Archive of Our Own

They did it.

They actually fucking did it.

The bell had rung, the crowd erupted, and the Young Bucks—their smug faces, their EVP status, their looming control—were finally knocked off their pedestal.

Will stood in the ring, chest heaving, wide-eyed and trembling, while the realization crashed over him like a tidal wave.

They won.

Not just a match. Not just revenge. They freed the company.

And they did it together.

The first thing he registered was Swerve. He turned, and before Will could blink, Swerve’s arms were around him, tackling him in a massive, breathless hug.

Will clung to him like a lifeline. God, he collapsed in Swerve’s arms.

Everything in him wanted to cry—he felt them coming, hot behind his eyes—but he kept them in, barely.

He couldn’t cry, not yet.

Not until they were alone. Not until he could process that this wasn’t just another close call.

This was real. Final. Victorious.

He kept repeating it under his breath, like a prayer against Swerve’s shoulder.

“We did it. We did it. We did it.”

Swerve laughed—deep, relieved, almost disbelieving—and he hugged Will back with just as much force.

They were both sweating like hell, chest-to-chest, foreheads pressed, not even caring that the cameras were still rolling. This moment was theirs.

Will had been a wreck the entire match. Overthinking every sequence, heart in his throat every near-fall. He hadn’t been this anxious before a match in years, but the pressure was unbearable. The stakes. The history. The guilt.

He’d told Swerve he’d make it up to him if they lost—shit, he meant it.

If tonight had gone sideways, if history repeated itself like it had with Kyle, Will would’ve never forgiven himself. The fear had coiled in his gut like a snake for two weeks straight.

But Swerve… God, Swerve had been patient. So damn patient.

Ever since their confrontation two weeks ago, Swerve softened. Apologized for blowing up. Told Will he trusted him. That he believed in him.

That he loved him for fuck's sake.

And tonight, they got to prove why that trust meant everything.

Will finally pulled back just enough to see Swerve’s face, both of them still breathing hard, still barely believing it.

“You okay?” Swerve asked, voice low, eyes searching.

Will just nodded, shaky, a crooked, overwhelmed smile on his face. “Better than okay.”

The fans were still cheering. Chanting their names. Singing their praises.

Swerve grabbed Will’s wrist and raised his hand high. The crowd roared.

Will had to hug him again. He needed to.

So he did—again, for what felt like the fifth time—and then they slowly made their way to the ramp.

Together.

Arms slung around each other’s shoulders, soaking in the energy of 25,000 screaming fans. Fireworks going off above them. Lights washing the stage in gold.

And through it all, Will’s heart beat like a war drum.

He looked over at Swerve as they walked. Couldn’t stop looking.

This was the man he loved. This was the man he trusted with everything.

And they just changed everything.

Will was still holding it in. The emotions. The flood.

But fuck, it was building. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it.

But he didn’t let go of Swerve’s hand.

Not for a second.

Backstage was a blur.

Loud voices, clapping hands, people slapping their backs and saying hell of a match, but Will couldn’t register any of it.

Not really. It was all just… noise. The ringing of adrenaline in his ears. The hum in his bones.

His skin felt too tight and too hot and too cold at the same time. And the only thing grounding him was Swerve.

They hugged again the moment they made it through the curtain. Will didn’t care if it was the fifth time or the fiftieth. He needed it. He needed him.

Swerve’s smile was blinding. A full, brilliant, cinematic beam that lit up his whole damn face.

His eyeliner, still mostly intact, made his eyes gleam like onyx under the hallway fluorescents.

His high ponytail was a little messy now from the chaos of the match, but somehow it made him look even more unreal. Like a warrior god straight off the page of some myth Will had no business surviving.

Will was laughing. He couldn’t stop. It bubbled up from his chest, breathless and giddy and disbelieving.

They actually won. They beat the Young Bucks. A team that had more years under their belt than Will had passports. A team that was practically made for tag gold.

And Will and Swerve—the makeshift team that everyone side-eyed at first, the combo no one fully trusted, the duo that nearly imploded just two weeks ago—they pulled it off.

It should’ve been pure euphoria.

And it was, but it was also something else. Something messier. Bigger. Louder inside his ribcage.

Will was still laughing when the tears started falling.

