i can't write a damn thing these last couple of months or so and this Hookhausen idea like a dozen other WIPs of mine will probably never get finished cuz writing (and reading) are just things my brain hasn't been letting me have in recent months. But here's a tiny Hookhausen excerpt from a page and a half of a random fic i started recently and probably won't finish. But i need to get out of my head a bit and flinging something into the void may help me do that? idk. it can't make it worse probably? lol whatever. enjoy or scroll. if you've read my fic you've probably read something like this already cuz it's not all that unique. but it's nice to have my boys back in my head again, even if they're maybe only passing through. 🧡🖤
Hook falls back onto his hotel mattress with a pained groan. “Fuck everything hurts.”
Danhausen rolls his eyes, sitting down on the edge of the other bed, opposite Hook’s dangling legs. “Hook is exaggerating. He is fine.”
“How would you know? Christ. My legs are on fire,” Hook moans, toeing his sneakers off one after the other. He lifts his leg and rolls his ankle—an audible pop in the joint causes him to hiss and wince up at the popcorn textured ceiling. Hook raises his hands over his head, knuckles bunching the thick comforter between them as he stretches, back arching, wrists twisting, muscles dancing beneath tanned skin.
Danhausen’s mouth goes impossibly dry.
The edge of Hook’s hoodie rides up, offering up a glimpse of toned flesh and inked letters. It’s nothing Danhausen hasn’t seen a hundred times before and under far more revealing conditions, and he means to look away, he really, really does. But the dark path of hair along Hook’s abdomen catches in the beam of late afternoon sun, shining golden like the rest of him—a treasure that not even Danhausen’s impressive merch sales can ever afford him enough riches to claim.
Because attempting to do so could cost Danhausen everything he isn’t willing to lose. There’s always more money to be made, but there is only one Hook. Danhausen decided years ago that anything beyond friendship with Hook was far too risky. There are too many variables, and unknowns, and irreparable consequences.
Regrettably, that resolve hasn't changed much of anything for him.
“Bro, I think my ribs have like… permanent dents in them or some shit,” Hook grumbles. His long limbs shift, sliding more on the mattress one way, more off the mattress another, swishing across the comforter as he chases the relief his stretching has yet to award him. The hoodie rides up a bit higher; his joggers slip down a bit lower; his back bows up at a more extreme angle.
And Danhausen should look away, he thinks, as the joggers slip below Hook's belly button and Hook's cheeks puff, arms going lax in time with a long, slow exhale.
But art exists to be appreciated and so Danhausen, a man of culture, keeps on appreciating.
A soft smile tugs at the corner of Danhausen’s painted lips as he enjoys the view, taking advantage of Hook’s inattention. Hook is a renaissance painting with his chin tilted up to the ceiling; all hard lines, and soft edges, and just as untouchable as any other priceless prize.
“Are you ignoring me?” Hook's head lifts off the mattress slightly, brows furrowed as he stares down the line of his body to frown at Danhausen. “What’s with the face?”
Danhausen pulls his gaze and thoughts away from Hook’s impressive physique, grateful for the black and white paint on his face that will hide the guilty blush heating his cheeks. He makes a big show of rolling his eyes, throwing his hands wide and sighing. “No face,” Danhausen insists, smiling innocently, “Danhausen is just so. Very. Tired.”
Trap set.
Hook’s brows vanish into the fringe of his hair.
Bait taken.
Hook huffs in disbelief. He shakes his head to chase away the curl of hair that fell across his eye. “You’re tired? From doing fucking what?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Donovan Danhausen/Hook
Characters: Hook (Professional Wrestling), Donovan Danhausen, Evilhausen - Character
Additional Tags: Hookhausen Anniversary, Tumblr Prompt, Vague Demon Lore, Sleeptalking, Evilhausen, Sexual Frustration, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Blood, Implied Sexual Content, It gets a little weird folks
Series: Part 2 of Voice in the Dark
Summary:
In need of answers, Hook seeks out another conversation with the other side of Danhausen. He ends up getting more than he bargained for.
Well, I guess this is a thing that happened? I started working on this continuation not long after I posted the first, promptly abandoned it, but then came back to it recently due to a certain match. This started out as a vague idea for one scene (probably not the one you’d think) and then everything before and after just sort of ballooned from there. And somehow, it ended up becoming the second longest fic I’ve posted here? Safe to say, this one really got away from me and ended up going in a very different direction than I thought it would. Whoops. And it, uh…well, it certainly goes Places.
If you’re seeing this, thanks to the mystery person who sent the original prompt into the Hookhausen Anniversary Swap, and a huge thank you to everyone who read and commented on that first fic; it really motivated me to keep going and finish this damn thing.
I’m not sure if I’ll write more after this, but then again, that’s exactly what I said last time, so who knows? For now though, enjoy (if you can…) this second installment of some sort! Now with 30% more Actual Danhausen!
