A/N: Because after the Gorgeous Truth/Goldango fallout, this really had to be written or else my brain was going to explode. Mostly kayfabe. Not really sure where this is going to go as I plan on following the WWE timeline as best as I can.


"Pretty."

"I know." Tyler hums his approval, but doesn't look away from his reflection. He runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it out, still feeling less than perfect after his match. Granted, it hadn't been much of a match, but it had been enough for him to break a sweat and that alone makes Tyler feel repulsive. Common. He watches Fandango in the mirror. The older man leans up against the wall and just smiles. It's the same smile that he gave Tyler in the ring. The kind of smile that makes Tyler's stomach flip-flop. The kind of smile that leaves Tyler's head spinning with what-ifs and why-nots and maybes. He's still in awe of what happened. Still confused by the tension he felt when he made the pin on Goldust and locked eyes with the other man. He turns around in his chair and raises his eyebrow. "Why'd you help me?"

"Because I think you'd make a better dance partner than Oldust ," Fandango says with a chuckle and crosses his arms. He flexes—maybe involuntarily, maybe not—and Tyler fixates on him. The curve of his biceps, the dents of his hips above his sparkly black pants, the way the cheap fluorescent light hits his skin and makes him glisten like some sort of angel. He's pretty too. Has he always been this good looking? Tyler bristles at the thought of anyone potentially dethroning him as the most stunning man in the WWE.

"Of course I'd make a better dance partner." Tyler makes a tutting sound. "For one, I'm not a washed up uggo in a catsuit." He stands up and stretches, proudly putting his gorgeous body on display as if trying to prove his point. He closes his eyes and prays that the lighting does the same wonders for him that it does to the other man. Based on the small gasp that he hears, he imagines that it does. The warm hand on his chest is a surprise, causing Tyler's eyes to snap open. "Uh…" He wracks his brain, trying desperately to remember Fandango's real name. Does he even have a real name? He's always just been Fandango.

"Problem?"

"No," Tyler lies. "Don't be ridiculous." Names don't matter when he's sprawled out on his back, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth slack, body begging to be touched—worshiped. Besides, he's become more than accustomed to all sorts of stupid stage names that plague the modelling industry, and Fandango's name is most certainly stupid.

"That's good." The brunette glides his hand down Tyler's chest and stops at the furry belt cinched around his hips.

Tyler clenches his jaw and inhales sharply. He hates this. He hates how needy he is. Not that he has much choice in the matter. The unfortunate side effect of choosing to wrestle full time is a severe lack of other gorgeous people to sleep with. Of course, Tyler would never admit that he, Tyler Breeze, hasn't been with anyone except his own hand in months. Truly tragic, he thinks to himself. Fandango—god, what an awful name—hasn't moved except to grip the waistband of Tyler's pants. Head spinning, thoughts hazy, Tyler still manages to bat Fandango's hand away. If he thinks that he's going to fuck Tyler Goddamn Breeze in a disgusting dressing room then he's sorely mistaken.

"What's the matter?" Fandango says, voice already dark and full of lust. His pupils are blown wide, like two black holes trying to draw Tyler in. Trying to capture him. Tyler rolls his eyes.

"I'm not some cheap whore, you know," he says with a trace of venom in his tone. It sounds meaner than intended, but Tyler's never been one for apologies. He really isn't a cheap whore, though. He doesn't want to be treated like anything less than the god he is—a gift for mankind to stare at in envy and admiration. Fandango's face falls. His expression isn't so different than the one he wore earlier in the night, flustered with the disaster of the match, anxiously waiting for the tag. That was before the look, though. The look that more or less set this entire encounter into motion. "I've got expensive tastes, that's all."

"I can handle expensive." Fandango cups a hand on Tyler's cheek, and damn it all to hell if Tyler doesn't lean into it. "Anything you want."

Tyler's eyes sparkle. He's got him exactly where he wants him. Hook, line and sinker, the older man took the bait. It's too easy, really, and Tyler isn't sure if he's disappointed or not. He purses his lips into his trademark pout and tries his best to look unimpressed. Really, he has no reason to be impressed yet. It's nothing but talk so far. Pretty words for a pretty man that Fandango can't seem to take his eyes off of. Luckily, Tyler likes pretty things quite a lot. He thinks of expensive champagne and penthouse suites and luxurious sheets for him to clutch desperately until the sun peeks through the windows. "I want a hotel room. A nice one. Something big and expensive. Impress me."

"Of course, babe," Fandango says, nodding. Tyler stiffens at the nickname. "I'll take care of it." He doesn't seem phased in the slightest, just agrees willingly and without fanfare. "I'll take care of you."

Suddenly, his lips are close. So close. No further than a hair's breadth away. His breath is warm against Tyler's mouth and, fuck, kissing him is so tempting. This is a game, though—cat and mouse, hunter and hunted—and Tyler has no intention of losing. Not yet. That part comes later when he's being ravished on a hotel bed and crying for more. More. For now, he turns his head to the side haughtily and takes some sort of sick joy in hearing the agitated noise that Fandango makes. Ignoring the desire pooling in his gut becomes more difficult with each second, and Tyler knows that, despite his very obvious issues with this filthy place, he'd be on his knees in a heartbeat if the other man asked.

"Take care of it." Tyler says, turning around to hide the crimson blush creeping up his face. He starts to shove his belongings into a Gucci duffel bag. "Fifteen minutes. I'll be waiting."