Archive of Our Own

The Continental Classic this year was a goddamn pressure cooker. Every match mattered, every point hoarded like it might be the difference between glory and getting left behind.

Gold League was a mess—everyone tied at six points, locked in this stupid dead heat—

Everyone except Jack Perry.

Pac stood in his corner and rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, loosening muscle and tension both, eyes already flicking over the ring like he was inventorying weapons.

New night, new opponent, same expectation.

Win.

He’d never fought Jack Perry before, sure, but that wasn’t exactly a concern. First times were rarely memorable. Most men folded the same way once pressure was applied.

And Pac had fought far worse.

Will Ospreay, all speed and recklessness, a nightmare if you blinked at the wrong time. Kyle Fletcher, stubborn as hell, sharp elbows and zero quit. Kazuchika Okada—cold, precise, hits you once in a certain spot and suddenly everything hurts. Pac had gone to war with all of them. Learned what real danger felt like.

Jungle Jack Perry?

Yeah. Right.

Pac almost snorted. The guy had only just come back this year after a long hiatus, riding momentum and fan love like it was armor.

The bloke was barely a factor in his mind—crowd darling, all bright eyes and momentum and goodwill he hadn’t earned yet.

AKA, he was completely unknown to Pac. But unknown didn’t mean dangerous. Unknown meant untested. And untested men broke easily.

He flicked his gaze across the ring, quick and professional.

Jack was taller than expected, pretty skinny for his height, limbs loose and bouncy like he didn’t know how badly this could go. Most of his weight had to be in that stupid amount of hair, tied back neatly for now in a bun, thick and dark even from a distance. He was smiling too—warm, open, like he was happy to be here.

The crowd ate it up. Kids yelling his name, fans leaning over the barricade like he was some kind of hero.

Pac grimaced. Gross.

He adjusted the straps of his singlet, jaw tightening, letting his focus narrow down to one thing.

This wasn’t a feel-good story. This was a tournament. This was about points and pain and putting people down hard enough they didn’t get back up.

This should be easy.

The bell rang.

Pac didn’t bother easing into it.

He surged forward, all speed and intent, driving Jack straight back into the ropes like it was nothing.

Too easy. Embarrassingly easy.

Pac’s forearm pressed in, crowd noise swelling as Jack hit the cables with a soft grunt, the ring shaking beneath them.

Yeah. This was exactly what he’d expected.

Pac crowded him, body close, overwhelming, hands up high at Jack’s throat at first—dominance, control, setting the tone early.

The referee started counting immediately, loud and sharp in Pac’s ear, because of course he did.

Pac knew the rules. He always knew the rules. He had a handful of seconds to make it hurt, to send a message.

His hands slid.

Not deliberately. Not at first. They slipped from Jack’s neck down to his chest, palms pressing into solid muscle, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

Pac’s brain flicked through options automatically—chop him. Smash him in the jaw. Make him regret standing here.

But he didn’t pick one.

He lagged.

His mind stalled like it had hit mud, stuck on the fact that Jack was… close.

Too close.

Jack’s hands were up behind the ropes, compliant, almost surrendering, and his eyes had dropped—not to Pac’s face, but to where Pac’s hands rested on his pecs.

He stared there for a second longer than made sense, brows faintly furrowed like he was trying to figure something out.

Even the ref sounded confused. “—three?”

Pac’s eyes dragged downward before he could stop them.

Jack’s body was smaller than he’d expected up close. Not weak—there was strength in his chest, solid and warm under Pac’s palms—but his waist was narrow, stupidly so, dipping in a way that made no tactical sense at all. Little beauty marks dotted his skin, barely visible under the lights, and Pac’s traitorous brain supplied the words sweet and soft like it was trying to get him killed.

And Jack arched—just a little—against the ropes.

What the fuck was he doing?

No. What the fuck was Pac doing?

Pac yanked his hands back like he’d been burned, stepping away sharply as the ref finally hit five.

Jack blinked and glanced at the referee too, looking just as confused as Pac felt, mouth parted like he’d been about to say something but thought better of it.

Pac scoffed, forced a sneer onto his face, threw his arms out like it had all been intentional. Taunting. Mind games. Trying to throw the Jungle Boy off early. That was the story, anyway.

