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Jerma wonders when he decided to go downstairs to look for Ludwig.
It must’ve been right after Ludwig promised him they’d get lunch together while on break from their respective signing/tournamenting/networking events while at Twitch Con, right?
Then, when he couldn’t find him after a Melee tournament and his texts were going unanswered, a tense and awkward conversation with QT revealed that he was “downstairs.” Jerma couldn’t look QT in the eyes for reasons he couldn’t quite parse, and QT couldn’t stop glaring at him, so he didn’t ask further questions and just mumbled “Thanks,” before moving on. She smiled thinly at him and turned back to her group of friends, and Jerma was left to find where the fuck “downstairs” is.
The weekend had been great for the most part. He felt every bit like Ludwig’s hanger-on, but Ludwig never looked like he minded. In fact, he dragged Jerma to every event he went to, even forcing him to sit on his phone while he did meet-and-greets. That’s fine by him - he doesn’t know a lot of Big Twitch Personalities very well, but he likes being in the middle of it all, laughing and joking and being light-hearted. This place is coincidentally right by Ludwig’s side, watching him smile and laugh and do shoe-ys with Australian men and brush elbows with what seems like every single streamer in the building. He also liked it a lot for reasons that are totally normal and not-at-all motivated by the way Ludwig looks at him when he makes a good joke or does a weird noise.
He finds a stairwell by one of the bathrooms, guarded by a door that says TALENT ONLY. He, being Talent in the loosest sense of the word, slips through and checks his phone as he thuds down a quiet staircase. Twenty minutes past Ludwig’s professed meeting time. He hopes he’s okay. He’s not a worrier - really, he’s not! - but maybe Ludwig decided he had enough of the shadow. Which he would understand, of course. He’s not an idiot.
He reaches the bottom of the staircase and turns the corner into a mechanical section of the basement, where pipes are clanking and things are hissing and it seems like it’s ten degrees warmer than normal. He stops for a second to check out an old glass-encased fire extinguisher, which really is interesting, and then he hears what sounds like a bunch of men laughing uproariously in the distance, muffled behind a couple of doors.
He turns his head toward it like a gopher, eyes wide. He tucks his hands near his chest as he inches closer. He’s been lifting a couple of weights in preparation to see Ludwig again - not like the old days, just the cheapest Walmart weights he could find - and he flexes just a little bit. Just in case a fucking monster comes down the hallway or something.
There’s another burst of laughter, and Jerma creeps closer to the metal door, gently putting his ear to it to try and hear whatever’s inside. He can hear the burr of a voice making a joke, and Ludwig’s bark of a laugh in response. Maybe they’re playing chess or something? Ludwig said he was good at that.
He debates with himself for a second, resting his forehead on the door. Maybe Ludwig didn’t want him to come down. Maybe this was a private event with him and his many roommates that Jerma will invade with his weird hand movements and awkward interjections. He doesn’t want to be a fucking nuisance. Maybe he should go hang out by the hot dog vendor again, scrolling through Ludwig’s Twitter again and waiting for another selfie.
He shakes his head. No. He’s a 36-year-old man. He can go into a room. Before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs the handle to the door and twists it and opens the door to -
A dark room. Ludwig, shirtless, in a shitty makeshift arena in the middle of it. His hands are up, and his head is bent in as he bounces on the balls of his feet gently. He looks toward the door as Jerma opens it, and for a split second, the sun comes out from behind the clouds and his eyebrows raise and he starts to smile. The J sound just barely edges its way out of his mouth when Will Neff, also shirtless, punches him so hard his whole skull vibrates.
Then there’s someone at his side, ushering him in and closing the door behind him with a clunk. Jerma looks up and up and up to Hasan, who is uncharacteristically serious.
“Hey dude,” Hasan says. “Ludwig was saying you might show up.”
“W-wha-would-w-,” Jerma says. “W-what the fuck is going on here?”
“Come on,” Hasan says, guiding him to a small forest of industrial folding chairs, where a couple of other streamers are laughing and pointing at the match. They nod to them both as they pass by, either yelling for Will or Ludwig and screaming with laughter whenever one gets hit. Hasan nods to a seat near the edge and then collapses in the one next to him.