He didn’t notice them at first. Not until his vision blurred and he blinked and there was wetness on his cheeks and the sound coming from his mouth wasn’t laughter anymore.

It was something pitched higher, rawer. A crack in the center of the joy.

Swerve’s hands were still on his shoulders, warm and steady.

Will choked on another laugh, tried to wipe his face with his wrist. “Shit, sorry—fuck, I don’t even know—”

But Swerve already saw.

His smile softened, eyes flicking over Will’s face, recognizing the exact kind of overstimulated storm happening in real time.

Will wasn’t just happy. He was relieved. Like a pressure valve had finally snapped open after weeks of being held down tight.

Swerve didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just reached out and pulled Will in again, arms firm around his back. This hug was different. Slower. Still.

Will buried his face in Swerve’s shoulder, and the tears kept coming. Not sobbing, just this steady leak of too much.

Too much joy, too much fear, too much pressure let go all at once.

“You’re okay,” Swerve finally murmured, voice low and grounding right next to his ear. “You did it, Will. You did it.”

Will nodded against him, a shaky, almost embarrassed nod. “I thought—I thought I ruined it when I hit you—”

Referring back to when Will accidentally clobbered Swerve with a Hidden Blade after Nick Jackson ducked out of the way.

Will really thought he had lost it for them right then and there. Absolutely obliterated their chances of victory from one stupid miscue.

Swerve huffed, almost fondly. “You didn’t.”

“But I thought I did,” Will mumbled. “I thought you’d be pissed at me again. I thought it was all gonna fall apart. I—”

“Will.” Swerve pulled back just enough to look at him. His hands were still on Will’s shoulders, thumbs gently rubbing up and down. “You saved it. We saved it. You didn’t fail me. You never did.”

And fuck, hearing that just made it worse.

Will’s throat closed up again, and he let out a half-sobbed laugh, blinking fast. “God, I’ve been so fucking scared these past two weeks—”

“I know,” Swerve said softly. “I know. I saw it.”

Will stared at him, breath shaking, eyes still shiny with unshed tears.

And Swerve—cool, calm, unshakable Swerve—smiled again, this time smaller. Sweeter. He reached up and wiped under Will’s eyes with a gentle thumb.

“Let it out,” he said. “I got you.”

And Will did.

Right there, in the chaos of backstage, while people passed them by and the echo of their victory still hung in the air, Will finally let go of all the fear he’d been carrying.

Because Swerve had him. He always did.

This hallway was quiet.

A sharp contrast to the chaos backstage—no more crew shouting directions, no more medics walking past with ice packs and towels, no more wrestlers hollering in celebration.

Just a long, dim corridor where the fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead. Empty. Calm. Safe.

It was Swerve’s idea.

Will hadn’t even realized they were moving until Swerve’s hand had gently grabbed his wrist and tugged him down the hall.

He was still riding the adrenaline, still stuck somewhere between laughter and tears, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps that felt more like hiccups than actual air.

He hadn’t been able to stop shaking. Couldn’t even tell if it was from joy or from the leftover nerves.

Maybe both. Probably both.

Swerve stopped them by a stack of folded production curtains, still warm from the stadium lights. The hallway here was narrow and dim, bathed in the soft orange of emergency lights.

Private. Finally.

“Billy,” Swerve said, so gently it barely registered at first.

Will tried to keep laughing, because if he didn’t laugh, the rest of it would start pouring out of him too fast.

But his lungs weren’t cooperating anymore. His vision blurred again. His hands were twitching at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Billy.” Swerve stepped closer, cupped both of Will’s flushed, damp cheeks in his warm hands, and made him look.

Oh, fuck. Those eyes. That voice.

Swerve’s thumbs rubbed softly under his cheekbones, grounding him. “I need you to look at me, baby. Just for a second. That’s it. Just me.”

And there was that tone, that gentle voice Swerve used with every utterance of Billy and baby that brought Will back to reality when his mind was anywhere but.

Will's chest kept rising in those sharp, anxious breaths, but the moment their eyes locked, something inside of him slowed.

Swerve was looking at him like he was the most important thing in the world. And maybe he was to him.

“You did it, Billy,” Swerve whispered, so softly, like he didn’t want to break him. “You did it. You trusted me. And I trust you. I’m so proud of you.”

Will blinked fast. “I— I was so nervous—”

“I know.”