Holy shit, though—what the fuck even was that?

Irritation flared hot and fast, chasing the weirdness away. Pac shook it off, jaw tight, eyes hardening.

Focus. Refocus. He had a match to win. Points to earn. Momentum to keep.

And stupid Jack Perry—with his stupid pecs and his stupid itty bitty waist—was not about to jeopardize that.

Absolutely not.

Pac snapped back into motion like nothing had happened.

Chain wrestling took over, his body moving on muscle memory while his brain worked overtime. This was just reconnaissance, that’s all.

He didn’t know Jack yet—didn’t know his tells, his weak spots, the angles where he’d fold easiest. Pac always needed a minute to map someone out. Anyone with a brain did.

This wasn’t sloppiness. This was intelligence.

Jack didn’t make it easy, though.

He slipped out of holds Pac expected to stick, ducked under strikes that should’ve clipped him, wriggled free in ways that were frankly irritating. Pac reached for him and came up with air more than once, Jack bouncing back on the balls of his feet, loose and fast, like he was enjoying himself.

Like this was a game.

Pac’s jaw tightened.

Jack rolled through a grapple and popped back up grinning, energy endless, movement light and springy. He moved like wrestling was fun—like he wasn’t thinking three steps ahead about damage and consequence and survival.

Pac told himself that was a weakness. It had to be. Men like that burned out quickly.

Even if—briefly—it looked like Jack was out-wrestling him.

Pac refused to acknowledge that thought fully.

He was letting Jack think he had the upper hand. That was all. Luring him in. Giving him confidence before ripping it away.

Pac could crush this pipsqueak in five minutes flat if he really wanted to.

He was smarter than most of his opponents. Always had been.

So he studied instead.

He clocked Jack’s footwork, the way he favored speed over power, the way he rebounded off the ropes with reckless trust in his own agility. Jack was bouncy as hell, all coiled energy and momentum, hair still tied back but already starting to loosen at the edges. He threw himself into every exchange like he believed it would work out.

Idiot.

Pac absorbed the rhythm, adjusted on the fly, told himself—over and over—that he was still in control. That this was intentional. That he hadn’t lost the thread at all.

Totally.

Thus, Pac finally found the rhythm.

Once he had it, it was obvious—Jack’s timing, his patterns, the way he used agility over brute force. Pac adjusted, tightened his strikes, cut off escape routes, and suddenly the match tilted hard in his favor. Elbows cracked against Jack’s face, sharp and punishing, and this time Jack didn’t bounce back so easily.

Yeah. There it is.

Somewhere in the middle of the exchange—Pac couldn’t have said when exactly, everything blurring together under sweat and impact—Jack’s hair tie gave up.

It slipped loose during the striking battle, probably when Jack took one elbow too many, and Pac registered it only vaguely at first.

Stupid idiot. If he really wanted that ridiculous amount of hair out of his face, you’d think he’d tie the bun tighter.

Then the hair fell.

It didn’t just come loose—it spilled. Long, thick curls cascaded down Jack’s back and over his shoulders in a way that felt almost unreal, auburn under the lights, slightly damp from what must’ve been Jack’s pathetic attempt at keeping it from frizzing. Water-darkened strands clung to his neck and jaw, curling wild and free like they’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Pac knew the look all too well. He’d only cut his own hair this year, after all. He knew how it felt when it finally escaped—defiant and impossible to tame.

Jack lost the exchange a second later, dropping to his knees with a sharp exhale, the fight knocked clean out of him for half a heartbeat.

Pac stepped in immediately, instinct sharp, hand fisting in Jack’s hair at first before sliding down to cup his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks as he hauled him upright.

This was meant to be intimidation.

Pac leaned in close, teeth bared, ready to snarl something cruel straight into Jack’s stupid face—to scare him, to remind him who he was dealing with.

But up close—

Fuck.

Jack’s cheeks were squished in Pac’s grip, skin warm and flushed, beard softer than it had any right to be. His eyes—too dolly, too brown, too damn gentle—were half-lidded with exhaustion, glassy in the ring lights. (Seriously. What kind of fucking professional wrestler had doe eyes?)