“Hi Jerma,” Mizkif says from the other side. He’s shirtless and holding an ice pack to his bleeding nose. He looks pretty bad, complete with a black eye the size of a pancake. “Nice to see you, man.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Jerma says, because his mother raised him right. “Hey, can if I ask you a question, man?”
“Yeah, shoot,” Mizkif says, readjusting the ice pack and grimacing.
“Okay. Why is everyone beating the fuck out of each other?” Jerma says. Ludwig has re-focused into the match, and Jerma watches as he lands a sick punch to Will’s solar plexus, causing him to double over.
Mizkif shrugs. “It’s tradition. I got invited by Ludwig like a year ago. It’s better than turning to crack. I got beat up by Cyr earlier,” Mizkif says, stretching out his legs. “I won though, because he’s a pussy.”
“That’s - that’s great,” Jerma says. “Do we all have to fight or - is it an elective thing?”
“Everybody usually does, yeah,” Mizkif says. “Unless you’re Hasan and you’re lazy.”
“I heard that,” Hasan grumbles from his seat on his other side. He’s been checking his phone continuously since Jerma sat down, his screen bright against his face in the dark. “I’ve got a bad back, asshole.”
“Is Ludwig okay?” Jerma says as Ludwig yells wordlessly as he gets battered by Will. There’s blood trickling down his face and into his teeth as he smiles. “Like, this seems pretty serious.”
“Yeah, probably,” Mizkif shrugs, readjusting his shoulders as he takes his phone out too. “He won last year.”
“Wow,” Jerma says. He’s not not affected by this. “That’s - wow. Good for him.”
“Yeah,” Mizkif says, now firmly ignoring him as he types something quickly. Jerma sits back in his chair as Ludwig blocks a punch and gets Will in the cheek, who then goes down hard and stays down. Ludwig starts prowling around the ring as the crowd counts down from ten, waiting for Will to struggle up off his back, but he just coughs and shakes his head. He’s down. Atrioc, who must be the ref, jumps into the ring and holds Ludwig’s arm up. Ludwig wins.
Ludwig yells “LET’S GO!” to the crowd, who roars back. He looks - well, he looks good, if Jerma could say that. His hair flops down to his eye as he wipes the blood from under his nose, and he smiles when he catches Jerma’s eye. He winks.
Oh God, get him out of here. He needs to leave right the fuck now. He needs to go to the bathroom and look at himself in the eyes for a minute and remind himself that they’re just friends. They’re just friends who collab and play Battleship and roleplay being cat boys in love or whatever.
Ludwig slides out from the ring before he can move and do something smart like run out of the room and Jerma watches wide-eyed as he comes straight to him. He feels a little bit like a deer stuck in a Ludwig-shaped headlight. A couple of influencers slap him in congratulations as he passes by, and he takes every one of them with a smile and a head bob before moving toward Jerma like a target.
“Hi,” Ludwig pants, coming to a stop right above him. Jerma watches his chest heave, the indented spot in his chest shiny with sweat. He wants to do awful, awful things to that spot. “Glad you could make it.”
“Congrats, dude,” Hasan says, not taking his eyes off his phone. Mizkif concurs by nodding.
“N-nice job,” Jerma wheezes. Ludwig’s smile gets a little wider, and he pushes back his hair with a hand, looking handsome even with blood caked in every crevice of his face.
“Thanks,” Ludwig says. His voice sounds a little gooey, and Jerma watches in dismay as he spits a wad of bloody spit to the side and grimaces.
“Are you okay?” Jerma says urgently, and Ludwig shrugs.
“Yeah, just fucked up my lip,” Ludwig says. “And my nose. Other than that, I’m kosher. Can I sit?”
“Yeah, man, take mine,” Jerma says, rising from his chair, but Ludwig holds out a hand to stop him. He sinks back down, confused. Ludwig’s eyebrows knit together as he looks at the chairs, which are all taken up by other shirtless influencers.
“Mizzy, move,” Ludwig says. Mizkif stays firmly where he is, ignoring him. Ludwig sighs and before Jerma knows what’s happening, he has a lapful of sweaty, bloody Ludwig.
“Dude, you’re going to squish Jerma,” Hasan warns, thudding his phone against his huge hand. Ludwig leans back to prove his pint, hich does squish the air out of Jerma’s lungs like a wrecking ball, but he’s not going to say anything.
