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Ever since his very first day of school, Chase has woken up in the same manner: the hard way, consent optional. This time is no different.
A kink in his neck, a tongue that chafes against his dry mouth, a sweaty t-shirt stuck to his back, and a bladder that is not full enough to present an emergency but definitely enough to be obnoxious. Experiencing every mild discomfort between heaven and earth, and he’s disoriented to boot. Is this how babies feel when they’re born? No wonder they cry.
If only the darkness would take him back, but it’s not happening. He checked. So he relents and slowly cracks an eye open, the recovery of his sense of sight followed by sudden cognition. Ah, eureka, he’s not in his bed, he’s reclined on a seat made out of what would nominally be called felt but truthfully is more akin to matted shower drainage. Staring down at him is a car roof, which would explain why the ground is rumbling underneath him. Cascading sunshine filters through each rolled up window, an impossible blue sky serving as backdrop and miles of nothing stretching endlessly beneath it. Chase closes his eyes again and groans, willing the vehicle to assimilate him into its chassis.
His sluggish stirrings don’t go unnoticed. “You won’t drive, you won’t help pay for gas and you won’t even stay awake to keep me company.” Sydney clicks his tongue. “Sometimes I wonder, Chase. Am I really just a piece of meat to you?”
Sydney’s got his eyes fixed on the road and his signature cap obscures most of his face, but the way the corner of his mouth trends upwards gives away that he’s just messing with him. That, and Sydney never takes anything seriously. They haven’t been dating for very long, but during that period he’s never once gotten mad or lost his temper. Used to be way meaner as a kid, supposedly. Chase should count himself lucky that he got to meet the version that is mellowed out and funny and nice and looks at him like he’s worth something.
…Great. Sydney was obviously joking and it ended up making him feel guilty anyway. “I got tired.” Chase mumbles as he rubs the gunk out of his eyes, still only half awake. “We can switch if you want?”
It’s a genuine offer. So genuine it catches Sydney off guard. “What? No.” The response is immediate and slightly alarmed. “Do you even know how to drive?”
Chase wrings his paws. “Uh,”
A low chuckle. “Trick question. You’re not driving my car.” Sydney reaches over to squeeze Chase’s shoulder, handling the wheel one-handed with the ease of an expert. “We’ve got a few hours on the road ahead of us, go back to sleep if you want.”
“Nah, I’m okay.” As if to undermine himself, Chase lets out a long, sonorous yawn, spine crackling in his attempt to stretch within the confines of the passenger seat.
“I figured you’d be more excited.”
Chase levels his gaze, slightly grumpy. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be crossing state lines in the junk mobile. I’m trying to be a supportive boyfriend.”
Sydney scoffs. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why. You’re just a bigger Clawstar fanboy than me.”
The comment makes Chase want to defend himself, for some reason. Ever since they met he’s gone to all of Sydney’s shows, he would have agreed to come to this one even if it wasn’t hosted by his favorite wrestling promotion. Instead of letting it be known that he’s quickly catching feelings, Chase matches Sydney’s lighthearted tone. “I can’t support you and get free tickets at the same time?”
They lose the thread for a while, and the lack of external stimuli forces Chase to fixate on the tapping of Sydney’s idle fingers against the steering wheel. It’s a distinct melody, but one he can’t pin down. The car’s radio doesn’t work, because of course it doesn’t.
“What about you?” Chase finally says.
“Huh?”
“Are you excited?”
“Yeah?” Sydney’s answer arrives under a chortle, and comes out sounding as though there’s an unseen letter ‘H’ preceding it. Like that question is its own punchline. “It’s Clawstar, dude. No shit I’m excited.”
The announcement that Sydney would be wrestling for one of the most well-known promotions in the country, even if it was only for the one night, had made Chase swell with pride. He’s not sure why, it’s not like he did anything. He’s not sure when he began to think of himself and Sydney in terms of ‘us’. But he is happy for him. And happy for the extra good sex they’ve been having lately.
“I’m still kind of taken aback. I mean… you’re gonna wrestle in the same ring as Lyra? I’d be losing my mind.”