If you are having fun with it, then it is not a failure. That said, could I request Hook learning that Danhausen is a real demon?
you are incredibly sweet :”’’ and yes you absolutely can bc that prompt Fucks, sorry it took a few days and holy fuck did it get out of hand. it also got dark.
cw for: violence, implied sexual violence, inebriation, minor sexual content, vague bullshit.
Late as it is, most young people have migrated home or to better clubs. The pub that Hook is in is seedy, smokey, and so quiet by now he can pick out individual conversations among the straggling groups.
The bar is sticky beneath the side of his hand which only adds to the mix of steadily frustrating sensations in the place, but it’s still a better deal than the clubs.
“We’re gonna dip,” one of his friends says, knocking her elbow against him. She’s as buzzed as he is but clearly having a much better time for it. Their small group is gathering their stuff, downing the last of their drinks, clearly ready to hit a livelier scene.
Hook was hoping going out tonight would release the tension that’s been growing in him lately, but it hasn’t. The thought of now going to a proper club with its flashing strobes, shitty remixes, and too-tight squeeze of bodies on a floor far stickier than the bar beneath his hand makes his nose wrinkle.
No way, no thanks. “Nah, I’m good. Probably head home after this,” he says, trying not to be rude but staying firm when she pouts. She’s concerned about him, has that look about her that says as much, and that should be nice, right? It should be nice that someone cares.
A nicer person would feel bad at the irritation that flares in Hook, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered. On a normal day, he might try, but things have been frustrating him at work lately and he’s been thinking too much. He feels tired. He feels wound up. Restless but strung out.
He ignores her and returns to his drink, taking a low draw from the amber beverage that’s already too flat to be pleasant. A dirty glass will do that, and the place is such a dive he’s not surprised.
He gets a pat on the arm and a kiss on the cheek as his friends leave, both irritating him, but he offers a nod and a wave. Then he’s alone, save for the bartender, two ragtag groups of middle-aged drunkards, and a few wallowing solo drinkers.
Hook doesn’t like wallowing. He’ll brood, mope, and be antisocial all he likes, but wallowing? That’s boring. So he slides back off his bar stool, abandoning his drink, and heads over to the pool table and prepares to practise.
The triangle rack is already set up, waiting to lure people in for a game, and Hook is all too happy to sink into the familiarity of it, picking up a random cue stick and chalking it without care for the size or weighting of it. He’ll play a little, just until he’s calmed down. It doesn’t have to be good.
He’s not a pro pool player by any stretch, but having a table at home and a father who doesn’t pull punches with his competitiveness has made it a casual hobby.
The stillness as he lines up his shot and the satisfying, loud clack as he breaks brings him into the moment, tugging him out of his own head and grounding him. He scowls at the table a little, unhappy with the sloppy break, but it gives him something to focus in on.
He can blame it on the way balancing is a little difficult, on how his palms are a bit sticky and his vision unsteady, alcohol buzzing in his body and loosening him up. It’s just practice, he tells himself. He works on his angle shots instead of taking easy ones, overthinking and trying out new things because this isn’t a game and Taz isn’t here to laugh at him, so it’s fine.
It’s less fine that after he makes a good shot he automatically looks up for the approval or disapproval from his father, only to find him not there. Only to find there’s another man, a strange one, looking at him instead.
It’s not a nice look. The man doesn’t seem like a nice man.
There’s a few of them sitting at their tall table, five strangers that are bigger and older, wearing expressions that are as silently threatening as their understated clothing.
Each time Hook looks up and meets those eyes, he winds up tighter. The feeling is not unfamiliar, whatever it is. In fact, it’s the feeling that’s been undermining him at work. He doesn’t know what to call it, trying to ignore it, but it lingers in him. It’s the same feeling.
Why?
To release some tension, Hook takes his gum out of his pocket and unwraps two pieces, working his jaw and rolling his shoulders as he tries to shake off the climbing anticipation.
It feels like nerves before a match, except he doesn’t know the game he’s playing. The sport he’s competing in. How can he fight and win if he doesn’t know what fucking competition he’s in?
Logically, he knows he’s the wrong side of tipsy. Logically, he knows he should back down and head home when the staring stranger and his friends make their way over to his pool table. There’s another table free but they come up to his.
Hook does not head home. He stands and looks at the apparent leader of the group, tilting his head to the side in silent question as they approach. The guy grins, a quick flash of a smile that tries to be genuine but is terribly played, and Hook raises an eyebrow.
“Saw you playin’,” the leader begins, nodding at the messy work on the table. “Wondering if you wanted some competition?”
Hook enjoys winning. He’s been raised that way and it’s in his blood. He nods, splaying one arm wide in a gesture of ‘help yourself’. Three of the men pick up their own pool cues and the game begins, the one who had been staring joining the leader, a random other joining Hook. It’s a doubles game, but loose on the rules.
