FIC: You'd Make an Exception (Shawn/Hunter, R)
This WOULD NOT leave me alone. Ever since I saw the "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man" biopic, the song "Chelsea Hotel #2" has provoked Shawn/Hunter thoughts every time I listen to it. I do like Cohen's original version (cause duh, the man is AMAZING), but I will admit to liking one of Rufus Wainwright's covers better than the original. Rufus just gives it such a different sound - something that drew me to Buckley's "Hallelujah" - and more of a subtext. When you listen to Cohen, you know he's talking about a woman (namely, Janis Joplin). With Rufus, there's a little more ambiguity (because he's as gay as a treeful of monkeys on laughing gas and there's no disguising it). It's a very apropos song for Shawn/Hunter, at any rate.
And so, there was ficcage:
Title: You’d Make an Exception
Author: Drea (bluerosefairy)
Rating: R, for adult content and language.
Fandom/Pairing: Wrestling. Shawn/Hunter.
Disclaimer: Oh, you better believe my last name ain’t McMahon. I own nothing.
Spoilers: For the Triple H-Vince McMahon match on the 9/11 Raw.
Author’s Notes: This began life as a drabble, and wouldn’t stop growing. Personally, I blame irisfan's constant prodding for more smut, as well as Rufus Wainwright’s performance in “Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man”. Hugs to darlakane for the fantastic beta job and to _head1st4halos for putting up with my constant teasing. Title, summary and lyrics from Leonard Cohen‘s “Chelsea Hotel #2”, of course.
~*~*~*~*~*~
I remember you well, in the Chelsea Hotel
You were talking so brave and so sweet
Giving me head on the unmade bed
While the limousines wait in the street
~*~*~*~*~*~
It never ceases to amaze me, Hunter’s ability to multitask.
“ . . . so I’ll do the bladejob off the turnbuckle, let Vince open me up some, and then Shane’ll come down for the chair shots. Your run-in’s right after the old man Pedigrees me, but make sure you remember to sell the tilt-a-whirls from earlier . . .”
I honestly don’t know how he does it. I mean, it should be statistically impossible to carry on a running commentary while sucking someone’s dick, right?
“ . . . are you even listening to me, Shawn?”
Uh, let me think. Concentrate on Hunter rehashing tonight’s script for the fifteenth time or concentrate on the sight of his hollowed cheeks and the wicked things he can (and is) doing with his tongue to the underside of my-
Yeah, how about no?
I turn my head from where I’ve buried it in the only pillow not shoved under my behind or thrown onto the floor and glare at him.
“Take a wild - ah! - guess.”
That cocky grin spreads across his face, and he digs his nails into the crease of my hip in a calculated move he knows is guaranteed to make my back arch and hips snap.
“Fuck!” The word slips out before I realize it.
“Well, that wasn’t very godly of you.”
I throw the pillow at him in retaliation and smile as it hits him right in the forehead.
“Quit being such an ass, Hunter.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Tease.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know you like it.”
The hell of it is, he isn’t wrong. I’ve never been able to resist him, especially not the way he’s looking now - sprawled on his stomach between my legs, hair falling into his eyes, and a self-satisfied smirk still on his face. Typical Hunter. You either love to love him, or love to hate him.
But you can’t hate him completely. Believe me, I’ve tried and failed.
He can annoy me half to death with his yammering. He can prompt screaming matches with my wife with two simple words. He can ride around on his high horse and act like the kind of prima donna I used to be. He can be ignorant and stubborn and conceited and I’d still knock someone out for even implying that of him.
Cause I’ve always had a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Hunter. For someone so concerned with hypocrisy in others, you’d think I’d be able to recognize it more in myself.
“Hey,” he drawls, voice coming from somewhere near my ear and not the vicinity of my waist as it had previously.
I open my eyes to find him stretched out on his side next to me, virtually nose-to-nose. “Hey yourself.”
“What’s going on up there?”, he asks, tapping the side of my head. “You look a little out of it.”