Will shook his head, eyes brimming again. “I thought it’d be like me and Kyle last year. Like—like I cursed us.”

“You didn’t,” Swerve said, his voice steady, even. “You didn’t curse anything. You protected me. We saved each other.”

Will’s lips trembled. His breaths still hadn’t steadied.

Swerve pressed their foreheads together, his tone dropping even gentler. “We changed the game tonight. You changed it. I would never—never—have been able to do this without you.”

Will whimpered, nodding, his hands finally rising to grip the sides of Swerve’s waist, like he’d fall over without him.

“I love you,” Swerve whispered into the space between them. “And I need you to come down for me, okay? Just breathe with me, baby.”

And Will tried.

He really did.

He followed Swerve’s lead—let his hands be moved to rest over Swerve’s steady chest, right over his heartbeat. Let his breaths try and sync with that rhythm. Let Swerve’s warm palms rub slow, even circles over his shoulder blades like he had when he soothed Will’s busted nose on the couch from that thumbtacked superkick. Like he had in Seattle when Will was taking him in the locker room shower.

Like he always did, when things got too big for Will’s chest to hold.

Swerve was his constant. His anchor. His calm in the chaos.

Those eyes—still glittering with sweat and eyeliner and love—were the softest things Will had ever seen.

He let his eyes close. Let the warmth spread slowly from his ribs outward, like light breaking through a storm.

And when his breathing finally started to even, when his trembling fingers loosened and the pressure behind his eyes ebbed, Swerve smiled.

He ruffled Will’s sweat-matted curls, hand moving with such fondness it made Will’s stomach flip.

“Good boy,” Swerve murmured.

And fuck.

That shouldn’t have made Will feel like he’d just won another match all over again—but it did.

Butterflies flapped somewhere low in his gut, and his knees almost buckled with how good that made him feel. How seen he felt. How safe.

Will was finally calm.

The hiccupy breaths had slowed, the stinging behind his eyes faded, the tight coil of nerves in his chest had unwound bit by bit.

He was still buzzing—a cocktail of adrenaline, overstimulation, and pure relief humming through his limbs—but being in Swerve’s arms made it all manageable. It always did.

God, Swerve looked beautiful tonight.

No, not just beautiful—unreal.

That high ponytail was a game-changer, pulling all those long, sweat-dampened locs off his face so Will could see every perfect detail.

His skin was glowing under the hallway lights. His eyeliner made his eyes even bigger, warmer, more intense.

His smile wasn’t just victorious—it was genuine. Open. Honest. Loving.

Will whimpered quietly.

He didn’t mean to.

It just slipped out, soft and pitiful and a little embarrassed.

Swerve’s brows lifted, his mouth quirking into a knowing smile. “You alright now, baby?”

Will nodded. Swallowed. Fidgeted with the waistband of his sweat-slick gear.

Then, quietly: “Can I have another hug?”

Swerve’s grin turned downright fond.

“Cute-ass boy,” he muttered, tugging Will back into him without a second thought.

And this hug? This one was different.

No laughter. No tears. No trembling, gasping breaths.

Just warmth. Just peace.

Swerve’s arms settled around Will’s waist, his hands rubbing slow circles into his lower back. Will tucked his face into Swerve’s neck, pressed there like he never wanted to leave.

His heart still pounded a little, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something deeper. Something safe. Something... sure.

Swerve loved him.

Like, actually loved him.

That still broke Will’s brain a little.

Because yeah, they hadn’t had the “official” talk since the confession back in California—everything had been a whirlwind since then—but it was there. Simmering. Lingering in every stolen look, every brush of fingers, every whispered “you okay?” before and after matches.

It was real. And it scared Will in the most beautiful way.

He let himself melt. Fully. Boneless in Swerve’s hold, letting the warmth soak into his sore muscles, letting the moment exist without trying to define it too quickly.

And God, Swerve was so gentle with him. Always so confident in the ring, on the mic, in the locker room—but with Will, he softened.

Not weak. Never that. Just... tender. Like Will was a precious little thing. Like Will mattered more than anything in this vast world.

Will’s cheek was mushed somewhere against Swerve’s collarbone when the thought crossed his mind: Swerve would be the best boyfriend.

Not just sexy. Not just talented. But caring. A protector.