Sydney furrows his brow. He fiddles with the radio, the one that doesn’t work. “Um. It’s not going to be the same ring as Lyra.”
Chase rolls his eyes. You’d think after all this time (eight months, and counting!) Sydney would respect him enough to stop mansplaining pro-wrestling to him. “I know it’s not literally the same ring, Syd.” He uses the shortened version of his name on purpose, because it annoys the shit out of Sydney. “It’s probably a completely different venue, not to mention Lyra’s been retired for a while, but—“
“No, I mean,” Sydney scratches his head, looking lost. “Tell you what, you’ll find out when we get there.”
“…Okay?” He stretches the O’s as far as is sensible, but doesn’t make a scene out of it. He’ll find out, apparently.
He just hopes it’s nothing weird.
****
It was something weird after all, is what Chase thinks as he sits next to Sydney in a room that is covered from top to bottom in velvety blue fabric. Like something out of a movie set, completely detached from reality or function. It matches the energy of the two men in front of them; the taller male is a veritable tower, the top of his head nearly touching the ceiling, and he’s donning a luchador mask in broad daylight. His shorter feline companion, on the other hand, looks like the living incarnation of the word ‘sleazy’. Those silly shades of his probably cost more than Chase makes in a month.
“I see you’ve brought company.” The shorter cat, who Chase discovered is named Theo, purrs from behind his mahogany desk.
“On the phone you said I was allowed to, yeah?” Sydney asks.
“Oh, yes, it’s no problem at all. Quite the opposite.” The look he’s giving him evokes a primal fear, the kind creatures must feel right before being devoured. Somehow, Chase is more intimidated by this man than by his muscular bodyguard. “You wouldn’t happen to wrestle by any chance, would you boy?”
Boy. Jesus Christ. “N-No. I don’t.”
“He doesn’t have formal training.” Sydney claps his back, hard enough to pitch him forward. “But I might have taught him a thing or two.”
He sounds proud of it. And yeah, Chase has technically wrestled before, in a manner of speaking. He might have a little bit of a wrestling paraphilia, and Sydney might know all the moves and own a makeshift ring in a soundproof garage, and maybe they’ve messed around and maybe on the way there Chase picked up how to take a bump and fall properly. Not that Theo needs to know any of that.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Setting that aside…” Theo is grinning from ear to ear. He pulls out a piece of stationary from under his desk. “As you’re well aware, your match will be taking place tonight. We did ask you to come on short notice, and I’m sure you’ll want to spend what little precious daylight we have preparing yourself and getting acquainted with your ring partners, so I’ll make this quick.” A dainty ballpoint pen clicks in his grasp. “I just need to check some boxes and go over a few guidelines, to give you an idea of the type of performance we expect from you.” His grin becomes wider. “Make sure you’re listening well. You won’t want to miss a detail.”
****
“Sex wrestling.” Chase exclaims in exasperation as he files out of Theo’s office.
Sydney is a couple paces behind, keeping his distance but not leaving him alone. “You know I do this sort of thing sometimes. What’s with you?”
Chase stops suddenly and spins on his heels. “What’s with you? I don’t care what you do for a living, my problem is that you lied about it. I thought you were going to wrestle for Clawstar.”
“I didn’t lie! The Midnight League is part of Clawstar. They don’t openly advertise it, sure, but…”
“Sydney…”
Sydney’s gaze drifts downwards. “Okay. Yeah, I twisted the truth a tad.” His voice gets lower. “Didn’t wanna weird you out, I guess.”
Sydney looks… ashamed? Which is not an emotion Chase thought the boisterous man was capable of. He doesn’t like it. “I’m not weirded out. I just wish you’d trusted me, that’s all.”
It’s not meant to be a barb. It pierces through Sydney either way, and Chase hates himself a little bit. “I did get us tickets for an actual Clawstar show, tomorrow. You can stay at the hotel ‘til then… or I can call you a ride home. Whatever you want.”
