.
The heat in the room surged to an unbearable peak as Hunter increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and desperate. They were both running on pure adrenaline and decades of pent-up restraint, their bodies nearing their absolute limits. Shawn’s chest was slick with sweat, his breath hitching with every heavy hit against the leather of the couch.
"Hunter... Hunter, I'm close," Shawn cried out, his voice cracking as he arched his back, his fingers digging so deeply into Hunter's shoulders that his nails left red crescents on his skin. "I can't... please..."
Hunter growled, a primal, fiercely possessive sound that rumbled from deep within his chest. He didn't slow down. Instead, he leaned all his massive weight over Shawn, pinning his arms above his head and burying his face into the crook of Shawn’s neck.
As his own climax rushed over him like a tidal wave, Hunter bit down on the soft skin right above Shawn's collarbone. He sucked and nipped with an intense, unyielding pressure, deliberately leaving a dark, unmistakable mark. For twenty-five years, they had been so careful, checking each other in the mirror, using makeup to cover any trace of their intimacy before going live on television. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow, every camera backstage and every fan on the internet would see exactly who Shawn belonged to.
With a final, shattering thrust, Hunter let out a loud, undone groan, completely losing his composure as he came deep inside his husband.
Shawn screamed into the empty locker room, his own release spilling over their stomachs as the intense, white-hot friction of Hunter filling him sent his body into helpless spasms. The sensation of Hunter releasing inside him, hot and completely unrestricted, was overwhelming.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged, desperate panting of two men completely spent. Hunter collapsed forward, heavy and exhausted, burying his face in Shawn’s neck, his body still twitching slightly as the aftershocks subsided.
Shawn’s arms slowly came around Hunter’s broad back, holding him tightly. His throat was raw, his body throbbed, and his neck stung where Hunter had marked him, but as he looked up at the ceiling of the locker room, the overwhelming terror of the TKO board completely dissolved.
Hunter lifted his head, his dark eyes soft and vulnerable as he looked down at his husband. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss against Shawn's lips, savoring the reality of their newly conquered freedom.
"They can't touch us anymore," Hunter whispered, his thumb gently tracing the fresh mark on Shawn's neck. "We're finally home."
Shawnter Medieval!AU: The Prince and The Barbarian King
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Main Paring: Shawn Michaels/Triple H;
Side parings: Billy Gunn/"The Road Dogg" Jesse James; X-pac/Kane; Scott Hall/Kevin Nash; Rey Mysterio/Eddie Guerrero; Goldust/Undertaker
Summary: Shawn is the eldest son of king Vincent and to his father's disappointment he's also an omega, meaning he is only useful as a bargaining chip, his worth directly measured by the marriage alliance he can bring to his kingdom. In an attempt to save the kingdom from being taken by the Barbarian King Hunter Hearts Hemsley, King Vincent swears his son's hand in exchange for peace. Now Shawn has to navigate life in a completely new environment, with a culture he knows nothing about and to make matters worse it feels like his future husband is just as annoyed with this marriage as Shawn is. While Shawn and Hunter are trying to fall in love it seems forces behind the scenes don't want this alliance to take place and will stop at nothing to prevent it.
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Omega Verse; Alternate Universe-Medieval; Alternate Universe-Royalty; Arranged Marrige; Falling in Love; Enemies to Friends to Lovers; Found Family; Eventual Smut; Eventual Happy Ending; Scenting; Mating Bites; Mating Bond; Courting Rituals; Slow Burn; Other Aditional Tags to Be Added
Notes: English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: A New Life- also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Road to the Mountains- also on AO3
Chapter 3: The Cold Tower and Hidden Smolders- also on AO3
Chapter 4: Thorns and Winter Gardens- also on AO3
Chapter 5: Wildflowers and Hidden Embers- also on AO3
Shawnter Medieval!AU: The Prince and The Barbarian King-Chapter 8: The Hunt for Answers
Paring: Shawn Michaels/Triple H
Summary: Following a brutal reality check, King Hunter swallows his immense Alpha pride and goes on a desperate quest for answers to understand the true nature of his future husband. After a terrifyingly awkward encounter with a skittish Sean, Hunter seeks out his warriors who bluntly remind him that Shawn is his own person, not a textbook southern cliché. A revealing trip to the winter garden with Goldust uncovers a sweet secret, leading the King to face his final and most daunting hurdle: offering a deeply sincere apology to an injured Kevin Nash.
Notes: A short and sweet chapter, be ready because next chapter we will get some action!!!! I wonder if you guys can tell what is my big inspo for parts of this story. English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 1,633
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
King Hunter Hearst Hemsley spent the early hours of the morning swallowing down his immense Alpha pride. Chyna’s words from the previous night had burned a hole straight through his stubbornness, echoing in his mind with every heavy beat of his heart. If he wanted this alliance to work—if he wanted Shawn to ever accept his mate mark—he had to stop acting like a conqueror in his own home. He needed to learn who Prince Shawn Michaels McMahon actually was.
His first stop was Sean. Hunter tracked the young valet down in a quiet stone corridor near the royal kitchens. The King tried his absolute best to look approachable; he left his heavy iron crown in his quarters, loosened his fur cloak, and kept his overwhelming rain scent as suppressed and calm as possible.
"Sean," Hunter called out, his deep voice carrying a rough but deliberately softened register.
The young Omega practically leaped out of his skin, dropping the copper basin he was holding with a loud, ringing clack. Sean’s dandelion scent instantly turned sharp and sour with absolute, crippling terror. He looked up at the towering Barbarian King, his eyes wide and trembling, completely unable to see the "amicable" effort Hunter was putting into his posture.