It’s downhill from there.
Hook watches and plays and tries to keep practising his angle shots, but it gets annoying when the other players interfere. Hook enjoys winning.
He’s lost his second game when he gets sick of it, knowing how they’re looking at him in quiet mockery. They think he’s a kid. Inexperienced. Lazy. How long will he have to endure those looks from people?
Just like work. It’s all just like work.
He goes to the standing rack of pool cues and puts his current, too short and heavy one down, testing out two more before he finds one he thinks he can work with. Freshly chalked, he rejoins the group and waits for the next game.
Starting the bet is not his idea.
“Fifteen bucks if we win,” the leader bets. Hook’s partner looks at him, quick and fidgety, taking the deal too fast. Danhausen would’ve waited, deferring to Hook because there’s a curious sort of starstruck fixation there.
Hook doesn’t have cash on him, he doesn’t want to bet, but he does anyway. Why? Why can’t he lose?
But he does, and he’s wound up again by the end of it. Every shot he’d make would be undone by his partner, or he was jostled on purpose, or...
That little fucker of a partner sabotaged him. The three of them were working him, underhanded in how they did it, just for fifteen dollars?
They really thought he was just some dumb kid.
“A hundred. Formal rules. Two players.” Hook is sober enough he knows he shouldn’t. He’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care. There’s not many people left, the lights are low, the music is turned down. He’ll be kicked out soon, the bar closing earlier than the clubs, and that will be his night over.
He’s too keyed up for it to be over.
(He thinks about the man staring at him and what it made him feel.)
Chewing gum doesn’t make for good bubbles, but Hook still blows one until it pops with a snap.
“You talk big, kid,” the Starer tells him. Kid. There it is.
“Don’t do it, then.” Hook shrugs, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
The way the three men eye each other, the others of their friend group hiding laughter, makes Hook’s skin prickle.
“Alright, calm down. A hundred it is.”
The game begins and Hook won’t lose.
Tension makes the break stuffy, but Hook is playing to win now. It’s no longer practise. He’s in a match and he’s there to get the title and–
“You fucker,” Staring man seethes, four moves in. “You little fucking hustler.”
Hook didn’t mean to hustle, but he guesses he has. It’s satisfying, even if he hadn’t meant to. Maybe he’d be a good heel in the future. As long as he doesn’t have to give a big monologue or wear weird outfits, he wouldn’t mind it.
He’s lining up his next shot, bent over the table with eyes fixed on his prize, when a big hand comes down to shove him. Not expecting it, he stumbles, dropping his cue and catching the table awkwardly to stop from falling.
Now, this he knows.
This, Hook will never lose at or second-guess.
His fist connects with his attacker’s face before his mind has caught up, instinct and muscle memory making it easy to escalate.
As the man stumbles back, spitting swears and holding his face, Hook advances, bright-eyed and hungry for a good fight. It’s the easiest thing in the world to grab the much larger man by the front of his shirt and pull him into another jab to the face, and another, and another, until blinding pain snaps over Hook’s back.
It knocks the air from him, and as he turns to defend, he sees one of the men standing there holding a pool cue defensively.
Hook holds his own, takes his blows like a fighter and gives more than he gets, but it’s him versus the five men. There had been a bouncer at the door, but nobody steps in to save Hook. He’s on his own.
He’s no lightweight but he’s picked up and slammed down on the surface of the pool table, spine and hip catching on pool balls, alcohol numbing the pain but making him slower than he usually would be.
There’s a man between his legs and it’s almost like a pin, almost like work. It’s not. The fist that curls in the front of his hair, getting a good grip full of it, yanks his head forward and slams it back in a way that’s vicious and sloppy.
Foot sliding against something, he searches blindly with his toes (when did he lose a shoe?) until he feels the soft part of a body, drawing his leg back then driving it back in savagely and delighting in the cry of pain he gets in response.
“Let me go,” he demands, spitting his gum at someone, not seeing it land.
He’s pinned, though. So many hands hold him down, one in particular pinching the sides of his cheeks, squishing his mouth into a pout, and finally he focuses in on a face. The man above him is angry, but it’s an ugly anger. No passion, all swollen bluster.
The thrill is missing. There’s no love for sport, for wrestling. No spark. No respect for loving violence.
Body between his legs, big hand on his face, a figure looming over him… Hook likes it. The desire to relax into it is there, but he’s scared. Unsafe.
He’s scared?
That’s news to him, but he stills as he realises the men leaning over him are not warriors but wax figures waiting to coat him in heavy, coating influence. They are not here for him or to fight, but for themselves. That is where the fear comes from, he thinks. Pillowy selfishness without hunger.
The hand is on his throat now and he is still. Two hands on his calf, pulling it down. Another shoving his arm, yanking it, angling it into an uncomfortable strain. There are hands on his throat, warm thumbs slick under his jaw, pressing, palms denting the sides of his neck.