Chase sighs. As loud and theatrical as he can muster, to set the stage for his next move. He has to stand on the tip of his toes to wrap his arms around Sydney’s neck, but once he does, it’s a skip and a jump before he’s lunging for the taller otter’s mouth. Sydney becomes frozen in place, eyes blinking like a pair of headlights, but soon enough he too is taken over by the spontaneity of the moment and begins returning the favor, placing his paws on the small of Chase’s back, pushing against him. An index finger strays inside Chase’s pants, and somehow the gesture doesn’t come across as sexual—more like staking claim, or sharing heat in the middle of a blizzard. For a while they get lost cataloguing each other’s taste.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Chase proudly announces after breaking the kiss. “I’ll sit my ass down and watch your disgusting debauched fuckfest of a match. Who knows, I might even enjoy it.”
A small but solid sneer graces Sydney’s face. “You getting cute with me, Hunter?” He jabs a finger at Chase’s chest. “I’m gonna make you pay for that in just a moment.” He sounds like himself now. Good. And something is definitely poking Chase’s ribs, so they’d better find a shadowy reclused corner and—
“Aw. We got ourselves a pair of lovebirds.” A deep voice rumbles behind them.
Chase jolts in surprise and swiftly extricates himself from Sydney’s embrace to get a good look at the intruders. A large leonberger is standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at them with his arms crossed and a smug expression. Nevermind that. He’s not large, he’s fucking massive. The fox next to him almost looks puny by comparison, but Chase isn’t fooled—he’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his arms, and people don’t get biceps like that unless they snort protein powder.
He is shorter than Chase though… by like an inch or so. He’ll hold onto the small victories.
The fox scowls at his companion, unamused by his antics. “I’m guessing you’re Sydney? Theo wanted us to meet you up here.”
Sydney’s eyes light up with recognition. “Oh! Eli and Tremor, right?” He points back and forth at the empty air between them.
So they’re wrestlers. Chase guessed as much from their builds. Not only that, they’re the wrestlers, the ones that Sydney is going to fuck and/or get fucked by tonight. Not clear on which. He’d started dissociating during that part of Theo’s explanation.
Heeding his jovial nature, Sydney doesn’t let himself appear bothered by this or by the fact that they just caught them making out, and goes over to greet them properly. Out of lack of anything better to do, Chase takes note of how they shake paws. The big guy must be Tremor, because why the fuck would it be any different. His grip is steel clad and violent, like he’s trying to dislocate Sydney’s shoulder or rip his arm off. Sydney doesn’t balk, however, and once it becomes clear that he can give as good as he takes the two men share a look of mutual respect. Must have passed some sort of test.
Eli’s handshake is not nearly as dramatic. Firm but polite, not a second too long or too short. Seems like a people pleaser, or at the very least someone who doesn’t mind being told what his place is. Then Chase feels dickish for arriving at that conclusion so quickly. It’s not like he knows the guy.
“Well, well, well.” Sydney says thoughtfully, still gripping Eli’s paw. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna enjoy working you over tonight.” He laughs, not in an unkind way.
“Y-Yeah, for sure.”
Maybe Chase should trust his instincts more often, if the way Eli blushes from neck to ears is anything to go by. But he’s calling the kettle black, and as everyone turns towards him he’s hit with the sharp awareness that he’s a participant in this conversation and not a disembodied narrator.
“Uh.” He starts. “I’m Chase. Sydney’s boyfriend. But you probably figured that out already.”
Tremor bursts out laughing at that, and Chase can see where he gets his namesake from. The man laughs with his entire body, chest moving up and down as he does so. Holy shit he’s huge. For a moment Chase is afraid that the shirt he’s wearing will rip at the seams from the exertion of trying to hold itself together.
“You came all the way here just to watch your man perform?” Tremor digs an elbow into Sydney’s side. “You better not lose ‘im.”
Sydney hums in agreement. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”
It feels like now would be as good a time as any for Chase to do like a fourth wheel and roll away. “You guys probably have a lot to catch up on before the match, so… I guess I’ll go to the hotel? See you tonight, Sydney.”
He pecks Sydney on the cheek and moves to walk in the opposite direction. Tremor’s mitten of a paw grabs him by the shoulder before he can get too far.