"M-my King!" Sean stammered, frantically dropping to his knees to gather his things, his hands shaking so hard he could barely grip the metal. "I... I apologize! I didn't see you! I... I have to take these linens to the laundry quarters immediately! The... the head housekeeper is waiting for them! Please excuse me, Your Highness!"
Before Hunter could even ask a single question, Sean scrambled to his feet and sprinted down the hallway as fast as his boots could carry him, disappearing around the corner like a frightened rabbit.
Hunter let out a long, heavy sigh, running a thick hand through his long blonde hair. Well, he thought grimly, that was a disaster.
Determined to find someone who wouldn't run away from him, Hunter headed down toward the lower guard barracks. He followed the rowdy sound of laughing Alphas into a small, torchlit side room, where he found Scott Hall sitting at a round wooden table, surrounded by Sid, Eddie Guerrero, and Curt Hennig. The four warriors were casually drinking dark ale and playing a tense game of cards.
"Look who finally decided to join the commoners," Scott drawled, a lazy smirk spreading across his lips as his heavy golden chains clinked against his chest. He tossed a silver coin into the center of the table, his dark eyes twinkling with pure amusement as he noticed Hunter's uncharacteristically contemplative look. "Did you come to speak to the castle's official romance specialist, boss? Because I hear your poetry skills could use some serious work."
"Shut up, Scott," Hunter grunted, pulling up a heavy wooden stool and sitting down, ignoring the cards entirely. He looked at the group, his rain scent turning heavy with genuine frustration. "I need answers. The prince... he ignores everything I do. I try the traditions, I try the southern prose Flair babbles about, and he looks at me like he wants to cut my throat."
Eddie Guerrero let out a rich, booming chuckle, shaking his head as he rearranged his cards. "Ah, man, if Scott is your romance specialist, you are in deep trouble, compadre. The guy has been chasing that big southern knight around the corridors like a lost puppy for a week and all he gets are cold stares. He’s a terrible teacher."
"Hey, it's a work in progress, chico," Scott winked, completely unbothered as he chewed on his toothpick. "It's all about the thrill of the chase. Kevin is going to fall for this mountain charm sooner or later. It's inevitable."
Curt Hennig casually laid down his hand of cards with a flawless, arrogant smirk. "Perfect hand, gentlemen. As always." Curt then looked across the table at Hunter, his tone turning a bit more serious. "Listen to them, Hunter. You're trying too hard to please a 'southern prince' based on what people tell you they like. But Shawn isn't just a title. He’s his own person. You need to figure out what the man actually wants, not what a textbook says."
"Exactly," Eddie agreed, leaning forward. "Stop treating him like a fragile doll, man. Find out what makes him smile. The real stuff."
Taking their advice, Hunter left the barracks and marched down to the secluded glass-domed winter garden. If anyone had spent time observing the prince without an agenda, it was the flamboyant golden Omega.
When Hunter stepped inside the greenhouse, the warm, sweet scent of damp earth and blooming green vines hit him. Goldust was standing near a stone pedestal, carefully wiping a broad leaf with a silk cloth. When he saw the King, the painted Omega gasped dramatically, his fingers fluttering in the air as he offered a grand, theatrical bow.
"Ah! The King of Kings graces our sanctuary of glass!" Goldust purred, his breathy voice rich with dramatic flair. "What an absolute honor, my King. Have you come to see the golden light thaw the winter frost?"
"I came to talk about Shawn," Hunter said bluntly, stepping closer. "You've spent hours with him here, Goldie. Tell me something real about him. What does he actually like?"
Goldust’s dramatic demeanor softened into a pleased, knowing smile. He appreciated that the King was finally asking. "Ah... the fierce prince has many thorns, my King. But beneath them, he is remarkably simple to please if you know where to look. He loves the color red, the deep, passionate crimson of a winter rose. And he has a terrible, beautiful weakness for sweets. Especially fresh mountain strawberries. Give him sugar, and his thorns begin to drop."
As Goldust spoke, Hunter’s eyes drifted toward the very center of the greenhouse. There, sitting in a prominent, beautifully polished crystal vase, was the exact bouquet of wild mountain blossoms Hunter had clumsily harvested and dropped in the corridor days ago. The stems were still uneven, and some petals were crushed, but it was being cared for with absolute precision.
Sensing the King's intense stare, Goldust let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "He brought them here himself, my King. He thought the gesture was rather cute. He won't admit it to you, but the flowers stay in the center for a reason."
A sudden, unexpected warmth flared in Hunter's chest, a faint smirk touching his bearded lips. "Where is he now?"
"He went out into the ridges to forage for fresh plant clippings to bring back to the garden," Goldust informed him, picking up his shears. "I do not know the exact location, my King. But his giant shadow... the knight? He surely knows."
Hunter took a deep breath, gathering every single ounce of courage he possessed to face his final and most daunting hurdle: Kevin Nash.
The King walked into the warm medical wing, his boots clicking softly against the stone. Kevin was still confined to his wooden cot, his left leg elevated and wrapped tightly in linen bandages. When the 7-foot knight saw Hunter enter, his posture instantly went rigid, his cedar wood scent flaring with a sharp, defensive hostility.
Hunter didn't draw a weapon. He stopped at the foot of the bed, took off his fur cloak, and looked directly into the eyes of the man he had injured.
"Nash," Hunter began, his deep voice incredibly earnest, dropping any semblance of royal authority. "I am not here to fight. I came to offer you my most sincere apologies. What I did in the courtyard... it was a cowardly move. I targeted your injury because my pride was wounded, and it was entirely unworthy of a King. I am truly sorry."