This is not practice.
His head is spinning and he tries to tap out. Remembers training with Taz as a child. With Nese, in preparation, shoving at each other. With Starks, breaking the ice a little and listening to him talk away as they stretch. With Danhausen, pushing boundaries and getting frustrated and choking him out and the confusion and the–
Is this what happened to Danhausen when Hook choked him out?
It had felt good to Hook. Important. They’d been close, something shifting between them, but. He’d tried to tap out but Hook hadn’t let go. Hadn’t been able to.
There is red jumping across his dimming vision, making his stomach jolt like dipping vertigo. He tried to swallow, tried to choke on his own spit, but he couldn’t even manage that. The way he could feel his pulse was so intimate. Overwhelming.
He hoped it hadn’t felt like this to Danhausen.
“D–” Hook tried. He wanted this to stop. He tried kicking again, but he felt slow. Wasn’t sure if he actually managed it. “Danhausen.” He wanted to know. Had it felt like this? The sparkling red washing down over his eyes and heralding dark unconscious.
The table gives out beneath Hook and he’s slammed to the ground, the hands growing around his throat. Or maybe he’s shrinking? His pulse won’t stop jumping in his ears.
When the pressure suddenly eases, Hook chokes on his desperate inhale. Lucidity comes back to him like a smack to the face and he scrambles to sit up, only to find…
He’s alone.
He’s alone in the darkened, closed-up bar, sitting on the ground by the pool table.
The silence is uncomfortable, like all noise has been swallowed by the dark shadows where the glowing red lights above the bar itself don’t reach. Hook can hear his own rasping breaths, panicked and shallow until he makes the effort to calm the fuck down.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he drags his fingers back through his hair out of habit. There’s nobody here to look good for, but he tries to calm the wild fluff of his hair anyway, dragging fingers through as he looks around the room.
It’s so quiet.
No music, no murmurs of other conversation, and no signs of life.
Hook’s hands slow.
No sounds of wind outside. No traffic. Nothing.
He raises a hand and clicks his fingers by his ear. There’s been times he’s hit his head and hasn’t been able to hear for a few minutes, but that’s not the case this time, apparently. He can hear the clicks just fine.
Taking a deep breath, a faint smell of cigarette smoke and something like spiced alcohol touching his taste buds, he gathers himself up slowly and gets to his feet. He feels strangely clear-headed, focused and grounded in a way that’s usually a struggle unless he’s in the ring or an hour deep into a workout. Warmth blankets him, stuffy with a pressure that’s only comforting.
No alcohol in his system anymore, nothing lingering to give him a headache or nausea. How long has it been? Why did they leave him here?
Something scratched the floor behind the bar, less like a person than a rodent, rhythmic and unhurried. Hook frowns, taking a step to go around the pool table to reach the bar. As soon as his foot touches the ground, the noise stops.
“Hey,” he tries, projecting his voice with authority.
The front door of the bar slams open behind him, and after the heavy silence of the place, it seems to echo in Hook’s head. It brings with it wind, a tunnel of it sweeping into the room. The chill of it is pleasant against Hook’s over-warm skin and it carries the smoked spice smell he had thought was just the bar. There’s nobody in the doorway, nothing to suggest anybody has opened it, and the wind blows harder to swing it on its hinges.
Shit.
Had those fuckers slipped something into his drink?
Was he tripping balls right now?
Maybe he was unconscious on the pool table, those heavy hands pawing over him. Or maybe he was dead on the pavement outside the bar.
There’s only darkness outside, and that’s the worst bit. The red light in the bar doesn’t touch beyond the doorway, and there are no stars or streetlights outside. As the wind dies down, it takes all sounds with it.
When it’s quiet again, Hook feels like he can’t breathe. Breathing would be sound, it would be movement, and he feels like that’s not safe. Something primal in him tells him he should not move.
Something clatters on the ground behind him. He doesn’t want to look at it. He doesn’t want to look away from the doorway.
But he can’t not.
Licking the sweat away from his upper lip, he moves his body without taking his eyes away from the doorway. It’s not until his eyes sting that he tears his gaze away, looking at the object laying at his feet.
Long and thin, he doesn’t know what it is at first. He doesn’t want to get close, but the longer he has his back to the door, the more the back of his neck prickles. Bending down, it still takes a while to figure out what it is.
A lone metal rod lays there, unassuming in a way that feels like a lie. It almost looks like a large nail. A needle of some kind.
When cold fingers touch his ears he hunches his shoulders, ducking down but not away. There is no fear in him, not even as they slip around to hold his throat. It’s ticklish and freezing, leaving trails of chill on the surface of his skin as they run up over his jaw. He doesn’t move, except to close his eyes complacently when the fingers slide up to cover them.