And that hair—long, everywhere, framing his face in loose curls like he’d stepped straight out of a storybook instead of a fight.

Jack Perry didn’t look like a wrestler.

He looked like something out of a fairytale.

Pac’s brain recoiled even as the thought lodged itself deep and stubborn and impossible to ignore. Princess energy, his mind supplied begrudgingly, traitorously.

And then, unbidden, uninvited, the word surfaced for the very first time:

Rapunzel.

Pac froze.

He didn’t even know when it happened.

One second he was in the middle of the ring, sweat-slick and breathing hard, one hand still cupping Jack’s face, the roar of the crowd vibrating through his bones—and the next—

He wasn’t there at all.

The ring vanished. The lights. The noise. All of it blinked out like someone had shut their eyes too hard.

There was silence. Cool, mossy silence. The kind that pressed in from all sides.

And suddenly—

Pac found himself walking through a forest. A deep, impossibly green forest, the kind that didn’t exist anymore, sunlight filtering down in soft golden streaks through leaves too perfect to be real.

He looked down at himself and frowned immediately. He wasn’t in his gear. He was wearing… something else. Leather, fabric, boots that definitely didn’t belong in the 21st century.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, because of course he did.

He pushed forward anyway, boots crunching softly over moss and fallen leaves, until the trees opened up and there it was—a tower, tall and narrow and rising straight out of the earth like it had grown there, stone walls wrapped in thick vines and blooming flowers, ivy crawling up its sides like it was being actively reclaimed by the forest.

Just a tower. In the middle of nowhere.

It was beautiful in a way that felt staged, too perfect to be real.

This had to be a dream.

Pac stared up at it, jaw tight. “Right,” he said to no one. “Sure.”

Pac approached cautiously anyway, because apparently even his subconscious didn’t trust a setup like this. He stopped at the base of the tower and craned his neck, squinting up toward a small open window near the top.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled, sharp and loud, hoping—somehow—that someone might hear him.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then a head appeared at the window.

“Who’s there?” a voice called down.

Pac’s stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Before his brain could catch up, before logic or dignity or sanity could intervene, his body moved on autopilot, like he’d stepped into a script he didn’t remember agreeing to.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” Pac called, voice echoing through the clearing, horrified even as the words left his mouth. “Let down your hair.”

Internally, he was screaming. What the fuck are you doing? This is insane. This is not real.

But at the same time—he was already here. In a fairytale forest. Staring up at a tower. If he was going to lose his mind, he might as well commit to it.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

Hair spilled from the window.

Not just hair. So much hair.

Long, thick, auburn curls poured down the side of the tower in a slow, impossible cascade, catching the sunlight, glowing warm and rich and alive. It brushed against the stone, against leaves and flowers, reaching all the way down to the forest floor like it had been waiting for him.

Pac swallowed.

If he knew anything about this stupid story—and apparently he did—it was that this was his cue.

He grabbed hold and climbed.

The hair was strong under his hands, softer than it looked but resilient, warm where the sun had kissed it and Pac ignored the way that detail lodged itself far too deeply in his brain. Curl after curl slid through his fingers as he pulled himself upward, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the climb.

When he finally hauled himself over the ledge and into the tower, breathless and stunned, he froze.

Jack Perry stood in front of him.

Not a wrestler. Not Jungle Boy.

Just… Jack.

His hair was loose and endless, meters and meters in length sprawling out to the floor in wild curls, auburn glowing like something precious. His eyes—those same brown eyes—were too soft, too kind, like they’d never seen anything cruel in their life. Despite being taller, his frame was small, careful, hands tucked close to himself like he didn’t quite know where to put them, neat beard framing a face that felt painfully out of place in a harsh world.

He was… beautiful. Pac didn’t have another word for it.

Genuinely, distractingly beautiful. The kind of beauty that made your chest ache a little when you looked at it too long.

Jack looked at him with quiet curiosity, lips parted just slightly, lashes batting like he was timid about this interaction, but not resistant.

Pac stepped closer without realizing it, and reached out before he could think better of it.

His fingers slid through Jack’s hair, slow and reverent, feeling the weight of it, the texture—curls slipping easily between his fingers. Jack inhaled softly at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, and Pac’s heart stuttered.