Kevin Nash stared at him, his dark eyes scanning Hunter’s face for any sign of deception or mockery. The room was suffocatingly quiet for several long seconds. But as Kevin breathed in the calm, unthreatening rain scent rolling off the King, he realized the man was being entirely, completely honest. The Barbarian King was genuinely remorseful.
Kevin’s rigid shoulders slowly relaxed, and he let out a low, rumbling breath. "Apology accepted, King Hunter. It takes a real man to admit when he acted like a jackass."
Hunter offered a small, grateful nod. "I want to start over with Shawn. I want to make this alliance real, but I don't know where he went. Goldust said he went out looking for plant clippings."
Kevin stared at him a beat longer before a faint, knowing smirk cut through his rugged features. "He usually goes to the secluded trails near the lower mountain lake. I'm usually the one who goes with him to keep him from falling off a cliff, but..." Kevin gestured dryly to his massive, bandaged leg. "...the prince is currently refusing to let me leave this bed."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Refusing?"
"Viciously," Kevin chuckled, his cedar wood scent turning warm and amused. "He spent twenty minutes this morning threatening to physically tie me to the cot with leather straps and post Scott Hall at the door as a prison guard if I even tried to stand up. The kid is terrifying when he's worried."
Hunter couldn't help it; a loud, genuine laugh broke from his chest at the mental image of Shawn bossing the 7-foot knight around. Kevin smiled back, the lingering animosity between the two Alphas completely dissolving into a shared understanding.
"Go find him at the lake, Hunter," Kevin said, his tone turning serious but supportive. "Keep him safe. He's a handful, but he's worth the trouble."
"I will," Hunter promised, grabbing his cloak and heading for the stables with a clear, driven purpose. He finally had his answers, and he was going to get his prince.
Side parings: JBL| John Bradshaw Layfield/Shawn Michaels
Summary: Bret Hart is staring down the barrel of financial ruin. With his father’s failing health and his younger brother bedridden after a tragic accident, the Hitman Protection Agency is on the verge of collapse. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and John Bradshaw Layfield—the ruthless CEO of Layfield Enterprises—presents an offer Bret literally cannot refuse. In exchange for paying every single medical bill, Bret must become the permanent, twenty-four-seven shadow for JBL's troublesome, much younger house husband, Shawn Michaels.
At twenty-eight, Shawn seems to be the epitome of a spoiled, erratic trophy spouse who takes a sick pleasure in testing Bret’s legendary patience. But as Bret steps into the suffocating opulence of the Layfield estate, the cold professional begins to notice the cracks in the gilded facade. Between heavy medical schedules, old injuries that tell a violent story, and a missing former bodyguard, Bret realizes that Shawn may not be looking for trouble.
Now, caught between the contract that keeps his family alive and a desperate man trapped in a golden cage, Bret must decide how far he's willing to go to protect a heart he was only hired to guard.
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: I had this idea when I saw that Shawn commented that Bret could've been his bodyguard. I've been working on this for a very long time, but finally the first chapter is out! I've also pre-written a couple of things.
Important Content Warnings for the overall story: Please be advised that this story deals with heavy themes, including domestic abuse (non-con/dub-con implications within a marriage), forced drug dependency, and financial control. JBL is the main antagonist here and acts as such.
English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: An Offer You Can’t Refuse- Also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Weight of Gilded Gates- Also on AO3
Chapter 3: Liquid Courage and Velvet Chains- Also on AO3
Chapter 4: The Merchandising of Heartbreak- Also on AO3
Chapter 5: Unspoken Rules and Quiet Subtext- Also on AO3
Chapter 6: The Shield in the Shadows- Also on AO3
Chapter 7: The Shadows After the Storm- Also on AO3
Hartbreak Bodyguard!AU: A Price on Loyalty- Chapter 7: The Shadows After the Storm
Paring: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels
Summary: After the events of the last night, Shawn spends the day locked in his room. Bret enters Shawn’s dark, hollow room on JBL’s orders and finds a torn photograph that hints at a hidden past. Shawn emerges from bed, his body covered in marks that a constrained Bret mistakes for aggressive hickeys. Using seamless makeup, Shawn manages to completely hide the physical trauma of the night before, re-entering his high-society persona. Before leaving for the gala, JBL intentionally exposes Shawn's bruises as "marks of ownership."
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: Chapter Content Warnings (Please read carefully): Depictions of the psychological aftermath of domestic abuse/assault. Highly manipulative behavior and public humiliation/objectification. Misled protagonist (Bret misinterpreting physical signs of violence due to his own old-school preconceptions). The dramatic irony is reaching a boiling point here, and poor Bret is still entirely blind to the hostage situation he's securing. We are officially heading to the corporate gala next. English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 2,245
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The morning light filtering through the high windows of the western wing felt remarkably cold, despite the sweltering heat already building up outside. Bret made his way down the plushly carpeted corridor, fully dressed in his crisp black suit, adjusting his watch as he approached Shawn’s bedroom door to begin his shift.
Before his fingers could even brush the dark wood to knock, the door to his right clicked open. Rey stepped out, holding a tray of untouched tea and a basket of clean linens. The butler froze for a fraction of a second upon seeing Bret, his features quickly smoothing down into his standard, professional mask.
"Good morning, Mr. Hart," Rey said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the silent hallway.
"Morning, Rey," Bret replied, gesturing slightly toward Shawn’s door. "Is he awake yet? We need to review the timeline for Mr. Layfield's corporate gala tonight."
