I wish you would write any boys of your choosing enjoying/suffering over the asexual experience of wrestling™️ with someone they Really enjoy grappling with - ♡ spinetacks
fic meme
snippet below; full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58081453
@spinetacks
Malakai's eye flashes blue, then white, then blue again in his periphery. Buddy raises an arm to block an incoming chop - lazy, purposeless, set before him like a laser pointer or a feathered worm before a housecat - and nearly grins, until a sharp snap at his ankle drives him to one knee, drives the wind out of his chest and his sails.
Just to see what he'd do, he realises, too late. The back of his neck flushes, prickles, caught out in getting cocky, already.
Malakai's eyes are unreadable as sea-worn glass. Buddy wants to pull the healthy one from his skull.
"Get up." Malakai's voice is so soft, too soft, slinking to the base of Buddy's spine and hooking there like a marionette's string. He thinks about the fluidity he's seen on camera, the way Malakai and Brody move like two limbs of some hateful, coiled beast, and realises this must be how Brody got there, too.
"Again." Malakai's voice snaps him from his thoughts. His teeth grit - he's not a student or a hanger-on in need of instruction, but the hiss of breath from Malakai's lungs when he catches him in a wrist-lock feels too satisfying anyway. Like he's brand fucking new.
Malakai finds his voice somewhere in the purring belly of a panther, nearly makes Buddy shudder enough to drop the hold. He can feel Malakai's breath against his bare shoulder, warmth like a handprint. "Better."
Wrist-lock pivots through a number of holds, and he's reminded too-sharply with Malakai's fingers digging pressure points into his forearms that anyone who books Malakai purely off his striking is missing the point. He starts to think, too, that Malakai is too calm, too quiet, no trash-talking and his brow in a smooth line that only comes when he's thinking in Dutch.
Still: Christ, there's what, maximum four pieces of clothing between them, and even with Malakai rolled up into a pin he's looking up at Buddy like he's won something.
Terror at the bottom. Rollins used to look at him like that, fingertips pressing gloved imprints into his temples. He drops the pin on two, flinching away like he's been seared.
He feels darkness creeping in at the edges of the room and something loosens in his chest. How the fuck did he get here, from the insane hot-cold feeling of Malakai's blood spilling on his inner thigh?