The kind of man who could see Will cry without ever judging him. The kind of man who could calm him down mid-panic, mid-match, mid-everything. The kind of man who literally called Will’s asshole cute in one breath and kissed his temple in the next.

God. What had Will done to deserve this man?

What about Will could possibly be so desirable for such a god of a man to love him? Wholeheartedly at that.

He nuzzled in closer. Clung just a bit tighter.

And Swerve held him just as snug, rubbing soft, rhythmic lines down Will’s spine, murmuring something low and affectionate in his ear that Will couldn’t even register. Didn’t need to. The tone alone was enough.

Because in this moment—this too-warm hallway with their gear still sticking to their skin, with the echo of the crowd still in their ears and victory still buzzing under their skin—Will was safe.

He had Swerve.

They had each other.

And they’d protected each other. Just like always.

Will smiled against Swerve’s throat, the last of his adrenaline finally giving way to something softer. Sweeter. Steadier.

He was okay. They were okay.

When they slowly pulled apart from the hug, Will’s breath still a little shaky, his eyes locked right into Swerve’s.

And damn, Swerve’s smile was the softest thing Will had ever seen—full of warmth and pride, like he was looking at the whole universe wrapped up in one person: Will.

Then, with a tenderness that made Will’s heart melt, Swerve lifted a hand and gently brushed a drying tear off Will’s cheek.

Will leaned into the touch faster than he meant to, like a puppy begging for pets, completely helpless under that kind hand.

Swerve chuckled low and sweet, fingers sliding through Will’s damp curls to push a stubborn blond lock from his face, and then—soft as a whisper—pressed a kiss to Will’s forehead.

Will’s smile bloomed wide, feeling that slow, steady surge of adoration crashing over him.

Because the man who’d just annihilated the Young Bucks ten minutes ago was now this—soft, gentle, and so damn loving with him.

Swerve was big, handsome, confident... but right now, he was all love.

Butterflies infiltrated Will’s entire being.

Will leaned up, eyes shining, and pressed a light peck to Swerve’s lips.

The effect? Instant.

Swerve’s cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink, and his wide eyes blinked in surprise—and yes, it was absolutely adorable.

Will couldn’t help but grin, teasing, “Since when does a little peck make you blush, big guy?”

Swerve shot him a playful glare, voice low and teasing, “It’s your cute face. You’re the one making me shy.”

The two of them just stood there, both grinning like total doofuses, caught in a bubble of quiet sweetness that had nothing to do with the match or the crowd.

Swerve grinned, a little breathless and totally undone, and whispered, “I wouldn’t complain if you did that again.”

Will laughed softly, heart fluttering like crazy, and leaned up to press another peck to Swerve’s mouth.

Then another. And another.

By the fourth kiss, those pecks had melted into something so much deeper.

Swerve was kissing him back, slow and tender, lips moving gently against Will’s like they were the only two people in the whole damn world.

Swerve’s hands slid down to Will’s waist, fingers spreading wide, holding him so firmly yet so carefully—as if Will was the most dainty thing he’d ever touched, despite having just been slammed around in a brutal tag match for twenty-five minutes.

Will’s breath hitched, a quiet giggle bubbling up between kisses, their smiles mingling as they found a rhythm.

But then the giggles faded, replaced by quiet, lingering kisses that brushed over each other’s lips with soft urgency.

As the kisses deepened, Will felt himself completely unravel.

His whole body went warm and soft, like he was melting into mush in Swerve’s arms.

Will felt small (ironic for a guy his size and build). So incredibly small—but in the best way.

Safe. Loved.

Protected.

Swerve’s lips were impossibly soft, moving with such care and sweetness that Will’s heart thudded so loud he was sure the whole backstage could hear it.

Their lips parted just enough as they pulled back, eyes locked and sparkling like stars caught in a midnight sky.

Will, completely caught off guard by his own boldness, blurted out, “That eyeliner looks fucking amazing on you, bruv.”

Fuck, he sounded so stupid.

He really didn’t have a filter.

But hey, at least it was true.

Swerve’s smirk was pure mischief as he quipped, “Maybe I should wear it more often.”

Before Will could even react, Swerve leaned in and captured his lips again, this time with a fierce sweetness that made Will’s breath hitch.

And that’s when Will fully surrendered.