“Shut up, Hasan,” Ludwig says before slinging an arm around his neck. Jerma is screaming very loudly in his own head. “Hey, you’re pretty comfortable, you know that?”
“I’ve never been - that’s never been told to me,” Jerma says. His voice is about ten octaves higher than normal. “I think I’m pretty bony.”
“Nah, you’re great,” Ludwig says, inclining his head back against Jerma’s shoulder. Jerma feels like he’s not supposed to touch, but his arms crawl around Ludwig’s waist inch by inch. Ludwig sighs on his shoulder. Jerma is going to explode.
“Thanks for coming, man,” Ludwig mutters, turning his face against Jerma’s neck, his lips against Jerma’s jugular. Like he could take a bite and end it all there. Jerma’s legs shift further apart on their own accord. Two other men are in the arena now. People are screaming. He inches a hand up Ludwig’s ribs, toward his pecs. Ludwig shifts backward slightly, high on Jerma’s thighs.
Everybody must think they’re fucking weirdos. Jerma looks over Ludwig’s bare shoulder to Mizkif, who is completely oblivious to what’s happening. Maybe this is just what Ludwig does after a fight - gets boneless on the lap of another streamer, waiting to get petted.
The sudden jealousy that rears its head is both unexpected and all-consuming. He grips Ludwig a little tighter, which makes Ludwig wheeze and cringe away slightly as he hits a tender spot. Jerma drops his hands immediately, but Ludwig’s hand snaps to where they are, keeping them cradled against his chest. Jerma buries his extremely red face in Ludwig’s shoulder.
“Who do you think wins,” Ludwig whispers. Jerma inclines his head against Ludwig’s as he listens. “Austin? Schlatt?”
Jerma only very loosely knows who those two are, but he wants to say something insightful instead of just grunting like a hog. He eyes the ring over Ludwig’s shoulder, where the taller guy has the other guy in a headlock and is laughing hysterically against the former’s weak attempts at batting him away.
“Well, obviously Schlatt is the Undertaker and Austin is Stone Cold Steve Austin,” Jerma says matter-of-factly. Ludwig hums under his breath, fingers tapping on Jerma’s locked hands one-two-three. They’re almost holding hands if he squints. “Schlatt’ll take it.”
“How do you feel about 2k on Schlatt?” Ludwig says. “If you’re in a betting mood. Which I have to assume that you are.”
“You’re on,” Jerma says. Ludwig presses his head against his in quick acknowledgment and then turns his head to stare at Hasan.
“You in too, Azan?” Ludwig says, and Hasan gives a thumbs up without looking up from his phone. Ludwig hums and relaxes back into Jerma, who buries his nose into Ludwig’s neck and sighs.
Even if this was it - if this was the closest he’d ever get, just dancing on the line of too close - Jerma would be fine living here. He would set up shop on this chair so Ludwig would never have to leave.
The guilt sets in deep under his ribs. Of course he’d have to leave, it’s Ludwig. He’s got better streamers to meet, more interesting shit to do. He’s obviously misinterpreting what this is - this is just things that a friend does. He’s just a dirty old man, having inappropriate sexual feelings for what is essentially his coworker.
Ludwig picks that moment to casually scoot higher up, right about where Jerma’s dick is, and tilts his hips back very gently. His basketball shorts are very, very thin. He probably feels - everything. Jerma holds very, very still. If Jerma tells him to stop, he will. He doesn’t know if that’s what he wants or dreads.
There’s a sudden influx of cheering as Atrioc tries to hold Schlatt’s hand above his head. Austin is groaning and holding his shoulder next to him.
“You escape unscathed, boys,” Ludwig says loftily, shifting his hips back and forth. His voice is just on this side of pitchy. “Your money remains in your pockets for now.”
“JERMA!” Someone shouts. Ludwig stops his undulations and sits up to stare down whoever is talking. Jerma cannot see a single thing past the smooth skin of Ludwig’s back.
“Yeah?” Jerma coughs to the room at large, feeling like his head is full of cotton. “Here.”