“Whoa, whoa. Where you going little guy? No one said you had to leave.” Chase was also right about Tremor: it’s like steel is clamping down on his clavicle. To Tremor’s credit, he does seem to quickly realize that Chase is far more breakable than Sydney and loosens his grip, but the sensation is hard to forget. “Right, Eli?”
The fox nods. “We’re just grabbing something to eat, talk for a bit. There’s not enough time to rehearse or train even if we wanted to.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that.” Chase points out.
Eli shrugs. “Eh. It is what it is. You coming or not?”
Chase doesn’t bother asking Sydney, he knows all he’s going to get is a non-committal if you want. But his body language is subtly implying that he would really like him to be there.
“…You know. I don’t really have anything better to do.”
****
The place Eli and Tremor were talking about was just a square away. The food is not bad, surprisingly. The talk is not bad either. Sydney and Tremor are having fun discussing their styles, techniques, and putting ideas for the upcoming match on the table. Chase realizes he doesn’t really know any of Sydney’s wrestler friends, or if he has any. Getting to hear two pros pick each other’s brains like this is a rare treat for an aficionado like him, and they even listen to his occasional feedback, or at least pretend to.
So Tremor is not as scary as he looks, but Chase is definitely connecting more with Eli on a personal level. They like a lot of the same video games, it turns out, and Chase feels bold enough to shoot for the sky and ask Eli if he has any favorite jobbers. It’s a risky question because people, even wrestling fans, don’t usually have such a thing—a jobber’s whole thing is being humiliated so that the real stars can take the spotlight, after all, but Eli has a whole top 10 list prepared, as Chase had hoped. Eli just so happens to be one of the few wrestlers who actively enjoys jobbing. It’s a fascinating perspective that Eli is all too happy to share. Chase is jealous, to be honest. If he had the body and the drive for it, that might just be his dream job.
The conversation then turns to how he and Sydney met. The saucier details are left out, but they get the gist of it, and it eventually leads to finding out that Eli and Tremor are also an item. Kind of obvious, in retrospect.
“Huh. Is it hard having to beat up your boyfriend every week?” Chase asks.
Eli considers him for a moment. “Not really? We’ve always had chemistry in the ring. Even if at first I thought he was just being an asshole bully.” He shoots a meaningful look in Tremor’s direction, who sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. “Everything just started clicking after we hooked up. Now it’s like he brings out the best in me. I don’t know, am I making any sense?”
“Yeah, I totally get you!” Chase excitedly declares. “It’s… really romantic, actually? I feel the same way when I tussle with Sydney.”
“…Shucks, Chase. You’re making me blush over here.” Sydney is being a clown, as usual, but Chase is pretty sure he sees hints of red on his cheeks.
As the hours pass, Chase feels more and more comfortable about this arrangement. Not like he would have objected to it before, but clearly he’s leaving Sydney in capable hands. He assumed something called the Midnight League operating under the shadow of Clawstar Wrestling would have been a seedier affair than what it ended up being. He can put his feet up, chill until it’s time for the show and then spend the night watching a really, really hot match.
Eli’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he brings it up to his ear. “Sorry, gotta take this.” He says. “Yeah…? Yeah.” He purses his lips. “…Him? Yeah, he’s here, why—“ He says nothing for about 20 seconds, his face growing progressively paler. “What the fuck Why the fuck would you—Huh? No. No, I—“ Eli slumps into his seat. “…Okay. Yes, sir. I’ll ask him. I understand.” He sighs, finally putting the phone down. There’s an air of unpleasantness hanging over the table while the group waits for Eli to speak.
Eventually, he does. “Hey, Chase? What size pants do you wear?”
“…S, I think.”
“Just like me. Cool. Awesome.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Yeah, you do. Unfortunately” Eli sighs. “That was Theo just now. There’s been a change of plans.”
****
“Fuck that guy.” Eli says for not the first time tonight, pacing back and forth and fully geared up in his red trunks. “Seriously. He thinks that just because you know how to roll around and take a fall that you can wrestle? Does he think that’s all I do? It’s so degrading.”
