#do not hit that expand button unless you want to explode your dash if you're on mobile /j

[hostilecityshowdown]

[ I’m coming for you when the sun goes down ] [ AO3 ] - has chapters! • Diamond Exchange and slater’s self insert • diamond studdxslater-centric, featuring vinnie vegas* and diamond dallas page • commissioned • content warnings: depicted alcohol consumption (near the end), flirting and themes of suggestive nature, graphic language, one intimate but not explicit scene (near the end), implied/gently narrated body image issues, brief (positive) discussion of gender affirming surgery and one depiction of post-op bandaging (last chapter) • should i include “it’s over twelve thousand words long” as a content warning /j the ao3 link is divided into chapters if that’s more accessible

*vegas is a similar muse to my heartbreak hotel diesel, inspired by mango’s AU, but he isn’t exactly the same! slater likes him a lot so i ported him in. thank you!

-

"We're gettin' counted down. Let's rock n' roll, baby."

Straightening up, the Diamond Studd gave up on trying to fix his hair. His reflection wasn't clear enough in the dark CRT anyway, but preening was almost a compulsion; every week he went without a personal stylist, he hounded Dallas about finding a valet more. Brushing off his annoyance, he flashed Dallas a smile that put his canines on full display. pleased that his reflection was a hell of a lot clearer in his proprietor's shades. He stared himself down as he pulled his own sunglasses from the waistband of his overalls, flipped them open, and mindfully slid them on. Someone murmured something to Dallas from the other side of the curtain behind him, but Studd didn’t have to hear it to know what was said. The opening sting of Iron Rock drowned all the noise out, before it, too, was lost in the cacophony of the crowd.

“Accompanied by the chairman of the board of the Diamond Exchange, Diamond Dallas Page-'' Dallas swept his arms, motioning for his Studd to exit ahead of him, and they shared matching smirks as the Studd swaggered by. Oh, they hated him. Exhilarated, the Studd walked from the darkness of gorilla position into the smoky arena’s limelight, flashing that same smirk at everyone from the front row to the nosebleeds. It didn’t matter if they cheered or booed, if they reached out and screamed when he came within centimetres of their fingertips and red-painted nails or if they tried to throw their drinks on him from eight rows back. They were all looking at him, watching his every move, spurred into action by his mere existence. “-At two hundred and ninety-eight pounds…”

Behind him, Dallas hyped him up, calloused hands slapping him on the back and brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. Guy could argue with an audience for hours and never get bored. Scanning the crowd, Studd tried to guess which lucky cat Dallas had chosen for the Studette audition of the night. Thus far, he was zero-for-six, and the game was starting to get old. He wanted his valet now, yesterday, a week ago, whatever. Climbing the steel steps to the ring, every woman still looked the same as ever to him, not a single one standing out enough to catch his eye. “The Diamond Studd!”

“Kill that music!” Wiping his feet, the Studd didn’t bat an eye when Dallas secured the microphone, content to let his manager do all the talking for now. He couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath when Dallas snapped at the guys running audio to cut his music before barreling on, still determined to make his guess of the night. There was a busty broad front and centre under the hard camera, gaudy bracelets stacked halfway up her forearm and costume jewellery dripping from everywhere she could squeeze, clip, or hang it on herself. Blonde. Big, dark eyes. Pretty, sure, but homely. “Diamond Dallas Page here, with the man who is chiselled stone and b-a-double d, badd to the bone. Where’s that girl who applied earlier? C’mon up here, honey!”

Right before Studd spotted the busty broad already sneaking around ringside, he realised his front-row girl couldn’t possibly be auditioning - How the hell did he expect her to jump the barricade with a chest like that? She��d knock herself out if she didn’t get hung up like a fox in barbed wire.

“That’s right, we’re looking all over the country and around the world for a Studdette to handle this man on the road,” Dallas was saying, refraining from mentioning that he only needed someone else to help with his Studd because he was becoming much more than a one man job, and the Diamond Dolls were all sick of him. Hell, they hadn’t even taken time off from Norma Jean’s to accompany them to the ring in weeks - Hence the search. Removing his sunglasses, Studd winked at his homely, bleach blonde, off-the-mark selection and promptly forgot about her the second he looked away. The ring rat speed walked towards the Studd with her hands out, no doubt having already seen the act enough to know what it was all about, and the Studd stared her down until Dallas threw his arm between them and stopped her, explaining exactly what he wanted her to do. “I want you to slowly, and sensually tear these pants off him.”