A subtle, agonizing shift crossed Rey’s face. His dark eyes flicked toward the end of the hallway, where the grand double doors of the master suite sat. When he spoke again, his voice carried a heavy, unpalatable layer of discomfort, a raw, deep-seated disgust that he tried desperately to suppress, though it bled through every syllable.
"Mr. Shawn did not sleep in his quarters last night, Mr. Hart," Rey murmured, his fingers tightening around the edges of the silver tray until his knuckles went pale. "He spent the night with Mr. Layfield. He is still in the master suite."
Bret raised an eyebrow, but his face remained a mask of professional neutrality. "Understood. I'll wait down in the foyer, then."
To Bret, there was absolutely nothing strange or alarming about the update. Shawn and JBL were married. It was entirely normal for a husband to sleep in his partner's bed. He figured Rey was simply overprotective of Shawn, or perhaps the butler just disliked the billionaire's demanding personality invading Shawn's private time. Bret had no way of knowing the sickening reality behind those soundproofed doors, nor could he guess the psychological toll the night had taken on the younger man.
The rest of the day crawled by in an agonizing, slow rhythm.
When Shawn finally emerged from the master suite hours later, the contrast from his usual bravado was jarring. The sharp-tongued, defiant Heartbreak Kid was entirely absent. He was dressed in soft, oversized clothes again, looking terribly pale and moving with a slow, fragile stiffness that spoke of intense physical ache in his back and knee. He didn't throw a single sarcastic remark in Bret’s direction. In fact, he didn't even look at him.
The exact moment Shawn returned to his own bedroom, the heavy lock clicked into place from the inside. He remained completely shut away in the darkness of his room for the entire afternoon, refusing food and visitors alike, a ghost hiding within his own golden cage.
Bret stood guard in the quiet corridor, his arms crossed over his chest, his mind drifting. Part of him felt a lingering annoyance at how difficult and moody his assignment was being, but as the clock ticked closer to the evening and the front doors finally echoed with the arrival of John Bradshaw Layfield, the knot in Bret's stomach returned. The calm was officially over, and the corporate gala was about to begin.
The heavy double doors of the mansion vibrated as John Bradshaw Layfield strode into the foyer, his commanding presence immediately draining whatever quiet peace was left in the house. He unbuttoned his custom suit jacket, his sharp, corporate eyes locking directly onto Bret.
"Mr. Hart," JBL barked, his voice smooth but carrying that tight, uncompromising edge of a man used to total obedience. "Go upstairs and get him out of that room. Get him ready for the gala. We leave in an hour."
"Understood, sir," Bret replied, turning on his heel and making his way back up to the western wing.
When Bret reached Shawn’s door, he knocked firmly twice. Receiving nothing but heavy silence in return, he turned the handle and stepped inside, his boots making a soft sound against the thick carpet.
The bedroom was entirely dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any trace of the afternoon sun. The air conditioning was humming on a freezing setting, making the room feel like a vault. In the center of the darkness, Bret could barely make out a messy, tangled pile of honey-blond hair peeking out from beneath a mountain of heavy blankets.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bret scanned his surroundings. The room was layout-perfect, entirely immaculate, but it felt sterile. It looked less like someone’s actual living space and more like a high-end furniture showroom. Bret didn't think much of it; in his experience, most houses owned by ultra-wealthy executives felt detached and devoid of real warmth.
But as he approached the nightstand, his analytical eyes noticed a striking omission. There were no childhood photos. No family portraits. No graduation pictures. Nothing to suggest Shawn Michaels had a life before he entered this house.
The only photograph in the entire room sat in a small silver frame right by the bed.
Bret leaned in slightly, squinting in the dim light. In the photo, a remarkably young Shawn was dressed in a sharp, pristine white suit. He was laughing genuinely, smiling so wide and hard that his blue eyes were completely squeezed shut. Bret knew the numbers on paper; he knew Shawn had been married at twenty-one. But reading a cold statistic in a corporate file and actually looking at the soft, unlined face of a boy in a wedding photo were two entirely different things. The sheer youth radiating from the frame gave Bret a sudden, uncomfortable jolt.
Standing right beside Shawn in the picture was another familiar face. It was a young Hunter Hearst Helmsley, laughing heartily as he gesticulated with one hand. Bret had never officially worked for Hunter, but their paths had crossed multiple times in elite business circles. Hunter was married to Vince McMahon’s daughter, coming from an immensely wealthy, deeply influential blue-blood family in Connecticut.
Bret couldn't help but make a slight grimace, a sour taste settling in his mouth. He had always found Hunter to be incredibly unpalatable, arrogant, manipulative, and inherently petty. Seeing that Shawn was apparently close friends with a man like that only reinforced Bret's low opinion of his assignment. Like attracts like, Bret thought bitterly, assuming Shawn was just another superficial socialite playing power games with the city's elite.
Then, Bret noticed the edge of the photograph. It was jagged and raw, violently torn right down the middle. Someone had deliberately ripped a third person completely out of the frame. Based on the angle of the embrace, Bret had a strong, unshakeable impression that the missing piece of the picture had been John Bradshaw Layfield himself.
Before he could analyze the tear any further, a sudden rustle of sheets cut through the room.
Shawn pulled the heavy blankets back and dragged himself out of the bed, his movements stiff and agonizingly slow. As he stepped into the faint sliver of light coming from the hallway, Bret’s professional mask nearly slipped.
Shawn looked utterly exhausted, dark, hollow circles bruising the skin beneath his blue eyes. But it was his face that caught Bret's attention: a tiny, fresh cut was split cleanly across Shawn's bottom lip, and the entire left side of his jaw carried a faint, deep red swelling.