He does fight back when they pull him back roughly, strength undeniably as his stomach flips with the sensation of falling. Bracing himself for impact, he tries to twist to lessen the damage, eyes flying open, and looks down at the phone in his hands.
Hook is sitting on the sidewalk, back propped up against the brick wall of the bar, staring at his phone. He is not falling. He hasn’t fallen.
His neck hurts for a second, but as he runs a shaking hand over it, the ache subsides like it was never there. The street is lit, the occasional car driving past in a smudge of headlights and heat.
Action Bronson’s SubZero plays as Hook’s phone vibrates and the screen flashes Danhausen’s name.
Hook accepts the call, but before he can speak, a car pulls up with a rush of cold wind, the door slamming open as Danhausen scrambles out. His phone is at his ear and he’s grinning widely, waving at Hook with his free hand.
“Hello!” He greets, voice playing in delayed stereo with the delay from the phone. “I found you!”
Ending the call, Hook looks up at his tagteam partner, narrowing his eyes.
“Hook did want to be found, yes? That is why you called?”
Hook thinks he remembers calling him. Probably. “You could have used your phone before you found me.”
“Danhausen’s hands were busy. Hook was in trouble.” Danhausen is wearing a full face of makeup, black, white, and grey painted on meticulously. He was either already wearing it when Hook called him or he took the time to apply it. Neither option is less strange.
“I’m fine.” Hook does not feel fine.
“Fine now that you are saved.” Danhausen offers a smile that is all teeth, but his eyes are flat and focused. He pockets his phone and holds both hands out, as though Hook cannot get to his feet on his own. Hook takes them, not needing the support but accepting it, wrapping his fingers around cold flesh and hauling himself up. Danhausen staggers and readjusts well, leaning back dramatically far to balance.
The drive is comfortably quiet. Danhausen knows where Hook lives and knows not to play any music for the ride.
“What did Hook mean?” Danhausen asks, breaking the comfort.
Hook hums, not looking over from where he is very focused on the rattle of the car window against his forehead.
“On the mobile cell-o-phone, he apologised. You said, “I am sorry.” You were sorry to Donovan. Danhausen would like to know what Hook meant?”
No memory surfaces for that one, so he doesn’t have an answer. “Don’t remember.”
“Oh. Alcohol does this, I think. Makes the mind go. Hook remembers nothing?”
Hook remembers plenty, just. Only of the dream he’d been having.
Just a dream.
“Why are you wearing the– Why the face?” Hook asks.
“This is Danhausen’s face.”
“No, I mean–” Hook tries. He’s tired. “It’s your old look, right? I’ve seen pictures.”
There’s silence, and as much as it itches at Hook’s skin he doesn’t turn. It lasts far longer than quiet usually does in Danhausen’s presence.
“... Unfortunately,” finally surfaces, forcibly dismissive in a way that sounds like the verbal version of a shrug.
The matter is left alone and they don’t talk about anything but potential takeaway options for the rest of the drive. It lingers, though. Hours later when Hook is alone, laying in bed sipping water from his favourite mug, it still lingers. He presses his tongue to the familiar chip in the rim, scraping the tip along the sharp of it. He remembers red. Cold. Hands on him.
He remembers things so clearly, for a dream. It had been fine, then he’d fallen, hadn’t he?
After he’d said Danhausen’s name, he’d fallen into the dream.
Blushing in embarrassment before he even opens his mouth, he feels so stupid as he says it now. “Danhausen,” with his teeth catching the ceramic of the mug.
Fucking stupid.
Sleep isn’t coming and Hook needs a shower. The ritual of cleaning always helps him calm down, a go-to when the sensations punching against each sense is too much to handle.
Urgency in his jerky movements, he makes his way out of his room, only to freeze on the threshold. The hallways is dark. Not dark enough he couldn’t see. It’s not like he’s scared of the dark.
( There’s something missing though, isn’t there? Something that’s supposed to be in the dark that’s not there. )
Hook takes another sip of his water and walks to the bathroom. It’ll be fine after a shower.
Setting his mug down on the sink, he runs through his hygiene rituals before turning the shower on and stripping down. As he waits for the water to heat up he checks himself in the mirror, looking over familiar flesh for fresh bruises. Old marks from work mark him in fading browns, but there’s nothing new.
Leaning over the sink to get closer to the mirror, Hook looks at his neck and the absence of bruising. There’s nothing there, new or old, but he knows that it happened. That man had held him, choked him, he knows.
But there’s nothing there.
When he lifts his hands to his throat, crossed over so he can lay them over the remembered sensation of the stranger holding him down, his whole body stiffens against his will. He wants to pull away but his thumbs dig under his jaw. Fingers tightening, palms curling and clamping down, he’s choking again. He can’t look away from the skin pinched beneath the grip, reddening with fresh pain.