Studd was already disinterested, but he still put his hands behind his head and let the woman rip his overalls off like her life depended on it. Immediately, he threw Dallas a dissatisfied look - That wasn’t slow nor sensual, but Dallas was already showering him with compliments and shooing the woman away. Studd rolled his eyes right before the camera guy caught his face and flicked his toothpick at him, not bothering to watch the failed auditionee exit the ring. He already forgot what she looked like by the time Tommy Zenk’s crappy entrance theme hit and tried taking a closer look at the people seated opposite the entrance ramp, squinting through the dimmed lights. Something- Someone was glittering in the lowlight like a diamond in the rough. The lights came up as bright as they were going to, just enough for him to read the glittery pin decorating the audience member’s denim vest.

It said “Studd Time!”. It was a fucking Studd Time pin decked out with the shiniest glitter he’d ever seen outside of his and Dallas’ closets and, without taking his eyes off that pin, the Studd yanked his manager over by the white leather jacket and pointed. It was the first time he bothered to look at the person wearing it, and the startled, utterly baffled smile on the guy’s face was already winning Studd over. That, and the literal diamonds he had the balls to stick in his ears before attending a wrestling show. 

“What’s up, baby-”

“You find that guy,” Studd said, lifting his chin in an upwards nod to the Studd Time guy before turning around and fixing the Z-Man with the least impressed expression he could manage. He muttered to Dallas out of the side of his mouth, shaking his arms out and waiting to hear Dallas’s cowboy boots hit the apron on the other side of the ropes. ”You bring him in.”

“You got it, babe,” Dallas raised his voice for the camera circling around their corner, the bell finally ringing, “anything the Studd wants, the Studd gets! And the Diamond Studd wants another win tonight- Woo!”

-

The venue was well outside his usual stomping grounds, but worth it. The card was spectacular, his seat great, production value high, and the sea of humanity around him amped. Getting to see some of his favourite wrestlers in the flesh was always unbeatable and, man, no one would believe him when he told them the Diamond Studd pointed and nodded at him - What'd it even mean? By the time he was able to get his heart to settle down, the match was half over. It was a great excuse to try for another ticket for the next show the Diamond Exchange was at, at least.

Giddy from adrenaline and his ears still ringing from the crowd half-screaming Rebel Yell when someone decided to crank their boombox post-show as everyone filed out, Slater bounced on the balls of his feet in the parking lot. A few wrestlers, event staff, and production crew members had already come creeping out from the door beside him. Hands in his pockets, head down, and melting into his waiting-for-my-cue-in-the-wings stance as best he could, most of them ignored Slater. He obviously wasn't a ring rat or journalist, he wasn't jumping down anyone's throat, and he wasn't a teenage girl sneaking away from her friend group, lying in wait for the guy she was teenybopping over to just try to make it home after a long night. Actually, he was getting pretty cold. The moon shone bright overhead, the air just as damp as it was inside the building but lacking the near unbearable heat, and his sweat was cooling him off a little too much. He loved autumn but, man, what he'd give for a warm breeze. The denim vest and threadbare Van Halen cut-off tank were doing nothing to protect him from the elements.

Hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to bring his body temperature up, he rubbed his hands over his arms, wondering - not for the first time - what he was doing. All the guy did was nod at him. What was he planning to say to someone like the Studd? 'Great stuff, chief'? 'I love your muscles'? 'Nice rack'-

The door creaked open slowly. Propping it open with his shoulder as he walked out backwards, hands up in a placating motion, Diamond Dallas Page didn't notice Slater immediately. He had two bags slung over his shoulders, shades pushed up into that wild blonde mane, and the Studd's voice rang clear from inside the building. "I mean it, Page, you get out there and you look. You turn every one of those marks around and-"

"Alright, okay, okay, slow your roll, Studd," Dallas kept his voice down and motioned for his asset to do the same. Studd responded by throwing another duffel at him, one Dallas caught so smoothly the act betrayed the obvious weight of it. The thing was so overpacked it was ready to burst at the seams. "We'll find 'em, right? You said the guy's been following you town to town, what's so special about him this time? Look, wouldn't you prefer a pretty girl, someone like Tonya G-"

"Look," Studd's tone mocked Dallas' as he marched up, turned sideways to fit through the doorway and corner his manager, and jabbed his thumb at himself, "listen to me. Whatever the Studd wants, the Studd gets. And I want that chico with the Studd Time bling-"

"Uh." Oh, no. Slater realised too late that he'd said anything, too tuned into the argument to notice he'd stopped moving altogether and started staring at the two wrestlers outright. The Studd rounded on him, squinting through the dim light. He was wearing leather pants and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, decked out with the same rhinestones Dallas's leather jacket sported. The watch on his left wrist looked expensive. His rings glimmered even more brightly up close. His body hair was so thick, it curled over the high waistband of his jeans. Wow. Dallas sidling out from behind the Studd to let the door close behind them knocked Slater out of his short stupor. "Hey. You can have me?"

