redfiona99 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redfiona99) wrote2013-10-27 04:41 pm
redfiona99) wrote2013-10-27 04:41 pm
Entry tags:
Fic - Repeating Image (1/1)
Title: Repeating Image
Author: Red Fiona
Fandom: Wrestling
Characters: Randy Orton, Chris Jericho and John Bradshaw Layfield
Pairings: Chris Jericho/John Bradshaw Layfield
Prompt: 14 – Breath Play
Word Count: 381
Rating: R, reference to RL deaths
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they themselves and WWE do. No money being made. This bears no resemblance to real life.
Notes: Set during Jericho and JBL’s 2007 feud. This is Randy Orton and this is Chris Jericho and this is JBL. My memory insists that there was a dog-collar match at some point in this feud but the internet does not recall it, which suggests I’m now inventing matches.
~~~~
Randy wished people would learn to lock doors. By people, he meant Layfield and Jericho. And fucking backstage, who did that? Randy understood being horny, really, but you waited until you were back in a hotel, where there was a comfortable bed at least. And less chance of your poor, unfortunate, somehow-having-to-look-you-in-the-face-the-next-day-without-reacting co-workers walking in on you.
And he thought that that should go double if you were doing some really kinky shit like Layfield and Jericho had been doing.
Randy couldn't get the image out of his head, desperately though he tried; because Layfield leering at Jericho while tightening a noose hooked up on a jury-rigged pulley system around Jericho's throat was not a pleasant sight. Randy hoped that props wouldn't get that dog-collar back. But his mind kept flashing back to Jericho, one hand frantically scrabbling at his neck, face going purple with effort, while the other hand was pressing down on his crotch. Jericho's face had been ecstatic.
That was the thing Randy returned to every time. He wanted whatever it was that looked like it felt so damn good.
Except, at the same time, he didn't want to pull a Hutchence. Randy wasn't stupid, he knew that doing this solo with a belt and door handle was a quick way of ending up on "Dumbest Celebrity Deaths" or some other shitty TV programme. And you couldn’t really get enough of a grip with your own hands.
But doing it with someone else, you'd have to trust them to stop when you needed them to stop, because it was your life in their hands, and Randy didn't. Because it was a dog eat dog world here, and he'd pissed off enough of the dogs to make himself a top target. He wouldn't swear that he wouldn't take liberties if another guy asked him to put his hands around his throat, so Randy was sure someone else wouldn’t stop strangling him. He'd always suspected that Jericho was fucked in the head, ever since the whole "saving the WWE from Orton" thing but this was the final proof. Layfield was a notorious asshole, and everyone had at least one horror story of the things he'd done yet Jericho was there trusting him with his life.
It was beyond Randy.
Author: Red Fiona
Fandom: Wrestling
Characters: Randy Orton, Chris Jericho and John Bradshaw Layfield
Pairings: Chris Jericho/John Bradshaw Layfield
Prompt: 14 – Breath Play
Word Count: 381
Rating: R, reference to RL deaths
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they themselves and WWE do. No money being made. This bears no resemblance to real life.
Notes: Set during Jericho and JBL’s 2007 feud. This is Randy Orton and this is Chris Jericho and this is JBL. My memory insists that there was a dog-collar match at some point in this feud but the internet does not recall it, which suggests I’m now inventing matches.
~~~~
Randy wished people would learn to lock doors. By people, he meant Layfield and Jericho. And fucking backstage, who did that? Randy understood being horny, really, but you waited until you were back in a hotel, where there was a comfortable bed at least. And less chance of your poor, unfortunate, somehow-having-to-look-you-in-the-face-the-next-day-without-reacting co-workers walking in on you.
And he thought that that should go double if you were doing some really kinky shit like Layfield and Jericho had been doing.
Randy couldn't get the image out of his head, desperately though he tried; because Layfield leering at Jericho while tightening a noose hooked up on a jury-rigged pulley system around Jericho's throat was not a pleasant sight. Randy hoped that props wouldn't get that dog-collar back. But his mind kept flashing back to Jericho, one hand frantically scrabbling at his neck, face going purple with effort, while the other hand was pressing down on his crotch. Jericho's face had been ecstatic.
That was the thing Randy returned to every time. He wanted whatever it was that looked like it felt so damn good.
Except, at the same time, he didn't want to pull a Hutchence. Randy wasn't stupid, he knew that doing this solo with a belt and door handle was a quick way of ending up on "Dumbest Celebrity Deaths" or some other shitty TV programme. And you couldn’t really get enough of a grip with your own hands.
But doing it with someone else, you'd have to trust them to stop when you needed them to stop, because it was your life in their hands, and Randy didn't. Because it was a dog eat dog world here, and he'd pissed off enough of the dogs to make himself a top target. He wouldn't swear that he wouldn't take liberties if another guy asked him to put his hands around his throat, so Randy was sure someone else wouldn’t stop strangling him. He'd always suspected that Jericho was fucked in the head, ever since the whole "saving the WWE from Orton" thing but this was the final proof. Layfield was a notorious asshole, and everyone had at least one horror story of the things he'd done yet Jericho was there trusting him with his life.
It was beyond Randy.