He was wearing an incredibly oversized, faded basketball jersey that hung off his frame like a loose dress. Bret didn't know it, but that jersey was the single, solitary piece of Kevin Nash’s clothing that Shawn had managed to successfully hide from JBL.
But what made Bret’s face instantly burn a bright, furious crimson was Shawn’s neck and clavicle. Exposed by the wide collar of the jersey, the pale skin was completely littered with deep, angry red and purple marks.
Bret quickly averted his eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly as a wave of intense embarrassment washed over him. To Bret’s rigid, old-school mind, those bruises weren't the harrowing evidence of a violent domestic assault or deliberate marks of ownership. He simply saw them as incredibly aggressive, shameless hickeys. He figured Shawn and JBL had simply had a highly passionate, volatile night together after their argument at the dinner table. It felt entirely inappropriate, and Bret felt deeply constrained just standing in the room.
Shawn didn't throw a single look in Bret’s direction. His striking blue eyes were entirely vacant, staring blankly ahead as he limped heavily toward the master bathroom, his bad knee buckling slightly with every step. The door clicked shut behind him, followed quickly by the heavy rush of the shower water.
Bret let out a long, tense breath. He adjusted his cuffs, turning away from the torn photograph on the nightstand, and stepped back out into the quiet corridor to wait for his assignment to get dressed. He forced his mind back to his basic training, trying to erase the visual of the bruises from his mind, entirely blind to the fact that the hostage he was guarding had just been broken a little bit more.
It took nearly forty minutes before the bathroom door finally clicked open again. When Shawn stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, Bret felt his professional radar glitch for what felt like the hundredth time since arriving at the estate.
The hollow, exhausted ghost in the oversized basketball jersey was gone. In his place stood a flawless, high-society masterpiece. Shawn was dressed in an immaculate, dark tailored shirt that clung perfectly to his lean frame, with a long piece of silk cloth tied loosely around his neck, his long hair swept back with elegant precision. Bret stepped closer, his eyes analytical as he searched for the split lip and the deep red swelling he had seen on Shawn's jaw just an hour ago. There was nothing. Shawn, likely with the expert hand from his years in front of dressing room mirrors, had managed to completely erase every single trace of fatigue and violence with thick, seamless layers of cosmetics.
His face was an unbending, beautiful mask.
"Let's go," Shawn murmured, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any of his usual playful lilt as he walked past Bret without making eye contact.
Bret followed a step behind him as they descended the grand marble staircase. Down in the cavernous foyer, John Bradshaw Layfield was already waiting by the front doors. He was dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, his cream cowboy hat replaced by a formal look, looking every bit the pristine, self-made billionaire. The moment his cold eyes landed on Shawn, a dark, hungry glint flared deep within his gaze. A sickeningly satisfied smile cut through his heavy features.
JBL strode forward, intercepting them at the bottom of the steps. He didn't offer a greeting. Instead, he reached out, his thick, heavy fingers catching the top buttons of Shawn’s crisp dress shirt. With a slow, deliberate tug, JBL unbuttoned the fabric, parting the collar wide enough to aggressively expose Shawn’s pale clavicle and the deep, angry purple bruises littering his skin.
Shawn’s entire body went rigid under the touch, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath the makeup, but he forced his eyes to stare straight ahead at the wall.
JBL leaned in close, his breath hot against Shawn’s ear as he spoke loud enough for the entire foyer to hear. "I want you to show off my marks tonight, heartbreaker. Let everyone know exactly who you belong to."
Standing just two feet away, Bret felt a sudden spike of heat color his cheeks, quickly looking down at his own shoes to grant them some privacy. To Bret this was nothing more than an incredibly intense, alpha display of wealthy marital flirtation. It was a bit too vulgar and shameless for his taste, but he figured it was just how eccentric millionaires behaved with their young, attractive spouses.
Behind the billionaire’s broad back, however, the domestic facade cracked completely. Rey stood by the coat rack, his fingers gripping a velvet shawl so tightly the fabric groaned, his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust. Near the open double doors, Eddie Guerrero was leaning against the stone pillar, his dark eyes burning with a helpless, gritty rage as he stared at JBL’s hands on Shawn's collar.
JBL didn't care about the help. He wrapped a massive, possessive arm around Shawn’s waist, pulling his rigid body flush against his tuxedo.
"You're looking absolutely beautiful," JBL purred, before pressing a hard, crushing kiss against Shawn’s painted lips. He let go just as abruptly, turning on his heel with a booming laugh. "Come along, Mr. Hart. Let's go show the board what real luxury looks like."
As JBL marched out into the humid evening air toward the waiting limousine, Shawn lingered in the foyer for a single, fleeting second. He raised a trembling hand, using his fingertips to subtly wipe the trace of JBL's spit from his mouth, his striking blue eyes wide and hollow as he stared out into the darkness.
Bret stepped up beside him, adjusting his sunglasses despite the setting sun, and gestured toward the door. "After you, Mr. Michaels."
Shawn swallowed hard, the mask locking back into place with a terrifying, mechanical ease, and stepped out of the mansion to enter the lions' den.
I've been working on another Shawnter long-fic besides my Medieval!AU for a while, but I'm having one specific problem with it, so I thought why not ask you guys on your thoughts.
The fic is an AU set during the Shawnter feud of 2002. Basically Shawn looses his memories after the parking lot attack, only remembering coming back, but nothing that happened after. Hunter decides to take Shawn to his house and take care of him with the objective to have Shawn all for himself.