Real intelligent. Nice. Smooth, cool. Cool. As Slater willed himself not to say anything else that made him sound like a complete dork, or blush, or fidget, or vibrate out of his skin, he realised he was probably smiling really awkwardly. Or he was smiling awkwardly now, because he realised he was smiling, and he was so worried it looked awkward he made it look awkward. It only took one step with his long legs for the Studd to clear most of the space between them, looking Slater up and down, scrutinising him closely. Slater could smell the clinging scent of sweat under the cloying smell of his conditioner mixing with his earthy, musky bodywash. His hair was still a little wet from the shower, shining in the yellow light buzzing above them, casting a halo around his head. Made it real easy for Slater to believe he'd died and gone to heaven, especially when the Studd started fussing at his vest: Pulling it open to look at his shirt, popping the collar up then back down, touching every single pin and patch. Most of them were homemade, representing bands he liked, and the Studd raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and nodded in approval more than once. Instead of grabbing the fabric below the rainbow pin he'd punched out from a gay 'zine and slipped inside a domed button, the Studd let his hand hover over it, looking at Slater's face for the first time.

Awash in more self-consciousness than Slater had felt since coming out to his parents, he tried to keep the dreamy expression off his face. He felt like he did the first day at wrestling school, only allowed in the ring so he could get bodied and made to realise he wasn't ready to be in the ring yet - and how hard those mats actually were. Seemingly content with his outfit, the Studd grabbed his chin with a surprising amount of gentleness, calloused fingers turning his head side to side. One finger brushed over the beauty marks on his left cheek, tracing the triangular shape. Slater could have fainted, was this even real? By the time the Studd released him and turned back to Dallas, Slater's heart was racing, pulse thrumming in every part of his body. Had he been staring at the Studd's chest? He might've been staring at his chest.

"I want him. He starts tonight, Dallas. My Studette, your dime." Leaving no room for argument, he mimed flicking a toothpick in Dallas's face, pulled all three bags from his arms, and sauntered off towards their car. Dallas watched him leave with his hands on his hips and whistled quietly, then turned his brightest smile to Slater. 

"You're in, kid. My bank account weeps but my heart sings, you got no idea what a queen he can be," Dallas snorted, shook his head, and stuck a hand out. "You prefer cash or check?"

-

"Yeah, I know… No, no, it's a legitimate gig, really- …Yeah, I know. I'll pick up everything I need tomorrow night, okay? You can-" Slater sighed as his roommate interrupted him again, holding the payphone receiver away from his ear. He was upset, worried Slater would stop paying his half of the rent. They were sharing a tiny room in another friend's house, all trying to make it as artists, musicians… Wrestlers. Slater probably raked in the biggest paycheck, but it didn't go far. Making eye contact with Dallas across the parking lot, Slater tried to give him a reassuring smile. He had to look away before he gawked at his roommate who, unfortunately, couldn't even see him, lowering his voice to a whisper and cupping a hand around his mouth. "He is not a pimp. Or a sugar daddy. He's a manager, my big break in the biz, okay? I gotta go, I'll see you tomorrow."

Hanging up right as he heard the warning he was running out of time on his quarters, Slater took a deep breath and walked back to the pink Cadillac, the waitress clad in an equally pink uniform falling into step beside him on her skates. She balanced her full trays perfectly, dark hair clipped up high. The once-baby blue trim on her uniform was so faded it was almost cream. "What'chu doing riding with these sleazebags?"

Startled, Slater couldn't stop the laugh that tore itself from his throat. All the nervous energy coiling in his gut seemed to abandon him, finally giving way to the electricity buzzing somewhere between his skin and his bones. The waitress turned around, skating backwards effortlessly in a slight crouch, feet pointed in to slow her inertia so Slater could catch up. She ignored the Studd's catcalling behind her, grin showing off the gap where her right canine should've been. Slater tried to shrug it off nonchalantly, stealing a fry from one of the holders coiling around the greasy cups. They were his, anyway. "Chasing my dream."