Gee, I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if Hunter’s spent the last hour or so determined to drive me absolutely insane. It’s not as if my nerves are going haywire because I’ve been a hair away from climaxing for the past ten minutes. Oh, no. No reason to be out of it at all.
In response to my look of disbelief, Hunter rolls his eyes. “Not because of that. There’s something else.”
He’s always been able to read me like a book - the morning he jumped in my car after Wrestlemania 11, the first thing he said to me and Kev when we were on the road was “I wasn’t trying to kiss ass yesterday - you guys really are where the business is going”. There’s very little bullshit around Hunter, and I like that.
“Just worried about tonight”, I admit. “I trust Shane, Vince, and Show, but Murdoch’s a crapshoot and Cade’s always going to be a rookie to me. There’s a thousand things I can think of off the top of my head that could go wrong with that limo spot.”
His hands are immediately on me, stroking up and down my back, and smoothing out muscle in that uniquely Hunter rhythm. My leg slides over his, more of a desire to be closer to him than anything else, and he sighs out a reply into my hair.
“Nothing’s going to happen, Shawn.”
“You getting a car door slammed onto your head and neck isn’t nothing.”
And I hate that about the business. We’re a week away from the most brutal match in history (and yeah, I’m not ashamed to admit I still get a chill down my spine every time I hear the words “Hell in a Cell”), and Vince wants to bang us around some more. What a fantastic idea.
His fingers ghost over the waxy line at my temple that’s the souvenir of my first Cell match. I did a number on myself that night. Jo and Hunter said I hadn’t stopped bleeding for over an hour.
“I’m more careful about blading than you are. You just watch yourself on those tilt-a-whirls and the powerbomb, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
I’m only slightly mollified - he’s not wrong about the blading, seeing as his only real scar is the six-inch surgical gash on his quad. But I hate arguing with Hunter.
“Alright. Just remember when you’re getting all those stitches tonight in the trainer’s office that it was all your idea.”
“I’m sure you’ll remind me if I don’t.”
I lean over to brush my lips across his. “That’s what you keep me around for.”
“Well, yeah”, he says, before yanking me off balance and on top of him. His trademark grin is my only warning as he rolls his hips against me, but I wipe the smile off his face as I grip him by the hair. He chokes out the remainder of what he was saying through a series of gasps as my teeth scrape along his collarbone. “That, and you’re really hot when you’re lecturing me.”
Hot, huh?
I suppose I should remind him of that old saying about playing with fire.
Feedback is loved, hugged, squeezed and called George.
And so, there was ficcage:
Title: You’d Make an Exception
Author: Drea (bluerosefairy)
Rating: R, for adult content and language.
Fandom/Pairing: Wrestling. Shawn/Hunter.
Disclaimer: Oh, you better believe my last name ain’t McMahon. I own nothing.
Spoilers: For the Triple H-Vince McMahon match on the 9/11 Raw.
Author’s Notes: This began life as a drabble, and wouldn’t stop growing. Personally, I blame irisfan's constant prodding for more smut, as well as Rufus Wainwright’s performance in “Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man”. Hugs to darlakane for the fantastic beta job and to _head1st4halos for putting up with my constant teasing. Title, summary and lyrics from Leonard Cohen‘s “Chelsea Hotel #2”, of course.
~*~*~*~*~*~
I remember you well, in the Chelsea Hotel
You were talking so brave and so sweet
Giving me head on the unmade bed
While the limousines wait in the street
~*~*~*~*~*~
It never ceases to amaze me, Hunter’s ability to multitask.
“ . . . so I’ll do the bladejob off the turnbuckle, let Vince open me up some, and then Shane’ll come down for the chair shots. Your run-in’s right after the old man Pedigrees me, but make sure you remember to sell the tilt-a-whirls from earlier . . .”
I honestly don’t know how he does it. I mean, it should be statistically impossible to carry on a running commentary while sucking someone’s dick, right?
“ . . . are you even listening to me, Shawn?”
Uh, let me think. Concentrate on Hunter rehashing tonight’s script for the fifteenth time or concentrate on the sight of his hollowed cheeks and the wicked things he can (and is) doing with his tongue to the underside of my-
Yeah, how about no?