His arms lazily draped around Swerve’s neck, shoulders loosening, body completely giving in to the man holding him.

His knees weren’t knees anymore—they were pudding.

His body went pliant, and his heart felt like it was climbing right up his throat.

And then… Swerve’s tongue swept across Will’s bottom lip. Soft. Careful. Familiar.

Will let out the quietest gasp, eyes fluttering shut as Swerve deepened the kiss, tongue slipping into Will’s mouth with that same tender control Will had never stopped thinking about.

It brought him back—Mexico.

That night in Arena Mexico when Swerve kissed him so gently on the locker room bench, like the world outside the room didn’t exist. The tongue that brushed his lips now was the same one that coaxed his fears away then. That kiss had been new, electric, tender—a secret they hadn’t quite named yet, horrifically interrupted by poor Powerhouse Hobbs two aisles over.

And Seattle.

Will felt it—remembered it—when Swerve pressed deeper. The way that same tongue had been practically down his throat in the steam-filled shower of that Seattle locker room, when everything was heat and skin and whispered curses. The way Swerve kissed with his whole body, like his mouth could hold Will together. That memory flashed behind Will’s eyelids like lightning, and this kiss—this one right now—felt like the storm after.

Swerve kissed like he knew him. Like he knew Will’s every breath, every hesitation, every damn nerve ending.

And Will let him take control—because he always did. And he fucking loved it.

The way Swerve’s tongue swept against his own was almost reverent. Not hurried, not rough, just thorough. Deep. Tender. Like he was savoring him, not just kissing him.

And shit, Will was gone. Absolutely obliterated. His knees buckled slightly but Swerve’s hands at his waist steadied him, so big and strong and gentle, like Will hadn’t just spent a near half-hour out there in the ring getting his ass kicked.

He felt like he was floating. Like this kiss was the only thing grounding him. His brain was short-circuiting with soft heat and swirling butterflies.

He wanted to stay in this kiss forever.

Because this was Swerve. The man who calmed him down when he busted his nose. The man who held him steady when he was too overstimulated to speak backstage. The man who fucked him senseless in the showers in Seattle, yes—but who also whispered “good boy” in his ear and rubbed his hip after.

And now? He was kissing Will like he meant every one of those moments.

And Will knew he did. Especially since Swerve confirmed it two weeks ago with his impromptu love confession.

Will wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe just crawl inside this kiss and never come out. Because in Swerve’s mouth, Will felt wanted.

And he kissed back like his life depended on it.

Those kisses, once soft and giggle-filled, were changing.

Had changed.

Still sweet—God, still so sweet—but something deeper stirred underneath. The warmth in Will’s chest trickled down, down into his belly, slow like honey and just as sticky.

Because Swerve kissed like he was claiming him. And when Swerve’s arms tugged Will tighter, closer—fuck, the space between them ceased to exist.

There wasn’t room for thought anymore, only sensation.

Will could feel Swerve’s breath against his cheek, the brush of his nose, the slight dampness from the corner of his mouth. And then—

Oh fuck.

Swerve moved just a little, adjusting their hold—and somehow, maybe on purpose (definitely on purpose), Swerve’s big, solid thigh slid right between Will’s legs.

The moment Will made contact, he let out a broken little whimper. Right into Swerve’s mouth. Embarrassing, involuntary, real.

His hips bucked slightly, chasing that pressure.

Swerve felt it. Smirked into the kiss, didn’t say a word, but kissed him deeper—more tongue, more heat, one hand slipping up Will’s back like he owned every vertebrae.

Will was absolutely coming undone. His fingers clenched into the warm muscle of Swerve’s back.

Every part of his body was tingling now, especially his thighs, twitching ever so slightly around Swerve’s. It was too much. It was perfect.

The crying and overstimulation from earlier felt galaxies away now. All that existed was Swerve’s mouth, Swerve’s thigh, Swerve’s hands anchoring him like he was afraid Will would float away.

And Will would gladly float if Swerve was the one holding him.

Because fuck, this man was magical.

The same man who fought beside him with everything tonight, who took kicks to the face for him, who smiled like the sun backstage, who kissed his forehead like Will was angelic—that man was now making out with him like he owned him.

And Will let him.

Will let out another quiet gasp, grinding down just slightly on that thigh without even realizing it.