"Ain't nothin' left to chase," she said, spinning around to face forward right as she pulled up alongside Dallas. Slater walked past her and hopped the door, squeezing into the back between his and the Studd's seats. "Not when you got this much eye candy."

Leaning over the driver's side to take the tray entirely loaded with his order, the Studd glanced back at Slater over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. Surprisingly, he'd scavenged for the healthiest food on the menu. The most severe thing he ordered was a fresh batch of fries, no salt, patted down. "I'll take him to a dentist if he gets a cavity, babe."

Eating the greasiest fast food he'd ever had in the most expensive car he'd ever laid eyes upon, hairstyle a complete loss from the wind and frequent heart palpitations his new normal, Slater finally realized just how much his life had changed in the past hour. It wasn't about to get anymore normal, either.

-

"Hey!" Slater could hear the call through the motel room door. He'd gone outside to get some air after realising Dallas booked himself one room and left him and Studd to the two-bed nextdoor, giving the Studd some privacy while he changed out of his clothes. "Yo!"

"Coming," Slater called back, flipping the motel branded memo pad he'd swiped shut and clipping the flimsy pen onto it as he pushed the door open. He was, honestly, expecting something more luxurious, but it seemed like the core of the Diamond Exchange didn't mind seedy motels, so long as they had pleasing aesthetics. Nudging the door shut behind him with his boot, Slater blinked at the Studd strewn across one of the beds. He'd never fit on that mattress. Without rolling off his back, the Studd swept his arms out, fingertips of his left hand actually touching the wall, giving one foot a dramatic little kick. Both of his feet touched the floor from his position. It was a little funny, but Slater tried to look like he was assessing the situation seriously, and not staring at the fact the Studd was wearing nothing but a loose wife beater and trunks.

"You see," another little kick, "the problem?"

"Uh-huh," Slater murmured, definitely not staring at his thighs. The hair on them was so thick and dark, and he bet it was still soft after the Studd's shower earlier-

"You got a solution?"

"For the… Bed?" Slater asked, suddenly feeling like this was a test he wasn't going to pass. He looked at the empty bed beside him and shrugged. "Push them together?"

"Smart boy," the Studd snapped his fingers at him, rolled off the bed, and got to work rearranging half the room. "I got it. You do your thing."

It wasn't until Slater was locked in the bathroom, tearing into the packaged toothbrush set on the cream counter, that he realised he didn't actually have anything to sleep in. He stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, shrugging out of his vest and hanging it on the doorknob behind him, his shirt going next. His top surgery scars felt glaringly obvious for the first time in a while. He was almost nervous to shimmy out of his distressed jeans, opting to throw himself in the shower before he spent too much time thinking about it.

By the time he was done, back in his tank and boxers, halfway to ripping his jeans into worse shreds because he couldn't figure out if he should just sleep in them or what, Slater had definitely spent too much time thinking about it. He fidgeted with his jeans, waited until the Studd turned out the light, and realised… He didn't even know where he was supposed to sleep. Slater yanked his jeans on, grabbed his vest, slapped the light switch, and exited the bathroom. Not getting anything done in there. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, ambient light filtering in through the gaudy, 70s curtains, he slowly rounded the beds and stopped before the side with more space. He couldn't see well enough yet to tell if his new boss was awake and spent more time than necessary lowering his vest onto the bedside table, trying to be quiet.

"Hey." Despite how soft his voice was, it still made Slater jump. The Studd's hands were behind his head. He had plenty of room on one bed, actually - Sure, he'd just barely fit, but he'd have fit without pushing the two together. "Nice pajama jeans."

Slater flushed, one hand going to his hair and trying to brush the unruly tangles out. The knots kept catching on his nails; he didn't exactly carry a hairbrush on him. Before he could respond, Studd was out of bed and digging around one of his duffels. A shirt and a pair of shorts smacked Slater in the face, both made of soft, well-worn cotton.

"Get goin', gotta get up early."

The clothes smelled so strongly of the Studd he didn't have to shove his nose into them, but he did anyway as he scurried off to change in the bathroom. Curled up next to the Studd and trying very hard not to throw himself on him like he was an Oasis in a desert all night, Slater didn't need to put his face in the borrowed clothes to smell the Studd. His dreams might've been a little less than innocent. 

