I’ll be so real with u I probably missed the mark on what the prompt intended however. I love a good low stakes hard time.
23 - Write about your ship supporting each other through a hard time
Something’s wrong with the Lock, and it’s not sitting right with Gabe. He’s been around the weird little demon fucker enough to start picking up on his tells— the tightness in his shoulders, the tight pinch to how he’s been speaking, the way his leg keeps starting to jitter and bounce when his focus begins to drop…
Gabe knows it’s a focus thing, because after a few seconds the Lock will snap back to attention and force himself to sit still. He’ll cross his arms over his chest and cast his gaze about the backstage area like he’s expecting a fight to break out. And while Gabe can’t blame him for being wired up before a show, the way the Lock keeps fidgeting leads Gabe to believe it’s something more than simple overstimulation.
He reaches over to rest a hand on the Lock’s shoulder, frowning when he feels the Lock jump a little at the touch.
“You okay, man?” Gabe asks softly, trying to catch the Lock’s eye.
“No,” the Lock grunts, and then doesn’t bother to elaborate.
Gabe finds himself huffing out a half-laugh of frustration. “You gotta give me more to work with than that, man.”
“Do I?”
The Lock’s tone is flat, but there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. Gabe’s gotten good at reading his mood through the micro-expressions that show up above his mask— he doesn’t need to see the Lock’s mouth to know that he’s smirking.
Gabe can only shake his head. “You’re a smug little fucker, y’know?”
Shrugging, the Lock set back to scanning the room. “I’m mostly fine, Gabe, don’t worry about me.”
“You’re bouncing your leg like you’re trying to jackhammer through the floor.”
“…Sorry.”
“You don’t gotta apologize to me, man. Just… I’m here to talk if you wanna. And I know it’s not really your thing, talking, but like, I’m officially your tag partner now, and I think we’re close enough that we can talk about stuff, y’know? I just—“
The Lock cuts him off with a quick mutter. “You’re blowin’ smoke again, bud.”
“… Sorry.”
Chuckling a little, the Lock shakes his head. “It’s okay. The rambling helps, the subject doesn’t. Tell me about something you like instead.”
In that instance, almost everything Gabe has ever been interested in has elected to make a swift exit from his mind via stage left. He opens his mouth, says nothing, and then closes it again. The only thing that returns to him in a decent amount of time is sort of embarrassing, but the Lock cocks an eyebrow at him and he ends up blurting it out.
“I mean, I’ve been really into NASCAR recently?” Gabe offers weakly.
He expects the laugh that breaks out from behind the Lock’s mask, but something about how choked it sounds gives him pause.
“Shit, really? You got a favorite driver?” The Lock asks, without a hint of irony in his tone.
Gabe blinks at that. “Uh, Kyle Busch, I guess? Favorite current guy, at least. If you’re asking for my all-time favorite, I’d say it’s Dale Earnhardt.”
“Raise hell, praise Dale,” the Lock replies approvingly. “You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t mark Dale as one of the greatest. There’s never gonna be another driver like him.”
Laughing softly, Gabe rolls his shoulders back and feels some of his embarrassment start to melt away. “Shit man, if I knew you were into racing as well, I would’ve brought it up sooner. Who’s your favorite?”
“I mean, Dale, obviously. But I’d say Danica Patrick, Lando Matthews, and Jimmie Johnson are all tied for second place,” the Lock answers.
Gabe can practically hear his grin. Getting factual information out of the Lock is typically akin to pulling teeth, but this? This feels like the Lock is being genuine for once.
“Ooh, good picks. Y’know, I hear Lando Matthews comes to shows sometimes. You might get to meet him at some point,” Gabe muses.
“Might,” the Lock echoes, amusement sparkling through his tone.
“I never met him, but—“
But before Gabe can finish that thought, HBK is calling for their entrance music. He and the Lock stand up in perfect sync, making their way to the ramp for their segment. Just before they step out under the stage lights, the Lock reaches out and quickly squeezes Gabe’s hand in his.
Ok fuck it we ball. I need to go to bed but I’m posting the in progress drabble yeehaw.
There’s three quick raps on the bus door. When no answer meets them, the handle is tried. When it doesn’t budge, Roman hears the sound of shuffling and scratching for a few seconds. A telltale *click* rings loudly against the silence. The door swings open, and Roman doesn’t have to look to know who just barged in on him.