My problem is I don't know if I want to do a "bad" ending where Hunter gets exactly what he wants or do a "good" ending where Shawn manages to escape, either by himself or with the help of someone like Kevin.
If you guys want to tell me which you find more interesting let me know
I hate when I start to feel like my motivation is leaving.
Like the reason why I've been updating my fics so fast is because I'm running from this problem. I need to finish my projects as fast as possible before I lose motivation, or else another almost 1 year hiatus will come.
Side parings: JBL| John Bradshaw Layfield/Shawn Michaels
Summary: Bret Hart is staring down the barrel of financial ruin. With his father’s failing health and his younger brother bedridden after a tragic accident, the Hitman Protection Agency is on the verge of collapse. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and John Bradshaw Layfield—the ruthless CEO of Layfield Enterprises—presents an offer Bret literally cannot refuse. In exchange for paying every single medical bill, Bret must become the permanent, twenty-four-seven shadow for JBL's troublesome, much younger house husband, Shawn Michaels.
At twenty-eight, Shawn seems to be the epitome of a spoiled, erratic trophy spouse who takes a sick pleasure in testing Bret’s legendary patience. But as Bret steps into the suffocating opulence of the Layfield estate, the cold professional begins to notice the cracks in the gilded facade. Between heavy medical schedules, old injuries that tell a violent story, and a missing former bodyguard, Bret realizes that Shawn may not be looking for trouble.
Now, caught between the contract that keeps his family alive and a desperate man trapped in a golden cage, Bret must decide how far he's willing to go to protect a heart he was only hired to guard.
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: I had this idea when I saw that Shawn commented that Bret could've been his bodyguard. I've been working on this for a very long time, but finally the first chapter is out! I've also pre-written a couple of things.
Important Content Warnings for the overall story: Please be advised that this story deals with heavy themes, including domestic abuse (non-con/dub-con implications within a marriage), forced drug dependency, and financial control. JBL is the main antagonist here and acts as such.
English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: An Offer You Can’t Refuse- Also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Weight of Gilded Gates- Also on AO3
Chapter 3: Liquid Courage and Velvet Chains- Also on AO3
Chapter 4: The Merchandising of Heartbreak- Also on AO3
Chapter 5: Unspoken Rules and Quiet Subtext- Also on AO3
Hartbreak Bodyguard!AU: A Price on Loyalty- Chapter 6: The Shield in the Shadows
Paring: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels
Summary: During a tense dinner, Shawn uses Bret’s presence as a physical shield against JBL's psychological traps, forcing Bret to inadvertently protect him. When JBL tries to catch Shawn in a lie about the photoshoot, Bret steps in and states the objective facts, standing his ground against the billionaire's silent rage.
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Bodyguard Bret Hart; Trophy Husband Shawn Michaels; CEO John Bradshaw Layfield; Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence; Domestic Violence; Forced Dependency; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Injured Owen Hart; Whump; Hurt Shawn Michaels; Protective Bret Hart; Slow Burn; Mystery & Suspense; Heavy Angst; Hurt/Comfort; It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
Notes: This is the darkest chapter I wrote until now, Please Heed The Warnings!!!! CRITICAL CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS (PLEASE READ): This is by far the darkest and most intense chapter of the story so far. We are fully exposing the terrifying reality of Shawn's captivity and the elaborate criminal network JBL uses to keep him trapped.
Domestic abuse and physical violence (A character is grabbed, shoved, and slapped across the face). High-intensity psychological abuse and dehumanization. Implied/Threatened sexual assault (The chapter ends with a definitive fade to black before any act occurs, but the threat is explicit). References to past severe physical assault/ambush (Mention of injuries caused by secondary antagonists). English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 2,299
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Later that evening, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the Layfield estate shifted once again as the billionaire CEO returned. When the clock struck dinner time, Bret stood straight, escorting Shawn down the grand western staircase toward the formal dining room. As they reached the heavy oak doors, Bret instinctively took a step back, preparing to dismiss himself to his post outside.
"Stay, Mr. Hart," JBL’s booming voice commanded, cutting through the room.
The tycoon was already seated at the head of the long mahogany table, a freshly poured glass of scotch in his hand. He gestured casually toward the space near the doorway. "I want to hear about my husband's day, and I expect you to be here to ensure everything went smoothly. Security isn't just about watching doors, Hitman. It's about accountability."
Bret gave a tight, professional nod and stepped back into the shadows near the wall, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
Shawn took his seat across from JBL, his body tense beneath a clean shirt, though he forced an expression of pure, unadulterated boredom onto his face. He picked up his fork, turning a piece of salad over with a slow, mechanical rhythm.
"So, Shawn," JBL purred, leaning forward and resting his thick forearms on the edge of the table. "How was the shoot today? Flair’s campaign is a massive investment for Layfield Enterprises."
Shawn didn't look up, his voice carrying a flat, utterly disinterested drawl. "It was fine."
JBL’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation breaking through his calculated grin. He leaned in a bit closer, pressing his weight against the table. "Just fine? Not good? Not spectacular?"
Shawn chose that exact moment to look up, deliberately rolling his striking blue eyes in a display of petty, petulant annoyance.
Standing in the shadows, Bret felt a quiet prickle of frustration. To him, Shawn’s attitude looked entirely unnecessary, the typical, bratty behavior of a spoiled model who couldn't even appreciate a lavish dinner or a massive career opportunity. But Bret couldn't see the terrifying calculation running through Shawn’s mind. Shawn knew exactly what he was doing. He was intentionally putting on his Heartbreak Kid act because he recognized the shifting power dynamic in the room. He knew JBL was still playing the role of the benevolent, deeply worried husband in front of the new head of security. As long as Bret’s imposing, broad-shouldered frame was standing in that room, JBL wouldn't dare touch him. Without even realizing it, Bret was acting as a physical shield between Shawn and the true monster.