-

Sliding out of bed with the silent grace of a man who spent his entire adult life sharing rooms with other adult men, the Studd entered the bathroom to start his day. On the counter were Slater's open dental care kit, wrapped in the plastic it came in, and a memo pad. Both were squeezed into what little real estate was available after he'd terraformed the countertop with his own cosmetics. Shutting the door behind him with his foot, the Studd lifted the memo pad, slid the pen off and tucked it behind his ear, and flipped open the first page. There wasn't anything. Second page. Blank. Third, nada.

Grunting, he went straight to the last page and-

"Jackpot," he murmured, fingers tracing the rough sketch. Slater had tried to get away long enough to start drawing him. It wasn't far along, but it wasn't unflattering. He opened the door again, crept past Slater who was rightfully dead asleep, and slipped the memo pad and pen into the back pocket of his discarded jeans.

-

"This," the Studd began, waving a hand at the neighbourhood around him like it wasn't already obvious, "sucks. No way for my boy to live."

"Good thing he's not anymore, sweetheart," Dallas responded, tapping along to Crazy Train's drum beat on his leather steering wheel. "What, you think he's gonna bail? He'd have to be out of his mind."

"I-" The front door of the beat up party house banged open, Slater rushing out so burdened with bags, boxes, clothes slung over his shoulders, and things, he looked like an engineering marvel. Before he could speed down the three broken, concrete steps leading down from the busted up porch, the Studd had already hopped out of the Caddy, jogged up, and put his arms out. If Slater wasn't carrying so much crap, he would've thrown himself into them, instead of the box of spray paint, horror movie merchandise, photo albums, and collectable figures. For a moment, the Studd was actually stunned, staring down at the box in his hands and wondering what the hell he was doing.

"Slater!" He looked up, frowning into the darkness past the threshold of the front door. A girl, taller than Slater and covered in at least twice as many tattoos as him, appeared, blanching at the sight of the Studd. She side-eyed him warily before calling after her housemate. "This is a bad idea!"

Scoffing, the Studd made an unimpressed face at her, mockingly mouthing her words before sauntering back to the car. Slater was already hiding in the cramped backseat, assuring Dallas everything was fine, his roommates were just overprotective and neurotic, just-

"Drive," Studd grunted, stepping into his seat and starting to poke around the box in his hands as they tore away from the curb.

-

They went west. Further west than Slater had ever been, and he was already infatuated with the salty California coast exfoliating his cheeks and curling his hair. They'd booked a proper hotel, thrown everything they didn't need in the room with promises to buy Slater some bags later, and took off. The only stop between the hotel and venue was a tailor's, where Dallas jogged up, exchanged a bundle of cash for a hanger full of glimmering clothes wrapped in plastic, and handed the goods to Studd to hold. Which was definitely odd. Slater was getting used to holding everything.

On the streets, people who recognized them waved or called occasionally. Mostly young beachgoers, macho men in Mustangs, men getting an early jump on cruising the day crowd. The Diamond Exchange was, generally, well received out here, even as heels; the Californians respected the hustle and understood the appeal. The Dolls were especially loved and it was apparent in the way some pedestrians would see them, see only Slater behind his two big guys, and not spare them a second glance.

The people who really hated them, hated them because they envied them, because of their wealth and gluttony - because the Diamond Studd was an over glorified cabana boy roughing up the guys that didn't kiss his sugar daddy's feet. Cubano boy put on a few hundred pounds and hightailed it out of Florida, big deal. The men in California were farmers, fruit sorters, immigrant workers trying to support their families and cut down on the hours their mothers, wives, and sisters had to spend on the assembly lines, too. Here, the Studd's people jeered at him, and Dallas's applauded him as best they could with walkmans, surfboards, and beer bottles in hand.

Dallas loved California. Slater was starting to get the feeling the Studd wasn't so impressed, given how often he'd cross his arms and mutter about what a big, fat, stinkin' lie the California tourism market pushed. Dallas bought a pair of sunglasses from a stand right off the sidewalk when they were stuck in traffic, reached over the Studd to receive them, and tossed them back to Slater immediately.

"He's never gonna quit bellyaching. These should help the migraine," Dallas said, still in good spirits even as the long Cadillac struggled to navigate the traffic choke. They made a left turn onto a quieter, hillier street, breezing past dingbats whose mid-century theming was tinted even more orange-pink by the obnoxiously coloured lenses Slater wore. "He'll be happier once the fists start flyin'."