“The door was locked for a reason, Crash.” He calls, unable to stop his voice from cracking.
He buries his face in the pillow and hopes the fabric will be dark enough for Crash not to notice the wet spots his tears have left on the case.
Something cold is pressed to the back of Roman’s neck, making him jump a little and roll over so he can angrily squint up at Crash. There’s a water bottle being shoved in his face.
“Drink.” Crash instructs firmly.
What can Roman do but obey?
He sits up. He takes the bottle in shaking hands. He sips his water and watches Crash putter about the tour bus. It’s convenient that Roman’s favorite “pouting spot” (as Crash once put it) is in the kitchenette area— it gives him a prime position to watch Crash roll up his sleeves and start pulling out supplies from the cabinets.
The first thing he goes for is a small towel, which he runs under cold water to dampen before ringing out the excess. He returns to Roman with the towel in hand.
“Scoot.” Crash murmurs, nudging Roman’s legs out of the way so he can sit on the edge of the bench.
“C’mere. Just breathe.”
Crash cups Roman’s jaw with his left hand and carefully wipes at his face with the damp towel. He goes slow and steady, dabbing away the tears and easing the heat in Roman’s cheeks. God, he hadn’t realized how red his face must look. His eyes feel impossibly puffy.
“Good boy.” Crash tells him.
“Shouldn’t you be out there celebrating my downfall with everyone else?” Roman asks.
“Tomorrow night, they’re going to be chanting ‘Thank you, Roman’ loud enough that the arena will quake.” Crash replies. “Tomorrow night, you’re going to be well-rested enough to appreciate when they do it.”
“I lost, Crash.”
“So did Gunther. That doesn’t eliminate the six hundred and sixty six days that he held the IC Title for. You carried that belt for four years, Ro. It’s time you get the chance to lay down your burden and rest.”
Roman wants to argue. The best statement he can manage falls flat even as he says it. “I hit Seth with a steel chair.”
Crash shrugs. “You can apologize tomorrow.”
“He hit me first. Ten years ago. He hit me first. You told me I had to let it go. But I couldn’t let it go. And it cost me the match.”
“Yeah, dude, that happens sometimes. You gonna mope about it all night, or are you gonna let me help you wash up and untangle the mess in your hair?”
🥅 Write about a time or way in which you helped your villain F/O achieve their goals.
Crash is nothing if not extra.
Max hears the roar of the dirt bike over the crowd. The revving of the old Suzuki’s engine cuts through the night like a hot knife through butter, with smoke rising in its wake as Crash charges down the ramp pulling a fucking wheelie and hollering like he’s back on a torn-up dirt road. The crowd, the bike, and Max’s own heartbeat— all get drowned out as the chorus of Hard to Handle by the Black Crowes blasts over the loudspeakers.
The sudden shock of someone straight up driving a dirt bike into the stadium is enough to shock Jay into the corner of the ring. He stumbles, swearing as he watches Crash chase Juice and the Ass Boys away from ringside. There’s no suspension of disbelief necessary from the audience when their little trikes rip away at breakneck speeds— Crash clearly isn’t going to pursue them back up the ramp. He’s got other plans.
The Crash Test Trickster occupies himself with a lap around the ring. He pops one last wheelie for the cameras before parking his bike by the commentary table. Max watches him dismount and pull off his helmet like a knight after a jousting victory. Neither of them will be beating the Disney Prince allegations after tonight.
Crash hands his helmet off to Nigel with a grin and a wink.
“Keep an eye on ‘er for me, eh? I shouldn’t be too long.”
In a heartbeat, Crash is at the apron and reaching out for Max to tag him in. His smile is downright infectious— Max can’t help but beam as he dives in to slap Crash’s hand. They swap places, with Max scrambling under the ropes and Crash launching himself over top.
“Save the pin for me!” Max calls, finally able to catch his breath.
Crash tosses him a smirk over his shoulder. “Anything for you, darlin’!”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Maxwell Jacob Friedman/CM Punk
Characters: CM Punk, Maxwell Jacob Friedman
Additional Tags: cm punk cries during sex. thats it thats the story, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Mild Feminization, (punk gets called babygirl), Dacryphilia
Summary:
Punk gets overwhelmed. Max helps him through it.
anyways. first fic for the fandom. also suffering thru the worst cold ive had in over a year. anyways comfortable hole bye✌️