Princess with a beard, his mind supplied again, helplessly. But a princess nonetheless.

He was marveled. Completely, utterly taken.

Pac’s hand slid from Jack’s hair to his waist, fingers resting there like they belonged. Automatic almost. Jack was a delicate little thing. His hands came up slowly, cautiously, resting on Pac’s shoulders as if asking permission.

Pac didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

This wasn’t supposed to go like this. None of this was supposed to be happening.

But if this was a dream—if this was some ridiculous, impossible fairytale his mind had cooked up—he might as well see it through.

Up close, Jack was devastating.

Jack looked up at him, supple lips parted slightly, cheeks faintly flushed, and—fuck it—Pac leaned in.

His lips were soft when Pac kissed him—gentle and tentative and unreal, like the kind of kiss meant to exist only in stories. Jack made a quiet sound against his mouth, hands tightening just slightly, beard brushing Pac’s in a way that sent an unexpected shiver through him.

God, he was tiny. God, he was warm. God, he was—

Pretty.

Absurd? Completely.

Real? Not even close.

But Pac kissed him anyway, lingering, lost in it. Because if he was trapped in a fairytale, whatever the fuck was going on in the real world didn’t matter.

He had nothing to lose.

And Jack Perry—princess of a tower, doe-eyed and soft and impossibly beautiful—kissed him back.

And fuck, was it good.

After some slow, sweet moments, they pulled away from the kiss, just barely.

Pac’s heart was racing, loud in his ears, thudding so hard it almost drowned out the quiet of the tower.

What the living fuck. He’d met this man—this wrestler—moments ago. Jack Perry had been an opponent, a problem, a body to break. And somehow here Pac was, standing in a fable, kissing him like stage directions in a romance play that they didn’t even need to rehearse.

Rapunzel. Yeah. That tracked. Horrifyingly well.

Pac stared at Jack’s face, really scanning him now.

The dainty lines of his features that didn’t quite make sense on a grown man who was supposed to be a fighter. The soft flush on his cheeks. The way his eyes stayed warm and open and trusting, lashes low like he wasn’t afraid of anything up here.

Fuck. Why was Jack Perry so… cute?

Why did he look like he belonged in a tower instead of a ring? Why did that ridiculous, beautiful hair make it worse, frame him like something precious instead of dangerous?

Pac lifted his hand and brushed his thumb along Jack’s cheek.

Jack leaned into it.

Just a little. Like it was instinct. Like this was safe.

Shit.

Pac’s chest tightened. He could stay here. He could stay in this quiet, impossible place forever, just the two of them and sunlight and curls and—

Pain detonated through his hand.

Sharp. White-hot. Like his fingers were being crushed between iron bars.

“What the—” Pac gasped, blinking hard—

And the fairytale vanished.

The tower. The forest. The sunshine. Gone.

Pac was back in the ring, sweat dripping into his eyes, lungs burning—and his arm was locked around Jack’s neck.

The Brutalizer. Fully cinched in.

And Jack Perry was biting his fingers.

“FUCK!” Pac roared, jerking instinctively as pain exploded up his hand, teeth clamped down hard enough to draw blood. The crowd noise crashed back into existence all at once, deafening, overwhelming.

The fantasy shattered completely.

That—that whole fucked-up daydream had happened during the match?

During the Continental Classic?

Pac’s stomach dropped. His head spun.

Had he been moving on autopilot this entire time? Applying holds without thinking? Letting muscle memory carry him while his brain fucked off into some fairytale nightmare?

That wasn’t like him. Ever.

But the damage was done.

Pac released his grip just a fraction too late, shaking his hand, trying to recalibrate, trying to process what the hell had just happened—and Jack slipped free immediately. Fast. Sharp. Opportunistic.

Before Pac could fully turn, before his footing was set, Jack dropped and rolled him up.

One.

Two.

Three.

The ref’s hand hit the mat, and the bell rang.

Pac lay there, stunned, chest heaving, staring up at the lights as reality finally settled in.

He’d just lost.

He just fucking lost.

And somehow—impossibly—he knew exactly why.

Pac sat up slowly on the mat, blinking like his brain had just rebooted wrong.

He wasn’t even angry.