"Oi," Studd grunted, elbowing Dallas in the bicep. He turned around in his seat, draping his arm over the back of it and catching Slater in such an intense stare he was almost getting tunnel vision. He had to raise his voice to be heard. "In the ring? They love me. Out here, cruising, walking the streets? Hah. Anybody- and I mean anybody, lays hands on you on our way in, out, ringside, in the goddamn lockers, I'll break every finger they got. Maybe some of their buddies' fingers, too. ¿Comprende?"

"You got it," Slater nodded, used to bushwhacking when he had to, watching the wind throw the Studd's hair around his face. They hit a stop sign and, on instinct, he reached out with one hand to fix it. Dallas stopped longer than he had to, watching the Studd's dumbfounded expression out of the corner of his eye. The grin he shot his guy's way when he floored it was borderline maniacal.

-

Television broadcasting made wrestling events far more complicated than Slater was accustomed to, the auditorium much larger than any venue he’d trained or wrestled at. He did his best to keep up with the Diamond Exchange, nervously skirting around having to enter the locker room when they went to take stock of who was in there and waiting in the hallway, people watching. Few people paid him any mind, aside from a new guy on the production crew who recognised Slater from his most recent stint jobbing in a backyard promotion up near San Francisco. Alone, the Diamond Studd waltzed out of the locker room and stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, looking around. Slater trotted over from his hiding place behind some massive equipment cases, breath momentarily knocked out of him when the Studd dropped his arm across his shoulders heavily and led him away. He was carrying both of his duffel bags and the dry cleaning bag from the tailor.

“Aight,” Studd began, knocking on an unmarked door before pulling Slater into what was obviously a coach’s room, “you learn on the job how to prepare the Diamond Studd for T.V. Make me look like all the money I’m worth, chichi.”

Trying to process everything, as well as add yet another nickname from the Studd to his internal list, Slater closed the door behind them and watched the Studd start unpacking. He laid out his cosmetics in, what Slater assumed was, the intended order of use, his clothes hung up with the mysterious dry cleaning bag on a hook inside a tall cubby probably meant for jerseys. "Where's Dallas?"

"Daddy-o's got his own things to do." Studd waved Slater over and dropped heavily into the only chair that wasn't a bench in the room, a well-used rolling chair with red accents. There was already a full body mirror in front of him, but he'd set two hand mirrors on the long coach's desk, propped up on a stapler and tape dispenser so he could see himself at multiple angles. "Miss him already? C'mere, make me fresh."

"Nah," Slater replied honestly, hesitating before picking up a whole handful of supplies and stuffing most of them in his pockets. As he tore open the aloe-packed Wet-Naps and got to work wiping the sweat off the Studd, he felt his face heating up. Carefully wiping behind his ears before moving on to his neck and shoulders, he could only hope his embarrassment wasn't obvious. “It’s still so cool to get to work with you-”

The Studd laughed at him, lounging even further back in his chair and lazily spinning himself to face Slater, motioning at his chest.“These hands? They picked you. You don’t work with me, you wait on me. You’re like my own Diamond Doll.”

He mercifully refrained from teasing Slater when his hands shook as he did his best to wipe down his chest, almost dropping the package of napkins in his hand. The Studd only lifted his arms, hands behind his head, staring Slater down over the tops of his sunglasses. Slater was starting to smile nervously, he could feel the pull in his face, and for the first time he really understood was a complete slimeball this guy was.

“Cuter than them, anyway.” 

… And he was sort of into it, unfortunately.

“Th-thanks. I’m not that cute.” Trying to laugh some of the stress away as he started at the Studd’s elbows and swiped over the thick hair curling under his arms hurriedly, Slater shrugged, grateful for the opportunity to toss away a wipe and grab another one. Man, he was going to implode; honestly, he was impressed by his own self control. Being told to get his hands all over a hot buck like the Diamond Studd and refraining from feeling him up? Big feat. Big, frustrating feat. “Should I hang out ringside like a regular valet, or come back here?”

“You stay with Dallas.” The Studd stretched his legs out, bumping one of his feet against Slater’s ankle on the way by. “And you’re not a regular valet, get that through your head, sweetheart. You’re my Studette, you’re special. Like me.”