His thoughts were goo, his limbs gone. He wanted more—more pressure, more closeness, more of this man.

And deep in his spinning, whimpering, kiss-drunk brain, one thought rang loud and true:

He loved him.

He fucking loved him.

Will knew this kiss.

This exact kind of kiss. He recognized it.

It was the same kind they had in Arena Mexico, sitting on the edge of a goddamn locker room bench while Hobbs was literally two aisles away. The kind of kiss that made Will forget what planet he was on. The kind that had them dangerously close to crossing a line before they were even together.

And God, it was the exact same kind of kiss from Seattle.

In the shower.

Where water was running, heat was fogging the mirror, and Will ended up pressed against the tile, seeing stars as Swerve touched him like no one ever had. Where they ended up missing the call time for their match due to the Young Bucks’ last-minute fuckery. Where they ran out to the ramp half-dressed, still damp, not stretched. At least, not properly.

And right now?

Right now felt just like that.

Because Swerve’s thigh was solid between his legs. Dangerous. Every shift of pressure had Will biting back a sound. His hands now gripped Swerve’s shoulders like they were the only things tethering him to Earth.

He was five and a half seconds away from saying “fuck it” and letting Swerve take him right here.

Did it matter that it was a semi-public hallway? No.

Did it matter that they were still sweaty, gear half peeled, the smell of Tiger Balm and adrenaline still clinging to their skin? Absolutely not.

Did it matter that Will had literally been crying into Swerve’s shoulder like ten minutes ago? Nope. Not at all.

Because his instincts were screaming:

Let him have you.

Let him own you.

Let him claim you all over again.

Will wanted it. That same gentle, soul-destroying pleasure Swerve gave him in Seattle. The kind that rearranged his insides but also cradled his heart.

Back then, there were no love confessions, no promises—just desperation and tension and lust.

But now?

Now there was love.

Now there was truth.

Swerve loved him. Will loved him.

And he wanted this—badly, stupidly—but then...ugh.

Fucking Hangman.

Will’s horny, melted brain reminded him—Hangman still had to fight tonight. Against Jon Moxley. In a Texas Death Match.

And Will had promised he’d be there. Just in case the Death Riders tried anything sketchy. Hangman needed support, backup, someone he could count on.

Swerve could make Will forget the world, but Will couldn’t forget his people.

Not after everything they’d all shared, all the progress they had been making for Swerve and Hangman to be able to tolerate each other.

So as much as his hips wanted to grind down just one more time, as much as his brain begged for just a little more tongue, a little more pressure, Will made the hardest decision of the night—

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Still breathless. Still blushing. Still aching.

He let his forehead rest against Swerve’s, noses brushing, lips just a breath apart.

“Swerve,” he rasped, still dazed, “I want you so bad right now. But—Hangman…”

Swerve—patient, grounded, loving—exhaled. He cupped Will’s jaw, kissed his cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “I know.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Just held him.

And God, that almost made Will fall in love all over again.

Because even when Will said no, Swerve still made him feel wanted.

Still made him feel safe.

Still made him feel his.

They pulled apart with that kind of breathless chuckle that made Will’s stomach flutter.

God, their lips were so swollen.

Like, cartoonishly kiss-swollen.

Will swiped his thumb over his own mouth, looked at Swerve’s, and the two of them just broke into a laugh again.

And yeah. Will was a little hard.

Okay, more than a little.

At least this new black and gold gear was doing some favors for him, unlike his infamous purple, white, and gold pants—the ones that clung to every curve and crease like they were painted on. The ones Swerve once called “a personal attack.”

He glanced down at himself and wheezed a bit. “God, we were about to get carried away again,” Will said, brushing his curls back with a slightly embarrassed, lopsided grin.

Swerve, ever the menace, just smirked. “We always get carried away.”

His voice dropped a bit, suggestive in that warm, velvet tone that always got Will’s blood pumping. “There’s still time before the main event. Lots of matches between now and then…”

Will groaned—loudly, dramatically—and thunked his head against Swerve’s shoulder. “Don’t say that,” he whined into his chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Because as tempting as that reality was, he couldn’t risk it.

Not today.

Not tonight.

Not when Hangman was putting his body on the line in a Texas Death Match against fucking Jon Moxley.

