Title: Crash into Me
Fandom: Wrestling; pairing: Christian/Randy
Rating: T for suggested sexual situations and m/m slash, and also a countless amount of clichés. You have been warned.
Summary: All we are doing is trying to escape the inevitable. One-shot.
A/N: This was originally supposed to be a PWP (Me writing a PWP? So outrageous, I know! But I blame Metro Station for their damn innuendos and breathy voices...) but you know these guys. They always want depth and explanations for and to everything I write. *Insert exasperated sigh here* Anyways, this is dedicated to Snarkcasm because she is so hilariously funny and such a wonderful person, not to mention a superb writer! (She helped me with the title, by the way, and about three of my other fics.) I swear if you aren't reading any of her work, YOU. MUST. NOW. Or I will get Chrandy to boycott you! ...It's possible, don't you doubt my words! Haha. On with the fic!
P.S: If you haven't already noticed, almost all of my Chrandy oneshots end with kisses...It's adorable guys but...Really? *Resists saying two more times to imitate the Miz*
Crash into Me
Sweating lightly and out of breath, the heat of the room almost dizzying, Randy moved up from his lower position on the bed and slid up the body underneath him, who he could tell at this point, was just as aroused as he was; if his corrupted exhalations, quivering limbs, and prominent erection were any indication of that.
He grinned, more than pleased that he was the cause of this madness, this fever, and discovered that it was even more of an encouragement to take things farther. He continued his exploration of exposed flesh, soft but calloused palms travelling down the other man's fairly tanned skin and eventually brushing against the base of his spine. He was rewarded with a shiver, and, though their lips hadn't made contact yet, a pleading whisper for more.
More...he could do that.
In their haste to reach the bedroom they had rid each other of their surprisingly compliant and hardly awkward shirts and jeans along with the footwear that had been immediately kicked off at the doorway. (It was a blessing that neither had been wearing socks...Nothing was more awkward than having to take a moment to remove them and curl the pair into a ball so they wouldn't get lost and then resume. It had happened to both before and for each time it had been an indubitable mood-killer to say the least.) So when they – very blindly – found the bed, they did not hesitate in any way at all and merely collapsed onto it, friction needed, craved, and relief even more so desired.
It hadn't been, and still wasn't, completely silent between the two. With every touch, every simple contact, an approving hum or hiss, depending on the inflicted area, was made. Sometimes also quiet commands or advancing words, but never a full, clear-cut sentence, but that didn't matter much. They were reading each other and communicating, but words weren't necessary to do so when their bodies could speak much more volumes than their mouths ever could.
Ankles crossed, torsos rubbed together, and hair was gripped...well, for one more than the other, but even still. The passion was so plainly there it was unquestionable; like the air in the room...the presence of air in general, to be more inclusive. It was natural, had been there since the beginning, hidden underneath layers of stubbornness, pride, and pure denial of the chemistry itself as a result of nerves and fear and not being able to understand.
That, however, had been before they experienced the elements of what they created when they were together – the electricity that sparked and shocked whenever they accidently touched was a primary example, and, reasonably, their own reactions to it too.
Things had changed drastically over the course of the past few months. Not only had the intensity of their feud proved that behind the scripts and diagrams and structures of the storyline they were real, but it also served the purpose of giving them a reason to stay together and not run away...like an unrelenting reminder to someone who only wanted to forget, whether whatever it was they were avoiding was difficult or they themselves were. So as long as they were in each other's minds, even if it were just to plan out a match or construct a promo, every little piece of attention counted.
And obviously, over time it had mounted, growing into something so undeniable and plausible that there was nothing left to do but come to terms with it. But it was anything but unwanted...after a large amount of time filled with nothing but resistance, they finally gave in – willingly. They were tired of playing games and evading the inevitable and it just felt so right that it seemed impossible that anything regretful was going to come of it.
All it had taken one was one kiss. One kiss and everything that had transpired and gone on between them disappeared.
Randy recalled this ever-so pleasantly, not being ashamed that it might be romanticizing their collision when he spoke of it as a kind of 'amnesic' love.
What he did take into consideration, though, was the fact that he almost never talked about anything in the idealistic sense he was so used to now, which convinced him further that maybe it was going to turn out a lot better than they'd ever worried. In fact, he'd go so far as to say –
"Randy..."
Hearing something other than shallow breathing for the first time in several minutes quickly brought him out of his reverie. Looking up from placing tender, subconscious kisses on the neck of the man below him, he was instantly caught within the gaze that always, without fail, made him feel as if his bones were melting, the liquid warm against his still-solid insides.
He crawled up a bit so that they were at eye-level and he was staring down into perfection itself, only in the form of a another man, raw and real.
Beneath him, Jay was lying, eyes in a sort of drowsy state while the rest of him was the exact opposite. (He was always a livewire. Randy was aware of that even before their matches.) They were still the vibrant shade of cornflower blue he remembered cursing not too long ago, simply because of the fact that he liked them – adored them, really – when he wasn't supposed to, and his hair was even more golden than ever. The look on his face was...hard to explain. It was lust-filled and imploring and questioning all at the same time, but contained something more...affectionate than what he was used to.
Stilling all movements, he gently traced a finger across the Canadian's jaw line. "Hm?" he heard himself respond.
Jay bit his lip, and shifted a bit, something that told Randy where was going with this. "Do you...do you think we're ready for this?"
It wasn't that hard to figure out what he was implying. They were here: in Randy's hotel room, in Randy's hotel room bed, with no clothes and no signs of the same two enemies they evolved from being not more than a good two weeks ago.
In a short amount of time they had gone from hating each other to putting up with each other to enjoying being with each other, admittedly more so than what was the norm; it was a lot to process, if you looked at it sensibly, but if they couldn't handle it neither would be here right now, especially after they had been offered a conclusion to their on-air rivalry.
Taking in Captain Charisma's noticeably anxious expression and deciding to put him at ease, Randy leaned down and at long last initiated their first kiss of that evening. After a minute of merged lips, relaxed motions, and the finally feeling of it all, he tore himself apart from Jay in order that he may answer his question.
"I think we were ready for this a long time ago."
/