“Aw, come on…” Slater made quick work, elbowing Studd in the knee when he started to kick off his Nike Solo Flights, the suggestion spelled out clearly on his face. It was his first night on the job, he had to pretend he had some dignity, right? The Studd chuckled but didn’t seem to mind, flicking his fingers and signalling for Slater to get started on his face, pleased when he retrieved the moisturiser and beard oil from his pockets. He wore his stubble trimmed short, but he obviously liked to keep it soft. Slater decided to start with the moisturiser, screwing open the canister and spreading the viscous gel over his finger tips. “I’m just a fan. What made you think I was so special, anyway?”

At first, the Studd didn’t respond, the devious expression he was sporting melting away as Slater gently applied then massaged the moisturiser in. His skin was sun-roughed, any scarring from matches, scuffles, or his teenage years so subtle, Slater felt them more than saw them. When he moved onto the beard oil, trying to figure out exactly how much the guy needed for some light stubble, the Studd cracked an eye open and tapped the glittery pin on Slater’s vest. “You get it.”

“Studd Time?” Slater frowned, patting the oil in, fingers lingering on the Studd’s blunt stubble longer than they had to. It was getting to that perfect balance between sharp and coarse, and smooth, softer but still scratchy. The thought of how it would feel against his shoulder, the Studd’s face buried in his neck, stubble dragging on his skin as the Studd lowered his head crossed Slater’s mind, short circuiting him in place momentarily. Wait, what were they talking about…? Right- Studd Time. “It’s… Pretty straight forward. Time for the Studd.”

The laughter beneath his fingertips was so deep and quiet, Slater nearly missed it, if not for feeling the Studd’s Adam’s apple bob against his hand. The Studd dropped a hand so heavily on his hip it made him jump, patting him a few times before swapping out the cosmetics he’d picked up for his hair care. “You get the appeal, babe. You look at the Diamond Studd and you know what you’re lookin’ at.”

“I-”

“Coyote?” A knock at the door. Instead of answering, the Studd grumbled, picking up one of his sneakers and throwing it at the door as it opened. The man who pushed it open was older than Slater, big, but not as much as the Studd, and his straw blonde hairline was receding significantly, not that it stopped him from sporting a limp mullet. He ignored the weaponised shoe as much as he ignored Slater, pointing at the Studd. “Card overhaul; you're not gonna believe who showed up for work tonight. You just got promoted to the main event."

"What? Shit." Standing, the Studd spun Slater around and frogmarched him to the bathroom off the coach's room, snatching up the dry cleaning bag and handing it to him. "Who showed up? The main event? What the hell happened to the Alliance?"

Before the other wrestler could respond, the Studd bent down closer to Slater, an arm reaching around him to open the door. His breath ghosted Slater's ear, voice low. "Get dressed. Fix that mop. No rush."

With that, Slater was pushed into the bathroom, the door pulled shut behind him. The conversation was muffled, but he could still hear it, listening while his brain worked overtime to catch up with everything. Studd's coworker was talking again. "Steve's pissed. They're out, you're in. That Dallas Page, he worked one over-"

"Spit it out, Eagle. Who the hell am I working with?" It was almost surreal to hear the Studd's voice so muffled; they'd barely spent any time apart in the past day and a half. Slater unzipped the bag and held the black pants out by the hanger hook, staring. In reality, the hanger was mostly populated by accessories: Dark purple armbands, headband, and belt, all studded with genuine diamonds. A small bag of rings, a diamond-shaped pendant necklace, and a right-handed, fingerless, black, leather glove, accented with a matching purple. The cut diamonds glinted much more menacingly around the knuckles than on any other piece. The left leg of the pants was decorated with purple, diagonal stripes over the hip and thigh, wrapping all the way down to mid-calf. The diamonds embedded in the purple leather were massive. Thankfully, the boots hanging behind the pants were more simple; black leather boots, purple accents, black laces. All the purple was so deep and dark it was nearly black, the colour only apparent under the direct, bright lighting of the bathroom. Slater let the dry cleaning bag fall to the floor and ran his hands over the gear almost reverently. He was so distracted, he almost missed Eagle fumbling out his answer to the Studd's question.

"Vegas, Coyo-"

"Out." The door shut. Hanging the ring attire up on the door hook, he scrambled to shrug out of his vest, trying to unlace his boots and unzip his pants simultaneously. The soft knock on the bathroom door made him kick his right boot off so hard it landed in the sink. "Change of plans, we gotta track Dallas down when you're done," then, as almost an afterthought, "My hair can wait."

