Chapter Text
what a work of art I've spawned,
man am I proud of myself on this one.
she's such a fucking masterpiece,
self-destruction is such a pretty little thing.
Sweat burned his eyes, hair drenched in it--body glistening, bloody nose and a few cuts here and there. He swung, right fist making contact with a cheek bone, hearing the satisfying crack and his opponent stumbling. Cheers of encouragement with loud yells from around the cage, a few patrons sitting high above the octagonal looking bars forming the cage.
He ducked when a swing came at him, grappling his opponent from the midsection and ramming the other into the bars of the cage. Nails clawing deep into skin on the back, feeling skin tear from under; a loud cry and the shove at the shoulders.
Hands filled with bills, waving frantically about as the ones they cashed in on fought--bloody and on the brink of exhaustion.
It didn't take much for a few more swings, spits of blood flying about and most likely a tooth, for his opponent to fall to the stained cement of past fights. Wasn't dead, but it was close enough.
More cheers, screams and bills falling down from above; green confetti of hundred dollar bills, fifties, twenties, and a few ones.
"Beta Division winner of Rank 8: Jon Moxley."
Collecting his bets, and his opponent's bets that were lost, Mox made his way out of the cage and to the stalls. Pats on the back, a few "good jobs" and little chants. The soreness would creep in soon, blood will dry and cuts will burn a bit.
Letting the grime, the sweat and drying blood wash off his naked body, Jon Moxley stood in the small stall as water rinsed down the soap. Hot, enough to burn the cuts he had on his back and letting his pale skin turn pink slowly.
"Very impressive, Jon. You did so well tonight," came the accent of a voice, footsteps coming closer to Mox's stall as he pushed dirty blond hair away from his eyes.
Regal wasn't fazed by Mox's nudity, had raised this man as his own child at the age of seventeen--a twisted, darker version of Regal.
A grunt in reply.
"Don't forget you still have personal business to take care of once you're finished bathing."
Another grunt in reply. Turning the knob, water no longer running and dripping wet. Pale blue eyes shifting, looking up at Regal's same pale blue, scar on his upper lip. Mox remembers that night so well.
"Go away," muttered Mox.
There was a low snort from Regal, and quietly left Mox to dry up and get dressed. Be presentable. All he wanted to do was sleep for fucking days; he hurt, he was tired. Sighing in frustration, putting on the same sweaty jeans on and dirty boots--never did fights with shirts, learned that the first day in the Omega Division, ripped in shreds.
Stuffing the wad of cash into his jean pocket, Mox walked out of the werehouse; a watercolor sky, pinks and oranges, purples laced with yellows.
He needed a cigarette, or maybe a quick high. Regal hated when Mox came high, an ex-junkie who now despised drugs around him and in his home. Wasn't even a fucking home.
A brothel, Mox's humbly warm home. Girls and younger men lived around, their own rooms for pleasure. Sweet butts was what they were called, and Mox hated that fucking word given to him.
Maybe he'd fall asleep while whoring himself. Again.
Mox walked his route to Regal's fine home of a brothel, whistling a catchy tune as he got a few stares with being that he was shirtless, hair still damp and curled now. He'd shower again anyways, hated smelling like the men who touched and fucked him raw.
He'd rather smell like sweat from a good fight, and blood from a staggering opponent. From a world painted in gold, Mox was just a kick in the teeth; a little weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Such a pretty boy you are, look at you..."
He was so used to hearing those words almost every night, the squeaking of his bed; the low grunts coming from his clamped teeth, the loud huffing of the man on top. They never cared if Mox was in the mood, as long as they got their rush it didn't matter.
Side of his face pressed into his pillow, fingers twisted in sheets that hadn't been washed in a week, thick hands wrapped on slender hips--bruising on other bruises. He still hurt from the fight earlier, god he wanted to fucking sleep so bad.
There was a low moan, the stuttering of hips smashing into the back of his thighs and the slow pull of latex and rawness after. Mox let out a deep breath, sagging into the bed slowly after his hips had been raised off the mattress.
Mox never remembered a name, always forgot a face. Hated looking into the eyes of married men, or men who sore they were just straight and just experiencing something new.
A tossed hundred, the lift of pants and the slip of a belt. Mox was alone in his room now, five minutes to recover till his next client would come through. He turned on his back slowly, hissing low at the stiffness; not even hard, didn't even come this time. Reaching under his pillow for the pack, Mox tapped it against his palm and pulled out one cigarette.
He lit it quietly and took a long drag, closing his eyes.
Blowing the smoke out and slowly getting up, pulling on some dirty basketball shorts that would hang a little low on his sharp hips. There was a soft knock, and then the door opened quietly.
Mox looked up, cigarette barely hanging on the bottom of his lip. Could see jeans and boots, fitting snug. A shirt on a nice body what Mox could see, tight; bit of a pudge at the stomach. Shoulder length black hair.
"You prefer a particular position?" was Mox's question, looking at the man. Never bothered for names unless role play happened, that was so rare though.
The guy, tan with a half piece of ink design on one shoulder Mox could see, peeking out at the collar, smiled.
"My intentions tonight are not for getting between your legs," he said, and then pulled out two hundred dollar bills.
"Then what the hell do ya want? A blowjob?"
The man shook his head, still smiling like he was amused by something. Mox was about to deck this idiot.
"Just your time," he replied. "Even paying a little extra." He slowly made his way across the room and set the bills down on the table next to the other little piles of cash from previous customers.
"Look man, either I'm going to blow you or you're going to fuck me, I'm not in the goddamn mood to play little mind games here," Mox barked out, head starting to hurt.
The guy sat on the bed quietly and raised his hands in mock surrender. He gave a small chuckle.
"No sexual intercourse, alright? No blow jobs either, I just wanna talk."
"Talk?! Oh this is rich," Mox muttered. "You're a goddamn cop, aren't ya?"
"No, I'm a high school English teacher. And I do writing on the side," the idiot replied in a monotone voice.
Mox burst out laughing, seeing the confused face the dude gave him. Sitting beside the large man, he snorted again, shaking his head. What fucking teacher like this guy sitting beside him would come to a goddamn brothel to just talk?
Watching the guy lay on the bed; back on filthy sheets and looked at Mox with those dark brown eyes. He gave a pat beside him, inviting Mox to lay beside. This idiot was so weird, and Mox cautiously went and laid beside the tan man--curled in at his side, knees pressed to the man's side and stared.
The guy turned his head and looked at Mox quietly, giving a small smile. He never had someone want to talk to him, not even Regal; this dude was even taking his time to just look at Mox, something his customers never did, all they wanted was just a good fuck and that was that.
"So let's talk, man."