"It was normal, John," Shawn added, his tone sharpening with a layer of defensive bravado. "Nothing unusual happened."
JBL’s jaw tightened. He slowly turned his head away from his husband, his cold, piercing gaze locking directly onto Bret. The look was sharp, hungry, and expectant, the gaze of a predator waiting for Bret to step forward, break protocol, and call Shawn a liar.
Bret remained completely still, a statue of unyielding stone against the wall. His face was an unreadable mask, giving the billionaire absolutely nothing to work with.
JBL let out a short, dry chuckle, leaning back against the leather of his chair in a forced display of relaxation. "Is that so? Because I received a very interesting phone call from Ric earlier. Flair told me you were remarkably difficult to work with today, Shawn. Said you caused a scene on the set."
Bret caught the exact microsecond Shawn’s entire body went completely ice-cold. Shawn’s fingers tightened so hard around his silver fork that his knuckles turned a ghostly white. The fragile shield of his bravado was on the verge of shattering.
Before the silence could stretch into a trap, Bret cleared his throat, his deep, steady voice instantly cutting through the psychological warfare.
"Mr. Flair pushed Mr. Shawn a little further than Shawn was comfortable with, sir," Bret stated smoothly, his tone flat, professional, and entirely neutral. He didn't offer details about grabbing Flair's wrist, but he made sure the truth was laid bare.
JBL’s head snapped toward Bret, his eyes glinting with a cold, terrifying promise of violence. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, he slowly turned his gaze back to Shawn, looking at him with an expression that screamed they would be having a very different, very private conversation about this later tonight.
Sensing the shift, JBL shifted gears, his voice dropping into a mask of paternal concern. "And what about your physical condition, Shawn? Ric mentioned you seemed... weak. How are the pains?"
Shawn aggressively swallowed a piece of bread, trying to minimize the damage, desperation coloring his tone as he tried to sound entirely self-sufficient. "I’m fine, John. It’s nothing. I took the medication exactly on schedule." As he said the words, Shawn flicked his blue eyes toward the shadows, throwing Bret a sharp, burning, venomous glare, a reminder of the forced compliance in the kitchen.
JBL let out a booming, theatrical laugh that felt entirely devoid of joy. He waved his hand in dismissal, looking up at Bret. "Excellent. You're dismissed for the night, Mr. Hart. Go get some rest."
As Bret turned to leave, JBL’s voice dropped into a dry, warning octave. "And remember... don't let his petulant little tantrums fool you when he has a job to do. High fashion requires thick skin."
Bret wanted to stop. He wanted to turn around, debate the billionaire, and tell him that Ric Flair was a predator who didn't deserve an ounce of compliance. Every instinct in his gut was screaming that something was deeply, fundamentally broken within this marriage. But his professional training, and the reminder of the checks keeping Stu and Owen alive, forced him to hold his tongue.
He quietly stepped through the heavy oak doors, leaving the suffocating dining room behind. Seeking any kind of grounding reality, Bret made his way down the dim corridor toward the kitchen, hoping to find the quiet, honest comfort of Rey and Eddie.
When Bret pushed through the stainless-steel doors of the kitchen, the atmosphere inside instantly cracked. Rey was standing by the counter, and Eddie was leaning against the prep table; both of them froze, their eyes locking onto Bret with an intensity that made him slow his pace. They had clearly been listening near the service hallway. They knew what Bret had just done in that dining room.
Eddie was the first to move, straightening up and letting out a low, disbelieving whistle. "Man... you’ve got some serious steel in your spine, Hitman. Peating the boss like that to his face? No one contradicts Layfield when he’s looking for a reason to snap."
Bret pulled out a stool, sitting down heavily as he loosened the top button of his stiff dress shirt. He was exhausted, the lingering rancid taste from the dinner table still coating his throat. "I didn't contradict him. I just stated the facts of what happened at the studio. Flair was out of line."
Eddie nodded sharply, stepping away from the prep table. "I don't doubt he was," he muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, gritty tone. "Flair is a wolf dressed up as a peacock. Everyone in that world knows what he’s really hunting for."
Rey instantly shot a sharp, reprimanding look toward Eddie, his entire body going rigid. The butler’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the kitchen ceiling, as if John Bradshaw Layfield's shadow could hear through the very floorboards. That omnipresent, suffocating fear of the boss finding out was always lingering in the air, a silent warning to keep their mouths shut.
Rey then stepped forward, setting a clean glass of cold water down in front of Bret. His expression was tight, his dark eyes carrying a profound, solemn weight as he focused back on the bodyguard. "You do not understand, Mr. Hart. To John Bradshaw Layfield, 'facts' are whatever he decides they are. Shawn was trying to use your presence as a shield, yes, but by defending him, you just made things incredibly complicated."
Bret’s eyebrows knitted together in frustration. He looked from Rey’s worried face to Eddie’s rigid posture. He was tired of the riddles, tired of the hushed whispers in the corridors. "Listen, both of you. Layfield told me Shawn was volatile because of what Kevin Nash did to him. He told me the kid throws tantrums and needs a firm hand to keep from destroying his own career. But today, I saw Ric Flair physically put his hands on Shawn, and Shawn looked... paralyzed. He wasn't throwing a tantrum. He was terrified. Why is everyone in this house acting like I'm the warden of a prison instead of a bodyguard?"