Letting go sends a full shudder through him, violent enough his knees slam against the sink cabinet and his hip catches the edge of it. As he leans forward, oxygen rattling into and through him in a way that is so, so familiar, he feels the way his dick presses against the cabinet and realises he’s hard.
“Fuck.” He can’t look at himself in the mirror. “Fuck it.” Why is this still happening? He’s been trying to hard to ignore it, he’s been so good at not– At leaving it alone.
Turning to the shower with a jolt of movement, a rush toward a salvation he won’t find, he knocks his mug off the sink edge. He looks down just in time to see it explode over the tiles, scattering absolutely everywhere.
Hook feels nothing but defeat as he crouches and begins picking up the pieces. It’s now that he thinks he might be cursed. Should he laugh or yell? It’s hysterical. The sound building up in his chest deflates with a hiss as he cuts his finger while picking up a shard of his recently deceased mug.
He’s not hard anymore.
It’s not the pain he’s into, after all.
Just the violence.
Pain makes him panic, because it means he’s losing. It means he executed a move wrong. Pain is a reason to fight back and not allow loss.
It meant tagging out to save face.
For the third time that night, Hook says the name of his eccentric tagteam partner.
Danhausen. Eyes closed, finger stinging, and body stiff where he’s crouching naked on his bathroom floor, broken pieces scooped into his bleeding hands, Hook whispers his name. His stomach swoops, butterflies coming free of tight cocoons inside him.
There’s a knock on the door.
Hook knows exactly who he’ll find on the other side.
He tries to remember what the Bible says about letting demons into your home. He tries to remember if they lie, or if Danhausen will tell him the truth about what he did to those men at the bar. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t dream of Danhausen kissing him goodnight before choking him to death.
He can’t remember anything but a bright, hungry red.
Hook has run out of options to get Danhausen's attention and so he challenges him to a match. Things do not go according to plan.
Explicit. 4k. Hookhausen. kayfabe compliant (I think???), wax play, mildly dubious consent (in that it is vaguely transactional), orgasm delay/denial, come marking, clothing kink, light angst. for @blacktofade who threw down a fic gauntled and I can’t not pick it up, apparently.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/5
Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Donovan Danhausen/Hook, The Best Friends - Relationship, Orange Cassidy/Chuck Taylor, Hook & Jungle Boy
Characters: Donovan Danhausen, Hook (Professional Wrestling), The Best Friends - Character, Jungle Boy (Professional Wrestling), Small roles:, Ethan Page, Rocky Romero, Taz | Tazz (Professional Wrestling), Sonjay Dutt | Schwagg Dutt
Additional Tags: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Breakup, Misunderstandings, emotions are very difficult, human!Donovan, demon!danhausen, devil!Hook, The Best Friends are best friends, Kayfabe Compliant
Series: Part 3 of I'd Like to Love You
Summary:
Someone will always get hurt, but it's never who you think.
Needed to write something that wasn't work related so have a snack. SUPRISE EVILHAUSEN SMUT, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HAPPENED HERE? I'll consider popping this up on ao3 later cuz I kind of like it.
"I want to be the one fucking you this time," the growl pressed into Hook's ear bypasses all other senses and dives straight down to his cock, leaving him painfully hard and distressingly conflicted. He hasn't seen Danhausen in months, and Hook’s acutely aware that he's not seeing him right now either. His stomach is flips. He's buzzing with adrenaline. He can feel sweat beading at his temple, but can't do anything more than clench his fist and war against every primal urge to think this through before he does something he can't take back.
Hook focuses on his breathing, takes stock of his surroundings, and fights to stay present. A predictably abandoned hallway in the arena basement doesn’t leave much room for consideration. He should’ve known this was on the agenda when the dormant text thread had suddenly blinked to life with directions and a time that was only 15 minutes away from when it chimed through. He should’ve considered then that something like this may happen. It's not like he hasn't thought about it before... at length... for months. He'd just assumed that he was the only one thinking about any of this at all anymore.
He's glad he was wrong; he's concerned about what it actually means.
Hook's arm is burning, twisted up behind his back; his bare chest is cold, pressed into the polished concrete floor by the weight on his back; his mouth is gaping, panting and whimpering and oh fuck, the body on top of him is grinding down, rolling hips in hot circles and leaving no room for interpretation that they're just as wanting as he is and Hook gasps. He shouldn't want this at all. He wants to beg for it terribly.
"Do-does he," Hook chokes on the words, chokes on air, chokes on the realization that he's not half the man he thought he was because he's writhing on the floor and he's not trying to get away, he's trying to find friction. But his briefs are too tight, and his sweatpants do nothing but slide against the smooth floor.
A nose shuffles into the hair at the base of his neck, breathing deep. The exhales comes out wet against his skin and Hook shivers. A tongue laps at the raised flesh, teeth scraping against the bump of bone at the top of his spine. Hook bites his lip to block the moan. It's not super effective.