What if the Bucks still had some bullshit in store even without EVP power? What if the matches flew by faster than planned? What if Hangman needed him and he was too sex-drunk and half-dressed again?

No. Not this time.

And Swerve knew it too. That glint of tease in his eye softened again, like he could read the entire spiral on Will’s face.

And instead of pushing, he just pulled Will into one last kiss. Then another. Then another. Soft, featherlight pecks between breaths.

“Still good?” Swerve asked gently, brushing his knuckles under Will’s chin.

And Will nodded. So fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Which was hilarious, really. Because good? Him? After crying, almost sex, more crying, laughing, panic attacks, hallway makeouts, overstimulation, and now boner management?

Will snorted.

He couldn’t not laugh. “God, how the fuck do you do this to me, bruv?” he muttered, wiping under his eyes again even though the tears were long dry. “I’ve been on, like, six emotional roller coasters since we got backstage. This is comical.”

Swerve laughed too, eyes crinkling, hands still resting low on Will’s waist. “What can I say, Billy,” he teased, “I bring out the best and worst in you.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Worst?”

Swerve shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “You nearly cried, came, and threw up all in the same fifteen minutes.”

“Oi,” Will groaned, smacking Swerve’s chest. “Too soon, mate.”

Swerve just laughed harder, pulling him in one last time before murmuring against his hair, “Just say the word, and I’m yours again the second Hangman’s match is over.”

Will felt it—deep in his belly, deep in his chest. The way those words stuck and fluttered. He didn’t say anything in response, just smiled.

He could get through the night.

Because Swerve would be waiting.

And goddammit, Will was so in love with this menace of a man.

They’d cooled down from the chaos of the hallway, and had since moved to tuck away in the dim lounge area just outside the locker rooms.

The buzz of adrenaline still hung faintly in the air, echoing from the distant thuds and roars of the crowd in the arena beyond.

A few other wrestlers were scattered around—some watching the monitors, others quietly rehydrating or icing bruises, murmuring about the card, the crowd, or what just happened with the Bucks.

Will sat on one of the oversized pleather couches, finally breathing like a normal human being again. The cool water he sipped helped settle him even more, and the full-body overstimulation was finally tapering off. His gear clung damp to his skin, but he was too tired to care.

Swerve was beside him—solid, warm, grounding like always. His chest still gleaming faintly from the match, locs now slightly loosened from their ponytail but still mostly intact. The eyeliner, smeared at the corners, somehow made him look even more godlike.

Will’s head rested against his shoulder, body melting like it was instinct.

The chill of the air conditioning prickled his skin a bit, but the weight of Swerve’s big strong arm around his shoulders made everything feel safe. Tethered.

Will was quiet for a while. Just soaking in the hum of the TV, the far-off match underway, the buzz in the floor beneath them.

He turned his head slightly, eyes fluttering toward the screen. The Hangman package had already aired a few segments ago. The match was coming.

His chest tightened again at the thought of it.

“Swerve,” he said softly, just above a whisper. His voice cracked slightly, a leftover tremor from earlier. “Would you help him? If he needs it?”

Swerve didn’t answer right away. Will could feel his body shift slightly beside him—could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

And Will didn’t push. He didn’t want to guilt Swerve into anything.

That wasn’t what this was.

He just knew that whatever happened out there between Hangman and Moxley tonight, it was going to be brutal. The kind of brutal that left scars, inside and out.

Will glanced up to find Swerve still watching the monitor, unreadable for a beat too long.

Will knew Swerve’s long, tumultuous history with the cowboy.

They both stooped incredibly low, nearly killed each other on multiple occasions, and swore on their lives that they would never work with each other.

However, since the heart-to-heart talk the two had on Thursday, Will had the slightest bit of optimism that Swerve and Hangman were on better terms.

They didn’t have to be buddy-buddy, hold hands, and frolic into the meadows together. Not at all.

Hangman needed all the support he could get in his match tonight, and if Swerve could be added to the equation as a benefit (not a hindrance for once), that only upped the chances of finally getting that gold belt back in the right hands.

Then—“Only if he really needs it,” Swerve said plainly.

Not passive aggressive. Not annoyed.

Will blinked.

And then smiled.

Because two weeks ago, that answer probably would’ve been a cold, immediate “fuck no.” Hell, two months ago it might’ve been hands thrown, gloves off, let him rot.