“You want to come fight?” Atrioc materializes next to him, arms crossed. Jerma squints his eyes and looks up at him, trying to decipher any words coming out of his mouth. Ludwig leans back a little bit, like he’s trying to keep him there. But there are things - things rising. It’ll be a lot harder to pretend he’s not compromised in a few seconds.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” Jerma says, letting go of Ludwig’s chest. He could win probably. He’s watched a lot of wrestling in his day. He’s not too out of shape - unless they hit his back. Or his hernia. Or his balls. At least that would deflate his boner pretty quickly, and he and Ludwig’s friendship will escape this unscathed.
“Alright, shirts off. You’re fighting Soda,” Atrioc says. Ludwig mutely gets off Jerma’s lap to let him pass by, and Jerma’s legs are shaky when he gets up. He’s got this. He’s pretty confident in his ability to land a couple of shots. He’s smaller than the rest of the guys, but he’s quick. He can get in and out no problem.
He stands and strips off his Floats Your Goat shirt and drops it on the floor next to his seat. Ludwig grabs the shirt off the floor to sling it around his neck like a sweat towel. He watches as Ludwig wipes his face with it, smearing blood everywhere. Jerma scrunches up his nose. What the fuck?
“Get it, killer,” Ludwig says, dropping the shirt down to his shoulders again. The twist of his mouth indicates that he’s not pleased with this outcome, but Jerma can’t guess why. He has the whole seat now. He nods at him once and turns to follow Atrioc to the stage, where a wiry-looking guy is bouncing on his toes and shadow-boxing. He looks a little crazy, if Jerma’s honest. This might not have been his best plan. He could’ve just gone to the fucking bathroom or something.
“Ready?” Atrioc says, bringing the two of them together in the middle of the ring, his hands on both of their shoulders. “Rules: No nut shots. No slaps, no spitting, no biting. You have ten seconds to get off the floor once you’re down. Stay in the ring.”
Jerma nods, taking it in. His bare chest prickles against the chill in the air. His Bermuda shorts aren’t exactly boxing-ready, but they let him bend his knees. He could try and sweep Soda’s feet from under him, but there’s a chance he’d see it coming.
“Good luck,” Atrioc says. Jerma finds Ludwig’s eyes in the crowd, hoping for a thumbs up or a smile or something. He gets a blank look and a single nod before Ludwig shakes his head a couple of times, like he’s loosening water from his ear canal. He breaks the contact and stares back at Soda - Soda something, who is nodding enthusiastically.
“Fight!” Atrioc says, and then backs his way out of the ring. Jerma brings his hands up to block his neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he saw Ludwig do earlier. Soda dances closer and aims a hook right at Jerma’s left side, which he dodges. He goes for a punch to Soda’s chest, which connect with a thud. Soda groans and steps back, arm coming up to cover where it hit.
Jerma can’t help himself. He looks back into the crowd. Next to a bored-looking Hasan, Ludwig now has his hands on his knees, watching intently. He catches him watching and points back to Soda, who then hits him in the jaw so hard he can feel his brain shake. Get your head in the game, Jeremy, he tells himself as he shakes his head like a dog, putting his hands up to block again.
He lunges for a hit to Soda’s solar plexus, which connects, and a right jab to his shoulder, which glances off him. Soda lunges at him and he quickly steps out of the way, which forces Soda to slam into one of the rope sides of the ring. He glances off like he’s made of rubber and runs back to Jerma, who ducks instinctively. He sweeps his leg under Soda, who goes down instantly.
He is distantly aware of the crowd chanting his name as Soda struggles to get back up off the floor. He can pick out specific voices; Mizkif’s higher voice, Hasan’s lower one. Ludwig’s is absent. He doesn’t look as he squares back up, Soda finally getting his bearings again. He goes for an uppercut, but Soda grabs his arm and holds it back behind him and twists.
It’s a dirty move. He flails with his other arm until he can make contact with Soda’s kidneys, which causes him to drop the arm. He feels a bright frisson of regret, just until Soda clotheslines him so hard that his vision whites out as he slams into the ground. He closes his eyes and thinks about never moving again and just dying here on the mat. It’s not too bad. Ludwig might even come to his funeral.
“Don’t get up,” Soda yells over the din of sympathy yells and OOOs. Jerma peels his eyes open and sees that he’s hovering right above him, yelling full volume into his fucking ear. “Don’t get up, fucker. Don’t you dare get up.”