“Buddy.” Chase says with the stony faced patience of a bodhisattva. “How do you think I feel.”
He and Eli are, in fact, the same size. Uncannily so. He hates to say it, but when they’re wearing matching trunks like this they do kinda look like a proper tag team. Thank fucking god Sydney made him slim down, last thing he needs is for thousands of people to see his naked gut hanging over his waistband. And clearly he’s still in shock, that’s why he’s worrying about looking fat and not about getting railed in public.
The plan was for Tremor and Sydney to team up against Eli. A good old, classic two-on-one squash. Theo changed the booking at the last second, because apparently that’s not interesting enough. He made Chase be Eli’s partner for the night, because apparently there’s a black pearl where his heart should be. He can’t begin to guess why. Maybe he thinks making it personal will elevate the match, or he just has a thing for otters.
The crowd is roaring. It won’t be long before it’s their turn. Cold air is nipping at Chase’s skin. Then he remembers he’s cold because he’s practically fucking naked. How did this become his life?
“And you. Why the hell did you go along with it?” Eli says, placing his paws on his hips. “This isn’t play-fighting, Chase. You could end up hurt.”
“I know that. Theo knows that too, that’s why he’s offering to triple Sydney’s check.”
“So you did it for the money?”
“…And for love of the sport?”
Eli scoffs. “Oh, well in that case.” He throws his paws up sardonically.
“It’s done, alright? Suck it up.”
Sydney missed shifts for this. Took care of gas, food and lodgings and his stubborn ass wouldn’t let Chase pitch in because the payout was that good. He can’t let him go home empty handed. He won’t.
Aside from that… well. Presence of an audience notwithstanding, the idea of being turned into a stain on the floor isn’t entirely unappealing. Sydney’s done that to him plenty of times. He’s really looking forward to seeing what Tremor can do with those massive fucking paws of his that could crush his head like a cantaloupe. Maybe he’ll smother him with his gut and ass until Chase forgets what his name is. Or let him get a taste of that package that pops so beautifully under those tight green trunks or or or—
Ahem. But mostly it’s for Sydney’s sake.
Eli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just… try not to die out there. Tremor won’t hold back just because you’re a rookie, believe me. And don’t forget the pointers I gave you.”
Chase nods. “I won’t.”
“Right…” Eli peeks through the gate, where the on-site crew is at the ring mopping up sweat and a number of other fluids. He places a paw on Chase’s shoulder. “Guess that’s that, then. You ready, partner?”
“No.” Chase admits. He fills his stomach with air. “But let’s do it and see what happens.”
****
“…On this corner, at a combined weight of three hundred pounds, the Jobber Star Team, Eliiiii and Chaseeee!!!”
Has to be the lamest tag team name Chase has ever heard, but it’s their cue. They both step onto the ramp, Chase following Eli’s lead, just like he’d been told. He’s watched enough wrestling to more or less know what to do, so it’s not as nerve-wracking as one would expect. Plus, showboating isn’t what’s being asked of them. The crowd is cordial, perhaps understanding that he and Eli are being served up to the hounds. That all changes when Chase slips on his climb up the ropes, Eli’s quick reflexes the only thing preventing him from busting his teeth on the apron.
“Good one.” Eli whispers. Completely unnecessary, by the way. The snickers of the audience are more than sufficient at letting Chase know he fucked up.
“And their opponents, at a combined weight of…” The announcer clears his throat. “…Eight hundred pounds! the Midnight Wrecking Crew, Syddddd and Tremorrrr!!!”
Sydney and Tremor are, of course, in their element. Sydney in particular is doing such a good job at working up the crowd that Chase almost forgets just a few hours ago he was threatening to break into Theo’s office and choke him to death. That’s another reason he’s doing this. Being looked after is nice and all, but Chase refuses to be a prison wife.
Since they’re taking their sweet time getting here, Chase takes advantage of the diverted attention to fix up the pair of borrowed trunks that are currently digging into his crack. They’re not as perfect of a fit, now that he’s actually moving in them. He hears a few chuckles and a camera snapping behind him, his attempts at being subtle thoroughly dashed.