That was the worst part.

He just sat there, chest heaving, staring straight ahead in complete, utter disbelief. No rage spike. No immediate urge to murder someone. Just shock—pure and stupid and ringing in his ears.

The crowd didn’t give him a second to catch up.

Jack’s music hit, and instantly the arena erupted, fans singing along at the top of their lungs, doing that stupid arm-wave dance like this was some feel-good montage instead of a nightmare Pac was currently living in.

He turned his head just in time to see Jack roll out of the ring, curls wild and flowing, grin split wide across his stupidly handsome face.

Pac scoffed under his breath. Right. Yeah. Sure.

Jack Perry wasn’t Rapunzel. Jack Perry was a wrestler. A wrestler who had just beaten him clean. A wrestler who apparently either had hallucinogenic powers baked into his stupid pretty face, or who Pac had severely underestimated.

But why?

Pac dragged a hand down his face, still trying to regulate his breathing.

Did this happen to everyone who wrestled Jack? Did all of his opponents short-circuit like that, brains turning to mush the second they got too close? Or was Pac just… losing it?

Maybe he’d spent too much time around that rabid dog Gabe Kidd lately. Maybe the insanity was contagious. Who the hell knew anymore.

Pac kept staring at Jack as he walked up the ramp, soaking in the noise, hair flowing like it had personally won the match for him.

Fuck Jack Perry. Fuck his pretty face and his stupidly nice body and his annoyingly soft eyes and that goddamn hair.

If he’d just worn a tighter bun, none of this bullshit would’ve happened in the first place.

And then—of course—Luchasaurus showed up.

Pac’s eye twitched as the big dumb dinosaur came stomping down the ramp behind Jack, wearing a fucking Santa hat of all things, holding milk and cookies like this was a bedtime story instead of a professional wrestling tournament. He handed them over like Jack was some delicate princess who needed doting on after a long day.

Ironic. Deeply, painfully ironic.

Pac let out a breath that was half a laugh and half a growl, shaking his head as he finally pushed himself to his feet.

Now everyone in the Gold League was tied at six points, making it that much harder to take the top spot.

What a fucking disaster.

Pac didn’t need long to accept it.

The taste of humiliation settling heavy in his chest, the truth came easy: he deserved to lose.

There was no excuse worth keeping.

He’d underestimated Jack Perry, sure—but worse than that, he’d let his mind wander. He’d let himself drift. In the middle of the Continental Classic. In a match that mattered.

Unforgivable.

He leaned back against the ropes and watched Jack on the outside, laughing as he passed out cookies and little toys to fans at ringside like some kind of wholesome nightmare. Kids reaching for him. Adults losing their minds. Cameras eating it up.

How festive. How charitable. How… unsettling.

Pac wasn’t sure if the sight made him want to gag or feel something deeply uncomfortable in his chest.

Jack Perry, the people’s princess. No pun intended.

God.

Pac scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked away, jaw tight.

He didn’t know why his brain had done that to him, of all people, with that opponent. He didn’t even know Jack. Not really. He didn’t like him. Had no reason to.

And yet—he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at Jack Perry again without thinking about that stupid long hair, that stupid little waist, those stupid soft lips he’d kissed in a maladaptive fantasy he absolutely, definitely did not want to recreate in real life. Definitely not.

It was nothing.

And yet.

Pac groaned quietly and pushed himself to his feet, already dreading the future. Because somehow, some way, he was going to have to explain this to the Death Riders. Explain how he lost to Jungle Jack Perry of all people. He’d literally beaten Kyle Fletcher last week with ease. Kyle Fletcher. A legitimate killer.

And tonight, it was bloody Jack Perry who pinned him. That was humiliating.

Fuck.

He’d need an excuse. A good one. Maybe a bad one. Maybe he’d just run until his lungs burned and his head cleared and hope no one asked too many questions. Anything to shake the image loose. Anything to forget the tower and the hair and the way princess Jack had looked at him like that.

Because that daydream didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

He didn’t know Jack. He didn’t want Jack. This wasn’t some fairytale bullshit.

It was just a lapse. A fluke. A disaster.

So yeah, losing to Jack Perry was bad.

Losing to Rapunzel was worse.