A chuckle, dark with promise and deep with desire, rests at Hook's ear, but he can feel it all along his back. "Does he what, kitten?" A kiss, all too soft presses against Hook's throat, and he's not proud of the way he sighs into it; how his eyelids flutter closed. "Does he know I'm here?" A kiss to his shoulder as fingernails trail, feather light down Hook's side. "Does he miss you?" A kiss with teeth, just a nip against the shell of Hook’s ear. "Does he regret staying away?" A sharp bite with a soothing tongue at the juncture between Hook's throat and shoulder. "Does he love you still? Does he want you back? Does he hope my visit, the truth my prescence offers, will entice you back to his side?" A kiss in the same place, sucked hard into skin and bruising, while Hook's arm is released, and a hand cards up into his hair, and a hand slides under the band of his sweatpants at his hip, and Hook shifts his weight and raises his hips, and that hand takes the hint and slides around to the front, and fingertips tickle at the soft trail of hair they find before slipping under his briefs and everything stops. Paused.
Hook's shaking, eyes screwed shut as his cock leaks, desperate.
"Well?" That voice is all teeth; Hook wants to be devoured. "What were you going to ask?"
"I..." He doesn't remember.
"I'll make it easy for you. The answer-," a fingertip traces Hook's cock, a kiss presses against his cheek, a hand drifts from his hair and folds over the bone of his shoulder, pulling and encouraging Hook to roll over onto his back and he does, until he's looking up at bright blue eyes and a crimson maw and curled black horns that rise from messy hair and mirror the curves of paint that Hook's never had the chance to trace with his kiss, "The answer is yes."
Hook parts his lips in surprise, but the words are stolen. He wants to say he still loves Danhausen, too. He wants to say he doesn't need to be enticed, only asked. He wants to say he's sorry for not believing, for believing the worst, for believing they were better separate than together because he knows now, as he's really always known, that he was scared of wanting forever with an unknown when he has so much life laid out in front of him.
But bony fingers curl around the tent of his sweats, and there’s a scent in the air that reminds him of burnt matches, and Hook thinks now, laid out on his back, that forever is unknown no matter what he does so maybe experiencing it with someone who adores him isn't any worse than going at it alone?
"Now," a finger draws lazy circles around Hook's nipple and he reflexively bucks his hips up into the hand holding him. "Enough about him. If this is going to work, I believe we all would do well to get better acquainted with each other, yes?"
And Hook nods, sitting up on his elbows and stealing a kiss. And Hook nods, lifting his hips again for his pants and briefs to be pulled down under his ass. And Hook nods, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as the wet heat of a hot mouth wraps around the tip of his cock and the rounded horns push against his abdomen.
And Hook inhales sharply as the words hit, and his body is a livewire, but the question breaks through the fog: "Wh-what do you mean by 'all'?"
Hook can feel the laughter straight from the ribs his thighs are locked around; the vibrations of it from the throat his cock is surrounded by. He throws his head back and groans. He hopes the hallway stays abandoned for a while.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Roses are red, violets are blue, guess who just finished another epic long wrestling blorbo horror fic for you? 🥰 Oh yes, your two favorite idiots have posted the FINAL CHAPTER to what is now a 112k long, plotless goofy sexy haunted hotel masterpiece (shhh, just nod politely) about their favorite idiots!!! WE DID IT YOU GUYS! We pushed through our respective ongoing illnesses and life chaos and finished the story!
Deets and fic specs below the cut for those who are going to be encountering this the first time! Or if you just need to know the pairings because you have no idea what this is, it’s Hookhausen and JungleCorpse. 🖤🧡💚🖤
CC @aerodaltonimperial
Fun Fact: The master doc final page count is 251 pages
Fun Fact: The fuck audit closes out at 460 fucks which equals out to 1.83 fucks given per page. Honestly, we could’ve given more fucks, but the last chapter being from Danhausen’s POV and at 10k really tossed the fuck count off.
Fun Fact: I have no idea what the final ball count is, but know that we added more balls just for Jack Perry because he’s primarily a ball guy by his own admission (wtf does it mean Jack???)
Fun Fact: BELL TO BELL WE STARTED THIS FIC ON JUL 22ND AND FINISHED IT ON OCTOBER 22ND!
Fun Fact: While it took us three months to write the fic, I would say about 85% of what was plotted out on my couch when Katy visited in July we ended up writing. There were definitely scenes and moments we created along the way that were super special, but soooo much of the really stupid shit we knew we were including within hours of the idea coming together.