All the pieces are in play. Eli and Sydney stand on their respective corners, their partners hanging on from outside, and the bell dings. They’re off to the races.
Eli warned him that Tremor wouldn’t play nice. He was worried about him, for good reason. That was Eli’s mistake, not looking after himself, and not assuming that Sydney would be gunning for him with just as much zeal. That’s how as soon as he takes a step, Sydney’s vicious clothesline is already there to connect with his chest and send him sprawling onto the floor. Chase feels the reverberations of Eli’s crash all the way from his cornerpost, and he winces in sympathy. Sydney is definitely working stiff.
Eli is laid out, eyes half-lidded and staring at the heavens. Sydney won’t even let him get that much rest, turning him over with the tip of his boot and sitting on his back. The otter’s muscular arms snake around Eli’s neck, clasping his chin and pulling back, catching the unfortunate fox in a camel clutch.
It wakes Eli up good. He scratches and scrabbles against Sydney’s arms, but he’s got him locked in tight, and each attempt at resistance makes Sydney pull him farther back using the ring as leverage, inch by excruciating inch. When Eli’s spine nears its breaking point, Sydney lets go without warning before switching paws for thighs, transitioning into a headscissors. It goes the same as last time, except instead of breaking Eli’s back, Sydney is now trying to choke him out.
Chase has gotta hand it to Eli, there really is an art to losing, and he’s good at it. Sydney isn’t overshadowing him, they’re equally captivating, and each agonized moan that comes out of Eli’s throat is making his trunks tighten. But stretches and holds are merely foreplay. Before he gets too stale, Sydney pulls Eli to his feet clenching a handful of streaked red hair and launches him towards the ropes, the rebound leading him right back to where he started. Sydney propels himself forward and tackles Eli, giving him a good amount of air time before head-butting him into the mat, Eli’s legs flailing and then going limp.
Sydney stands tall, glancing derisively at the discarded heap that is Eli. The fox is sporting a moderately sized tent that stretches his bright red trunks. Just in case the crowd forgets what kind of match this is, Sydney rubs the sole of his boot against Eli’s pouch, eliciting weak, groggy whimpers from the fox. The motion is mechanical and emotionless, like he’s trying to put out a cigarette, but it has the desired effect: Chase, Eli, and he assumes, the audience, are becoming increasingly aroused.
Sydney lifts his boot and cuts everyone’s fun short, then grabs Eli by the wrist and drags him across the ring like a sack of potatoes. Eli is so erect now that Chase can clearly see his dick bobbing as Sydney transports him. Chase has a good idea of where he’s going, but he still can’t help himself from gulping loudly when the pair station themselves in front of him. Sydney is holding the knocked out fox’s paw up and jabbing his index at it with purpose, as if saying to Chase you didn’t seriously think you’d get away unscathed, did you?
He’s come to collect.
All of Chase’s earlier bravado evaporates. He should have known that being coerced didn’t mean Sydney wasn’t enjoying this. It’s plain on his face, but it’s not the kind of pleasure Chase has come to expect from their little private sessions. It’s the gaze of a competitor. A predator.
Chase looks around frantically, vying for an escape, but the proverbial gates have closed up behind him. He tries to plead with the ref, but the prick shrugs at him, indifferent to his plight.
Sydney lets Eli’s paw fall, and on the way down it makes contact with Chase’s foot. Correction, the ref isn’t ambivalent—the man openly hates Chase’s guts. He rules it as a legal tag.
“What?!” Chase seethes. “Are you fucking blind? In what world is that a—Whoa!”
Sydney shows off the monstrous arm strength he’s so proud of by pulling Chase up by the armpit and flipping him into the ring to a loud pop from the crowd. As he spins mid-air, Chase’s panicked brain is able to recall Eli’s advice to spread his weight evenly and make himself land flat on his back. It hurts like fuck and knocks the wind out of him, so he can’t tell if he nailed the execution.
Chase isn’t afforded special treatment for being Sydney’s boyfriend. He’s raised up to his feet, still gasping for air and knees buckling. He tries to make a break for it. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he’s making no distance even though his legs are moving; Sydney has a grip on the waistband of his trunks, the elastic material stretched to its limit and anchoring him in place, with the added, mortifying bonus of revealing about three quarters of his globes to the audience.