Well, he just said the fucking magic words. Jerma inhales steadily and then struggles back to his feet, his throat and lungs burning and tears gathering in his eyes as he does it. He puts his hands up again to ready himself, and Soda yells with annoyance as the crowd starts cheering again. Yeah, get used to it, Jeremy thinks, as he connects a jab to Soda’s jaw, which makes him stagger and shake his head like a horse. Jerma takes that moment to bear hug him down to the mat, straddling him and punching him once, twice to the cheek. holding back his hits just enough that he doesn’t completely ruin Soda’s face. All of his muscles are burning and the tears that had been gathering are slowly starting to slide down his face, but at least his fucking boner is gone.
The crowd starts to count down from ten as he stands up off of Soda, who is bleeding profusely from a cut on his cheekbone and just above his eye, and holds both of his hands up. No touching. He finally chances a look at Ludwig. Ludwig looks, for lack of a better word, like he wants to fuck him - knees spread wide, Jerma’s shirt hanging from his neck, chin tilted down. Fuck-me-eyes are sort of a concept you don’t get until you see it, like the way a car’s headlights stop a deer in the tracks. He feels like he’s just waiting for the inevitable collision.
Atrioc appears by his side and holds his hand above his head. The crowd roars and he closes his eyes against the light and the noise. For the longest time after moving to Vegas, he wondered why strippers kept going to work. It can’t be the money, although he’s sure that helps, and it can’t be the guys, so what is it?
He knows. It’s the lights. The feeling of every eye on you as you move. The attention. He feels like he could inch his shorts down and a dozen hands would stuff dollar bills into his briefs. He’d do it too, he’d find some handsome guy to grind against and rub himself over. Anything to feel like this for a little longer.
Atrioc ushers him off the stage as a couple of guys check Soda, who shakes them off and glares at Jerma as he limps back to his seat. Something warm and wet inches its way down his face, and he grimaces at the blood that comes off on his palm when he goes to wipe it. An unlucky hit. Well, at least Ludwig covered his whole shirt in blood, so it’s not that much more suspicious.
A couple of people come by to grin at him and give him fistbumps as he makes his way down the aisle, and he clumsily acknowledges them before moving to where Ludwig, Hasan, and Mizkif are waiting for him.
“Dude,” Mizkif says, leaning over to fistbump him too. Now a bonafide expert, Jerma bumps him back gingerly on bruised and battered knuckles. “Sick.”
“Yeah, for real,” Hasan echoes, leaning forward. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m out of practice,” Jerma deflects. He wants to flex so bad, but he can’t bring his arms up.
He finally looks down at Ludwig, whose expression is something Jerma would catergorize as "starving." He stands up from their chair and doesn’t shift to make room for him. They’re pressed bloody chest to bloody chest. If Jerma tries, he can feel Ludwig’s heartbeat against his chest, quick and erratic like a rabbit’s.
“You want to get out of here?” Ludwig mutters, like a suitor holding his hand out at a ball. Jerma’s so tired that he abandons his morals, every little voice telling him he shouldn’t. He just wants him. Even if Ludwig is going to take him out back like an old dog.
He’s always been easy. Why not just make it easier.
“Yeah,” Jerma says. He can’t look away from Ludwig’s bottom lip as it moves, the pinkness of it against the red. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Ludwig smiles so wide his scab splitss, and he turns to the door. Jerma squints at the stage to see if two more guys are taking their spots, but Ludwig’s hand is warm around his wrist as he tugs him out of the dark, warm room and into the cold hallway.
“Where are we going?” Jerma says. Not that matters. Ludwig could be taking to the middle of the con and do - whatever it is that they’re doing, and he’d be game. He’d be there with his tongue out, like a dog waiting for a prize.
“There’s a room,” Ludwig mutters, trying every single metal doorknob in the basement. One finally clicks open, and Ludwig flicks the lights and drags Jerma in. Jerma gets the brief flash of an empty storage room, then Ludwig is on him.
If there was any doubt in Jerma’s mind before his fight, it would be evaporated the instant Ludwig’s hot mouth was on his. It all tastes like blood and spit and metal. Their chests rub slickly against each other, which makes Jerma gasp.