I turn my head from where I’ve buried it in the only pillow not shoved under my behind or thrown onto the floor and glare at him.
“Take a wild - ah! - guess.”
That cocky grin spreads across his face, and he digs his nails into the crease of my hip in a calculated move he knows is guaranteed to make my back arch and hips snap.
“Fuck!” The word slips out before I realize it.
“Well, that wasn’t very godly of you.”
I throw the pillow at him in retaliation and smile as it hits him right in the forehead.
“Quit being such an ass, Hunter.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Tease.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know you like it.”
The hell of it is, he isn’t wrong. I’ve never been able to resist him, especially not the way he’s looking now - sprawled on his stomach between my legs, hair falling into his eyes, and a self-satisfied smirk still on his face. Typical Hunter. You either love to love him, or love to hate him.
But you can’t hate him completely. Believe me, I’ve tried and failed.
He can annoy me half to death with his yammering. He can prompt screaming matches with my wife with two simple words. He can ride around on his high horse and act like the kind of prima donna I used to be. He can be ignorant and stubborn and conceited and I’d still knock someone out for even implying that of him.
Cause I’ve always had a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Hunter. For someone so concerned with hypocrisy in others, you’d think I’d be able to recognize it more in myself.
“Hey,” he drawls, voice coming from somewhere near my ear and not the vicinity of my waist as it had previously.
I open my eyes to find him stretched out on his side next to me, virtually nose-to-nose. “Hey yourself.”
“What’s going on up there?”, he asks, tapping the side of my head. “You look a little out of it.”
Gee, I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if Hunter’s spent the last hour or so determined to drive me absolutely insane. It’s not as if my nerves are going haywire because I’ve been a hair away from climaxing for the past ten minutes. Oh, no. No reason to be out of it at all.
In response to my look of disbelief, Hunter rolls his eyes. “Not because of that. There’s something else.”
He’s always been able to read me like a book - the morning he jumped in my car after Wrestlemania 11, the first thing he said to me and Kev when we were on the road was “I wasn’t trying to kiss ass yesterday - you guys really are where the business is going”. There’s very little bullshit around Hunter, and I like that.
“Just worried about tonight”, I admit. “I trust Shane, Vince, and Show, but Murdoch’s a crapshoot and Cade’s always going to be a rookie to me. There’s a thousand things I can think of off the top of my head that could go wrong with that limo spot.”
His hands are immediately on me, stroking up and down my back, and smoothing out muscle in that uniquely Hunter rhythm. My leg slides over his, more of a desire to be closer to him than anything else, and he sighs out a reply into my hair.
“Nothing’s going to happen, Shawn.”
“You getting a car door slammed onto your head and neck isn’t nothing.”
And I hate that about the business. We’re a week away from the most brutal match in history (and yeah, I’m not ashamed to admit I still get a chill down my spine every time I hear the words “Hell in a Cell”), and Vince wants to bang us around some more. What a fantastic idea.
His fingers ghost over the waxy line at my temple that’s the souvenir of my first Cell match. I did a number on myself that night. Jo and Hunter said I hadn’t stopped bleeding for over an hour.
“I’m more careful about blading than you are. You just watch yourself on those tilt-a-whirls and the powerbomb, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
I’m only slightly mollified - he’s not wrong about the blading, seeing as his only real scar is the six-inch surgical gash on his quad. But I hate arguing with Hunter.
“Alright. Just remember when you’re getting all those stitches tonight in the trainer’s office that it was all your idea.”
“I’m sure you’ll remind me if I don’t.”
I lean over to brush my lips across his. “That’s what you keep me around for.”
“Well, yeah”, he says, before yanking me off balance and on top of him. His trademark grin is my only warning as he rolls his hips against me, but I wipe the smile off his face as I grip him by the hair. He chokes out the remainder of what he was saying through a series of gasps as my teeth scrape along his collarbone. “That, and you’re really hot when you’re lecturing me.”
Hot, huh?
I suppose I should remind him of that old saying about playing with fire.
Feedback is loved, hugged, squeezed and called George.