Sydney pulls him, and the trunks snap back to their original shape, a good chunk of them now buried even deeper into Chase’s asscrack. Sydney places a paw on his shoulderblade and shoves him forward with all his might, irish whipping him towards Tremor’s corner. Chase attempts to course correct, underestimates how fast he’s going, and ends up hitting his face flush against the turnbuckle. The padding saves him from a permanently altered facial geometry, though he’s still left with the feeling of a caved-in snout and the taste of copper on his tongue. He’d do a teeth recount if the impact hadn’t ping-ponged his brain around and left him dazed and useless, arms dangling over the ropes and mouth dribbling saliva. He’s distantly aware of the rumble of Tremor’s laughter, and of Sydney leisurely making his way to them and reaching over to make the tag.
Afterwards, the ground shakes. Chase is so out of it he genuinely thinks there’s been an earthquake, but he’s coming to little by little. He turns around so that he can stop drooling on the turnbuckle and lean against the cornerpost, get his second wind. By then it’s too late, Tremor is barreling towards him with speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. Tremor’s gigantic mass crushes him against the corner and Chase’s eyes roll into the back of his head, feeling like he’ll spit out his entrails if he dares open his mouth.
Tremor’s gut is pinning him completely, Chase’s feet suspended above the canvas. He couldn’t move a muscle even if he had any strength to do so. He can’t even hear the crowd anymore. It’s a sort of sensory deprivation where all he can pick up on is the texture of Tremor’s fur and all the nuances of his body odor, a mixture of sweat and spice. Tremor eventually retreats, and Chase drunkenly sways in place before slowly pitching forward, faceplanting onto the mat.
The ring is like a mattress to Chase’s battered body, but Tremor doesn’t let him catch a wink. A solid swat rains down on Chase’s slightly upturned butt that jolts him awake, allowing Tremor to lean down and grip his groin and shoulder, the former with more force than is necessary. Tremor lifts him up horizontally, so fast that Chase gets vertigo, and he displays his quarry for the crowd. Chase registers Tremor’s sneaky digits tickling his balls as he’s paraded around, knowing he can’t do anything about it.
It doesn’t take a wrestling expert to figure out what comes next. All you need is a cursory education to know that what goes up, must come down. Chase prepares his own epitaph, bracing for whatever Tremor has in store for him, and it finally happens.
Being dropped from that height hurts, obviously, but it’s not unbearable. That’s the thing. He wasn’t launched, slammed or thrown. He was… dropped. Maybe Tremor is playing nice, after all?
No. It was an accident. Tremor couldn’t finish him off because Eli came in just in time to stomp on the leonberger’s foot and drop him to his knees. Right. Eli can fight, he just chooses not to for the most part.
The ref could call Eli out on not being the legal man whenever, but he can’t chance it. The crowd is too fired up. Chase is certain that if he gets a few minutes of rest he’ll be able to stand up again. That has to be it, the way out. In a one-on-one scenario neither of them stand a chance, but if they team up? Surely? Eli just has to hold his own for a bit longer, and he’s doing a great job at it.
That’s the thing about heroes, though. They’re fuel for the kindling. All too soon, Tremor puts out Eli’s fire with a chop to the head that knocks him aside, their hopes trampled.
Tremor punts Eli once for good measure and then scoops the two of them up, one under each arm. They’re on their knees, Tremor sitting in between. Chase takes one last lungful of fresh air, and then he and Eli are being shoved deep inside Tremor’s pits. They both struggle, for all the good it’s gonna do them. He thought being forced to breathe into Tremor’s gut was overwhelming, but this is something else entirely. If Chase was feeling lightheaded earlier, now he’s fully hypnotized. It’s not entirely unpleasant, which is the worst part, somehow. He’s enjoying it. He can only hope his friends and family will never live to see him become visibly erect while wiggling under a grown man’s sweaty armpit.