Now that he’s thinking about it, maybe he was following around Ludwig for another reason the whole con. Ludwig moans as Jerma digs his teeth into his split lip, and the hand to his jaw is surprisingly gentle as he angles his jaw up to slip his tongue deeper. It feels like pressing on a bruise the size of his entire body, and he wants him to press harder. Go deeper inch by inch until he’s a shivering puddle on the floor. Until he bleeds.
“You looked,” Ludwig gasps in between breaths, “so hot up there. Jesus Christ. You’re like a Greek god.”
“I’ve,” Jerma mutters. Ludwig digs his teeth underneath his jaw and Jerma grabs the back of his neck to keep him there. “I’’ve been wanting to the whole weekend. This. You.”
“Fuck, I’ve been wanting this since you first fucking DM’d me,” Ludwig says. He leans his forehead against Jerma’s and presses one of his wrists to the front of his shorts, where. Yep.
“Ludwig,” Jerma moans. Ludwig’s gasp is so quiet as Jerma presses his knuckles against Ludwig’s dick, hard against the tissue-thin material of the shorts. Ludwig rests one of his hands against the wall over Jerma’s shoulder and breathes against Jerma’s neck as Jerma runs his fingers down his clothed dick. He presses a kiss to Ludwig’s cheek as he slips his hand under the waistband, and Ludwig keens as he makes contact. He’s beautiful, covered in blood the way he is, arched over him.
“I was watching you fight,” Ludwig pants as Jerma quickly takes his hand out of his shorts to grimace at his hand. Do it, Jeremy. He licks a long line down his salty palm, and returns it to his pants. “I really didn’t think you’d win.”
“Would we be doing this if I didn’t?” Jerma says. His hand only catches a little bit on his dick this time, and he delights in Ludwig’s grunt as he jacks him off, slowly and sweetly.
Ludwig doesn’t answer. He just presses his hips more firmly against him and drops his face to Jerma’s shoulder, breathing wetly against the bruised skin there.
“You’re so,” Jerma says, twisting his wrist. Ludwig bucks his hips as he does. “I’d let you do anything to me. You could’ve kissed me in front of the whole room and I would’ve let you.”
“You’re a total pushover,” Ludwig groans. “I, God, I like that about you.”
“Do you like this about me too?” Jerma says neutrally as he jerks a little quicker, a little tighter. He likes when he does it to himself, and Ludwig must like it too, as he clings to Jerma’s arms like they’re the only things keeping him up.
“Bastard,” Ludwig moans. His eyes are bright as he tenses. Jerma kisses his cheek again, unable to stop himself. He wants to make it good for him. He might come back to him if he does, even if it’s in a hotel room in the middle of the night.
He wishes, as Ludwig tenses tighter and groans into Jerma’s neck, that he had fought Ludwig instead. Those fucking hands against his chest, that arm around his neck. He’d put his hand over it, keep it there for as long as he could. He hopes he can feel every mark of this tomorrow, even if he has to take another break from streaming for months to heal. His chat would understand.
“Jerma,” Ludwig pants, and he keeps going steady until Ludwig’s hips buck against his and his dick gives a couple of fruitless jerks and he cums hard with a punched-out whine. He lets him ride it out, and then carefully extracts his hand from his soiled basketball shorts. He considers each of his fingers and decides, fuck it, he’s this far in, and licks the cum off of every finger. He milks it a little bit, sucking his index finger and coming off it with a quiet pop. This is fucking disgusting, Jerma decides. He does it again.
Ludwig surges forward to kiss him again and groans at the taste of his own cum in his mouth. Jerma wants him to - he wants him to - anything. He wants him to do anything. Wants him to hollow him out and crack every one of his ribs to do it.
“Wow,” Ludwig breathes once his breathing goes down and he can stand on his own two feet again. He pushes his hand up through his hair, looking off to the side of Jerma’s face. He runs a light finger across his nose, around the tender skin of his eye.
“Not to be crazy, but. Is this real?” Jerma asks, relatively unhappy to be destroying the peace but doing so reluctantly. Things feel very tenuous between them, even before. There was always a shade of doubt in Jerma’s mind if Ludwig really liked him or not, if he was just using him because he’s some sort of freak in the Twitch community and everybody likes to laugh at a clown.
“Define ‘real,”” Ludwig says, leaning his head back against the wall. His chest is moving up and down slowly. “If you’re asking if it actually, physically happened, I would say yeah. There’s definitely cum in my pants.”