Fun Fact: We knew when we started writing this that this fic wasn’t going to be for everyone. But we really, really wanted to write this fic for ourselves and we figured maybe a few of our friends here would also enjoy it! And we’re honestly surprised that any of you decided to give the story, and us, a chance while we were writing it. THERE IS NO FUCKING PLOT AND YOU ALL JUST SHRUGGED AND SAID OKAY, AND CLICKED INTO THIS DAMN THING ANYWAY??? Your time is valuable, you only get so much of it to spread around. And from the bottom of our hearts we want to say THANK YOU FOR READING! THANK YOU FOR LETTING OUR NEED TO BE DRAMATIC GOOFBALLS BRING A LITTLE BIT OF JOY INTO YOUR LIFE! THANK YOU FOR TRUSTING US TO ENTERTAIN YOU AND FOR YOUR KUDOS AND COMMENTS AND MESSAGES AND SUPPORT.
Fun Fact: Katy’s the fucking best and I love her!!!! If me being sickeningly loud about how much I adore her bothers you please exit my tumblr. 😂 You are going to have a bad time because I literally don’t know how to be normal here. I OWE HER SO MUCH???? NONE OF THIS FIC HAPPENS WITHOUT HER. PRICE NEVER HAPPENS WITHOUT HER. I POST A FEW FICS A YEAR AGO AND DON’T GET UNHINGED COMMENTS THAT INSPIRE ME TO KEEP WRITING WITHOUT HER BEING THERE TO DO IT so effectively MOST OF WHAT I’VE WRITTEN PROBABLY WOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED WITHOUT HER. Thank you girl for spending another 100k and hundreds of hours writing and talking about and mentally storyboarding a ridiculous ass story with me! You’re such a boss ass bitch, thank you for sharing YOUR TIME with me. 💖
Chapters: 15/15
Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Donovan Danhausen/Hook, Darby Allin/Jungle Boy | Jack Perry
Characters: Donovan Danhausen, Hook (Professional Wrestling), Darby Allin, Jungle Boy | Jack Perry
Additional Tags: Kayfabe Compliant, Just Normal Innocent Men, One Bed Trope but Make it Cursed, Aggressive Pining, Getting Together, Alexa Play Nelly's "Hot in Herrrrrrr", Even the Shadow Realm Bullies Jack Perry, Sexual Tension in a Goth Phase, Humping of the Mild Variety, Haunting, the Haunting is Not Even a Metaphor for their Gay Thoughts but it Kind of Is, Extremely Petty Narrators, POV Multiple, From the Authors Who Brought you "The Price I'd Pay for You", Comes Something Much Better and Significantly Worse, Panic Attacks, Whoops - Humping of the Explicit Variety, Who Wrote That, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Nut Clarity is the Real MVP
Summary:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hi gang! Shit, I forgot how to do one of these unhinged updates because holy shit it has been a minute! So, Katy ( @aerodaltonimperial ) and I are writing a new spooky weird as shit fic and the first chapter of it is live!!!!! I don’t think it’ll be “price” long, but so far it is... not short. Please read the tags (because they’re hilarious, not because they’re dangerous...yet)!
What genre is this story? The genre is self-indulgence to the highest level! It’s like, a sexy-horror-comedy set in a hotel or something???? I don’t know. What I do know is that we are totally obsessed with it and we can’t even read what we have so far without laughing hysterically. WE ARE VERY PROUD OF OURSELVES AND TRULY WROTE THIS FIC FOR EACH OTHER, BUT WE THOUGHT A HANDFUL OF YOU MAY LOVE IT TOO!!!
Fun Fact: Katy and I went on a ghost tour when she visited and we plotted out MOST of this fic out, while cry laughing, in my living room, while high on cherry coke zero, and giggling like school girls. PEAK SLEEP OVER VIBES IS WHAT FUELED THIS FIC!
Fun Fact: No posting schedule yet! We couldn’t wait to get this out into the wild and start talking about it with people. When we decide a posting cadence, you’ll be the first to know. <3
Fun Fact: We started writing this the day Katy left my place on 7/22. While she was on her first flight home, I was on my couch with a document open because we wanted to capture the spark while we had it.
Fun Fact: The fic is still in production right now--you guys know we’re good for finishing it!
Master Google Doc: 98 pages to date
ANYWAY, THAT’S ALL FOR NOW! ENJOY WHATEVER THE HELL THIS STORY IS! 🧡🖤&💚🖤
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Donovan Danhausen/Hook, Darby Allin/Jungle Boy | Jack Perry
Characters: Donovan Danhausen, Hook (Professional Wrestling), Darby Allin, Jungle Boy | Jack Perry
Additional Tags: Kayfabe Compliant, Just Normal Innocent Men, One Bed Trope but Make it Cursed, Aggressive Pining, Getting Together, Alexa Play Nelly's "Hot in Herrrrrrr", Even the Shadow Realm Bullies Jack Perry, Sexual Tension in a Goth Phase, Humping of the Mild Variety, Haunting, the Haunting is Not Even a Metaphor for their Gay Thoughts but it Kind of Is, Extremely Petty Narrators, POV Multiple, From the Authors Who Brought you "The Price I'd Pay for You", Comes Something Much Better and Significantly Worse