Once Tremor releases them, Chase’s lungs cry out in joy, but from the recesses of his consciousness he’s already missing it. The strange craving lasts about as long as it takes Tremor to stand up, position himself on top of Chase, and butt-stomp him. He aims for the face, obviously, and living up to his name, leaves the arena trembling with aftershocks.
Chase shouldn’t be alive, but he is. He doesn’t even get the chance to become acquainted with Tremor’s behind, the leonberger already lifting himself up and stepping aside to repeat the maneuver on Eli. Chase doesn’t have an ounce of good samaritan left to feel sorry for the fox, especially not when Tremor comes back to him and plants his ass on Chase’s face, again. He keeps going back and forth like that, efficiently dividing his attention between the two jobbers until Chase loses count. He wouldn’t be surprised if by the end of it there’s two otter and fox shaped imprints left on the ring.
It does end, only because Sydney stepped between the ropes to impatiently tap on Tremor’s shoulder. My bad, Tremor communicates with his eyes. Let’s stop messing around, Sydney responds in the same manner. In the meantime, Chase is having the time of his life twitching and convulsing next to Eli, transparent stickyness blooming from the tip of their pricks.
A three count would be far too easy. A match like this can only end in one way. Tremor stands over Chase, Sydney over Eli. The heels lower their waistbands just enough for a pair of angry red members to peek out, and the crowd loses it. They’ve been having fun as well, it seems. They pick up and undress their jobber of choice, front to back, and contort their limbs behind them so that they’re wrapped around the heels like inverted octopi. Sydney gets bored of trying to shimmy Eli out of his trunks and simply rips them to shreds, leaving remains of red fabric scattered on the floor. Tremor does away with pretenses and breaks through, impaling Chase’s asshole in one fell swipe. He yells. This guy is fucking ridiculous. How can someone be so big?
Still, he doesn’t envy Eli. What Sydney lacks in girth he makes up with sheer aggression, ragdolling the poor fox around as he thrusts him over and over. Tremor can’t match that pace without killing Chase, but by god he tries, ramming Chase’s walls like he’s digging for treasure, each motion making his teeth clack and his eyes go white. The expression “having the brains fucked out of you“ is starting to make a lot of sense, now—every pump drifts Chase further apart from sanity. From a sense of self. Who was he before Tremor began to turn his ass into a crater? No one important. Chase smiles maniacally, tears of pleasure leaking from his eyes.
When the climax rears its head, the two heels meet up in the center of the ring and slot their living cocksleeves against each other. Chase and Eli are close enough in height that they’re a nearly perfect match, eye to eye, chest to chest, dick to dick. Chase did want to get to know Eli a little better. Mind steeped in hysteria, he wonders if this counts. With the increased friction, it’s only a matter of time before they’re crying out in unison, painting the canvas and each other creamy white and sealing their defeat.
Now that everything’s truly been drained from them, the bell mercifully rings. Chase and Eli are discarded and tossed aside. They lay on top of each other a tangle of limbs, tongues tasting the canvas and dicks weeping, sporadically gasping ugh’s and guh’s and things of the sort. Tremor rests the sole of his hairy foot on Chase’s face as the ref lifts his arm in victory. Sydney digs his heel on an unresponsive Eli’s stomach, then uses the same foot to nudge his member, prompting it to leave a sluggish trail on the canvas and making the fox’s body shiver from overstimulation. Their boyfriends share a virile high-five for a job well done and leave the ring without bothering to take them along, letting the crew mop their mess up to make it abundantly clear that that’s what they are: mess.
But near the end, for an instant, Chase felt a fleeting, yet undoubtedly tender touch from Sydney. Nothing overt, just a paw lingering on his side for a bit too long. His way of apologizing, Chase supposes. Tremor will most likely apologize to him verbally, later. If they could talk, he’s not sure what he and Eli would have say to each other. Sorry? Thank you? Nice job? Get better soon? They made plans to all go watch the proper Clawstar show tomorrow. Hopefully that’s still on the table.
All in all… Free tickets, bonding time with his boyfriend, a fat check for the two of them, some new friends, and a mind-blowing dicking. Not even close to the worst road trip he’s ever been on.