“Will you - will you remember this when we go back upstairs, I mean,” Jerma says quietly. He fights the urge to cross his arms in front of himself, feeling overexposed. He can hear his voice — high, insecure — when he says it. It makes him cringe.
“Yeah,” Ludwig says quietly. He looks at him, sizing him up as always. He shrugs with one shoulder like of course. “Yeah, I’ll remember this.”
“Okay,” Jerma says, sagging a little in relief. He kinda has no other plans other than saying that. Ludwig could beat the shit out of him now and he’d be okay. Just as long as it would be him doing it. “I know there are other. Factors. That makes it hard.”
“There are other factors that make you hard,” Ludwig counters, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.
“You could say that,” Jerma says, voice slipping lower into what he would comfortably call sexy-lite. A stripper sizing up a patron, seeing if he’d like a lap-dance. “There’s definitely a. Hardness. About me.”
“You’re a freak,” Ludwig says, but he’s smiling as he says it. He opens his eyes to look over at him and it’s just pure, undiluted fondness. Jerma could snort it like a drug. “Come here.”
Jerma wants to come so much closer he could meld into his fucking chest so he’s half of him. This is a concerning impulse that he will not think about for much longer. Ludwig opens his arm so that Jerma can tuck himself against his chest, and then he is turned around against the wall and is kissed within an inch of his life. Ludwig is good at it, just as ruthlessly efficient as he is when he is fighting.
The resulting handy is probably one of the top ten in Jerma’s life. Ludwig kisses him the whole time like some kind of romantic movie, even when he gasps and bites and swears against his mouth. Ludwig just holds him and doesn’t let go, and wipes the cum off on his own pants when he’s done like a gentleman. Jerma wants to - he wants to - all of it.
“I hope you have extra pants,” Jerma says as soon as his head stops being filled with disco music. Ludwig chuckles, grimacing at his extremely cum-stained shorts. Jerma's heart leaps a little bit. It's both of their cum!
“Yeah, I have some extra jeans in my suitcase,” Ludwig says. “Wrestling gets crazy, man. Last year Miz lost a tooth.”
“Yeah, it gets pretty fucking crazy,” Jerma says, glancing down at Ludwig's aforementioned cum shorts. “I can’t believe I beat Soda - Soda.” He forgot his name.
“I think he let you win,” Ludwig says, like a secret. He hands Jerma his blood-stained t-shirt, and Jerma reluctantly shoulders it on. “He deffo could’ve gotten up. It was hot though.”
“Oh yeah?” Jerma says. “I beat that guy into the ground, Ludwig.”
‘You sure did,” Ludwig says, coming in close. Jerma goes cross-eyed looking at him. “Cheater.”
Jerma stutters in utter disbelief as Ludwig leans away, giggling to himself. Unable to handle it, he reaches up and kisses him squarely, and the smile he gets in response is big and bright against his mouth. It is a endangered thing. It barely even has wings. But it is good.
“I don’t know why I said yes to fighting, I’m so old,” Jerma confesses. “I think I just said yes so you wouldn’t feel me getting a boner and think I was weird.”
“My hero,” Ludwig says. It’s soft enough that Jerma could almost believe he’s saying it for real. “Let’s go, hey? I have a tournament in twenty and I look like I killed someone.”
“Yeah,” Jerma says, leaning back and surveying him honestly. “That lip is going to be hard to hide.”
“Well, tournaments are full of heated gamer moments. This is just a war wound,” Ludwig says. He goes to the door and waits expectantly for Jerma to follow him. “Ready?”
Jerma can see the next few days very clearly all of the sudden. Ludwig getting very close to whisper in his ear, keeping Jerma around so he can sit squished next to him on benches and in seats and in hotel rooms. Maybe Jerma will take him into the bathroom and he'll mess up his turtleneck. He’d even be wearing the chain as he comes out. Ludwig probably wouldn’t even mind. He’d maybe even want it. He feels smug. The stripper waving their dollar bills around. You won’t believe who I got this time. How much money he tipped. How they told me I was his favorite.
They leave together. He'll definitely feel where Soda slammed his shoulder the next day and he can feel a headache brewing, but Ludwig's hand brushes against his every few steps. It is a fair trade.