Eddie and Rey exchanged a swift, agonizingly tense look. Eddie’s hand subtly reached out, his fingers brushing against Rey’s wrist in a protective, comforting gesture that they didn't even try to hide from Bret this time.
"Because you are the warden, Bret," Eddie said, his voice dropping into a raw, dangerous whisper. "You just don't know it yet. You see a spoiled kid because that's the story Layfield bought and paid for you to believe. But if you want the truth? Keep your eyes open when the boss thinks no one is watching."
Upstairs, behind the heavy, soundproofed double doors of the master bedroom, the illusion of the doting billionaire husband evaporated completely.
The moment the lock clicked shut, Shawn felt the temperature in the room drop. He could feel the violent rumble of rage vibrating off JBL’s large frame. Panic seized his chest, and his eyes instinctively darted toward the exit. He wanted to run. He wanted to throw those heavy doors open and sprint down the corridor. But the microscopic twitch of his shoulders instantly alerted JBL. Before Shawn could even take a step, the billionaire moved with terrifying speed, cutting off the escape route and placing his massive body directly in front of the door.
JBL used every inch of his towering height and brute strength to cage Shawn in, backing him up until Shawn’s heels hit the frame of the canopy bed.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" JBL hissed, his shadow completely swallowing Shawn’s smaller frame. He reached out, his heavy hands gripping the lapels of Shawn's shirt, not just to hold him, but to remind him of the sheer difference in power. "Using the new boy as a shield? Throwing petulant looks across my dinner table? I warned you about behaving today, Shawn."
JBL leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a sneer that oozed corporate sadism, using his vast wealth as a weapon to systematically strip away Shawn’s humanity. "Let’s remind you of your place, starlet. I bought you. I own you. To me, you are nothing but a product to make money out of. A pretty face for my associates to look at. A doll to satisfy me when I get home. You don't have rights, Shawn. You have a price tag."
Shawn felt like a wild animal caught in a metal trap. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. With his back pressed against the wood, he clawed for the only weapon he had left: his biting, desperate sarcasm. He forced his lips to curve into a shaky, mocking smile, staring straight into the eyes of his captor.
"What's the matter, John?" Shawn whispered, his voice trembling but laced with acid. "Upset because your expensive new bloodhound actually has a conscience? He didn't lie for you. He didn't call me a brat. He saw exactly what Ric tried to…"
The brutal, open-handed slap echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. The sheer force of the blow snapped Shawn’s head to the side, his lip instantly splitting as a sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. Before he could fall, JBL’s thick fingers clamped around his jaw, squeezing the bruised skin with agonizing force and viciously wrenching Shawn’s face back to force him to look into his eyes.
"Don't you ever test me in my own house," JBL snarled, his eyes glinting with a sickening satisfaction at the tears of pain welling in Shawn’s striking blue eyes. "You think Hart is going to save you? You think anyone is coming for you? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried to run?"
Shawn choked on a breath, his body trembling violently as the dark memory threatened to swallow him whole.
"Maybe I need to call my old friends," JBL whispered, his breath hot against Shawn’s cheek. "Maybe I should bring Kane and Kurt back into this house. They loved hunting you down the first time, didn't they? They thoroughly enjoyed breaking your knee and tearing your back apart before they delivered you right back to my feet so I could finish the job." JBL let out a low, dark chuckle. "They dismantled you, Shawn. And they will gladly do it again if you try to break character in front of my associates tomorrow."
JBL let go of his jaw, throwing him backward onto the bed. Shawn collapsed against the velvet comforter, clutching his aching knee as tears of pure, suffocating helplessness finally spilled over his eyelashes.
JBL checked his gold Rolex, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he turned toward the private bathroom, casting one last, heavy look over his shoulder. "Get yourself ready for bed, starlet. I expect you waiting for me when I get out of the shower."
The heavy click of the bathroom door closing signaled the final turn of the key. Shawn remained paralyzed on the mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling as the distant sound of running water began to echo through the room. The golden cage had never felt so heavy as the reality of what was coming settled over the quiet bedroom.
Shawnter Medieval!AU: The Prince and The Barbarian King
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Main Paring: Shawn Michaels/Triple H;
Side parings: Billy Gunn/"The Road Dogg" Jesse James; X-pac/Kane; Scott Hall/Kevin Nash; Rey Mysterio/Eddie Guerrero; Goldust/Undertaker
Summary: Shawn is the eldest son of king Vincent and to his father's disappointment he's also an omega, meaning he is only useful as a bargaining chip, his worth directly measured by the marriage alliance he can bring to his kingdom. In an attempt to save the kingdom from being taken by the Barbarian King Hunter Hearts Hemsley, King Vincent swears his son's hand in exchange for peace. Now Shawn has to navigate life in a completely new environment, with a culture he knows nothing about and to make matters worse it feels like his future husband is just as annoyed with this marriage as Shawn is. While Shawn and Hunter are trying to fall in love it seems forces behind the scenes don't want this alliance to take place and will stop at nothing to prevent it.
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Omega Verse; Alternate Universe-Medieval; Alternate Universe-Royalty; Arranged Marrige; Falling in Love; Enemies to Friends to Lovers; Found Family; Eventual Smut; Eventual Happy Ending; Scenting; Mating Bites; Mating Bond; Courting Rituals; Slow Burn; Other Aditional Tags to Be Added
Notes: English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Chapter 1: A New Life- also on AO3
Chapter 2: The Road to the Mountains- also on AO3
Chapter 3: The Cold Tower and Hidden Smolders- also on AO3
Chapter 4: Thorns and Winter Gardens- also on AO3
Chapter 5: Wildflowers and Hidden Embers- also on AO3