But this?

This was growth. From Swerve.

Will chuckled under his breath, not even mocking, just surprised and lowkey endeared. “You’re getting soft.”

Swerve side-eyed him. “Don’t start.”

But the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just a bit. And he didn’t let go of Will, arm still resting comfortably around his shoulders, hand lightly stroking along Will’s bicep in a quiet rhythm.

They both turned back to the monitor, watching whatever match was on right now.

Will felt his chest rise and fall with each slow breath, knowing that in a few hours, the main event would start. That Mox would make his commanding entrance. That Hangman would walk through hell again. And that Will might have to run.

But for now, he allowed himself this—this quiet warmth, this tentative progress, this earned peace—with Swerve.

Even if only for a few more moments.

Will lingered on that lounge couch longer than he probably should’ve, head still resting against Swerve’s shoulder like a contented puppy.

His body was cool now, sticky gear starting to chill in the overworked AC, but Swerve’s arm was warm and solid around him.

The adrenaline from the Bucks match was still ebbing out of his system slowly, like molasses.

His limbs were heavy. His heart, a fluttering thing in his chest.

He could’ve fallen asleep right there.

He didn’t, but only just barely.

They shared a few more soft kisses in the quiet moments that followed. Little pecks when no one was looking. Playful ones—one on the cheek, another on the temple, a third one when Swerve caught Will smiling to himself for no reason at all.

Eventually though, Will forced himself upright. Groaned softly as he stretched out the soreness in his back.

As much as he wanted to curl up and melt into Swerve forever, he knew he had to get moving.

The main event was creeping closer on the card, and he wasn’t gonna be caught off guard again like they were in Seattle.

Not on Hangman's night. Not when the Death Riders were absolutely going to pull something.

Back in the locker room, Will threw on a white shirt—just something to keep warm—and started loosening his arms, bouncing lightly on his feet to get his blood flowing.

Swerve stayed close, hands kneading into Will’s shoulders with firm, soothing pressure.

“Don’t stress,” he murmured. “This is Hangman’s moment.”

Will exhaled through his nose, nodded. “I know.”

Swerve turned him around and kissed him. Just once. Deep, slow, sweet.

Will leaned into it, let himself linger for a second, and then pulled back with a small, dazed smile.

“See you later?”

“Be careful out there,” Swerve said.

Then they parted—Will heading toward the monitor near the curtain, where the show crew was gathered, where the match feed played live, no delay.

He stayed there, laser-focused, body ready to run the second he saw even a hint of Wheeler, Claudio, or Gabe Kidd getting involved.

No gear changes. No delay. If they tried anything, Will was springing.

But even as he locked in, even as the Texas Death Match began and the violence unfolded onscreen—his mind kept drifting.

To Swerve.

To the match they just won.

To the way Swerve’s hands gently wiped away his tears.

To the way his thigh had slotted perfectly between Will’s legs in the hallway.

To the kisses that got too hot, too deep, too familiar way too fast.

This man wasn’t even officially his boyfriend yet, but loved him so much it was impossible to miss.

It was there in his voice, his eyes, his touch. And Will… Will felt it all.

Tonight was massive. Monumental. They’d done what no one thought they could, and did it together.

And if Will’s heart fluttered every time he replayed that win, or the way Swerve looked in that eyeliner, or the way he kissed him like a promise… well, who could blame him?

He’d earned this.

Swerve would be his boyfriend sooner or later. Maybe tonight—if Will’s body isn’t completely mangled by the Death Riders by then—back at the hotel, they could make it official.

They had to after such a victory.

And yeah…they also didn’t get to finish what they started earlier. Didn’t have time to melt into each other properly.

But the night wasn’t over yet. Not even close.

Hangman would need him soon. And when he did, Will would be there, ready to fight, to back him up, to protect him like he promised.

Will smirked faintly to himself, pretending to refocus on the screen.

Because once the main event ended—and once all the chaos was cleared, and Hangman (hopefully) had the belt in his hand—well…

After that?

After the arena emptied and the blood dried and the lights came down?

Will was already looking forward to exactly what came next.

Let’s just say… if history repeated itself—

Shower.

Locker room.

Swerve’s hands.

Swerve’s…everything.

He wouldn’t complain.