"Sounds good. Who was that?" Slater asked, finally getting his other boot off with less incident. He shimmied out of his jeans, didn't bother pulling the legs right-side-out, and started doing his best to squeeze into the leather pants. The inseam was more like leggings, lined in a softer leather that melted onto his legs like butter. The way the genuine leather hugged his packer but didn't let it dangle too far from his groin or push it against him uncomfortably made him realise he might be more into leather than he thought. The hide was breathable, the layers strong but not too thick, and the diamonds were mounted over padding that protected him from any uncomfortable digging in, which he was grateful for as he straightened out the front panel and pulled the fly's corset lacing shut. His reflection made him pause as he wrapped the sash belt around his waist. His hips looked perfect in these, the padding on the outer thighs making them less prominent. "This is… Too much, Studd."

"Old partner, Dan. Starship Eagle." The Studd tapping his fingers in a staccato rhythm was the only warning he gave before cracking the door open, whistling at his Studette from behind. When Slater turned, he was leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, sunglasses low on his nose. He'd changed into just his black and red Studd Time trunks and one half of the dangly earrings he shared with his manager. "Your ass looks too good in those, man. I might have to get you out of 'em soon."

 "After the main event, I hope." He didn't say that aloud, right? Knowing his face was flushed, Slater snatched the boots from the hanger and pulled them on standing, fingers clumsy with the laces. He had to lean back against the garish, pastel green tile wall to fit them on right and, by then, the Studd had already stopped laughing, walked in, and started pulling accessories out of the bag. He tossed Slater the arm bands first, examining the rings.

"I only get to strip you after you strip me, ey? Fair trade." Tone teasing, he watched Slater pull on the armbands, totaling three on each arm. Then he grabbed Slater's hands, fit the glove on him and snapped it shut at the wrist, watching his face as he slid the rings on his fingers. They were downsized versions of Dallas's, almost identical to the Studd's. Slater felt like he needed to sit down. "Too bad I can't have an audience for it."

"Wh-why not?" Stupid, stupid, horny, stupid- Studd's grin turned wolfish, his teeth on full display. Turning Slater to face the mirror, he stood behind him, lifting his arms and guiding him into holding his own hair up so the Studd could wrap the headband around his forehead and tie it at the nape of his neck. His fingernails kept brushing against Slater's neck and, in a moment of male panic, Slater's eyes dart down to his packer - He felt silly by how relieved he was at the lack of an overly obvious bulge, but… Something about being with the Diamond Exchange made him feel seen. Treated like the person he actually was, not just someone promoters side eyed when he attended the mens' tryouts and other talent tried to creep on in locker rooms out of curiosity.

"Jealousy. I want you all to myself." The Studd's hands were on his neck again, this time securing the chain around his neck, and Slater fingered the pendant as he looked at himself in the mirror.

He was almost unrecognisable, despite nothing really changing. A shiver ran down his spine when the Studd dropped his hands on his waist, sliding them up his sides until he could ghost his fingers beneath Slater's top surgery scars. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly, deeper than it had been even when it was sleep laden. "I hate pretty boys, but you?-" He squeezed Slater's rib cage gently before releasing him, tsking and starting to finger brush his hair "-You're the exception."

-

They found Dallas in catering, seated at a table beside a man in a pink-accented suit, wearing sunglasses at night, indoors. That's how Slater knew he was cool, aside from him being so massive he dwarfed Dallas completely. With a swish of the leather trench coat he'd donned before leaving the coach's room, the Studd charged past Slater, grabbing the new guy in a two-handed nerve hold and making him stand. Oh, wow. He was… So tall. And shouting a little bit. Both men embraced before the Studd bat him away, clasped his hands on his face and neck, and shook him gently. "Miami! Why aren't you laying under an aluminium umbrella? You're at the wrong ocean, buck."

"Studd, man," the man laughed, holding the Studd's elbows. His hair was gelled back and his voice was strained, breaking here and there as he spoke. "The girls got tired of me, can you believe it? Nah, listen," he started fussing at the Studd's coat, straightening and smoothing it,"last minute consultation, second opinion, whatever. I see the guy tomorrow."

"No fuckin' way," Studd growled, shaking him again before releasing him, only to start jabbing him in the chest. "No Silicone Valley boob lift-aficionado quack is laying a finger on you, Vegas. We go back to Miami next Thursday and that's that."

"C'mon, he's great-"

"Dallas!" The Studd threw up his hands and sidestepped around Vegas, smacking the still seated dirty blonde upside the head. He ignored his overdramatic 'ow!', but Vegas laughed, sharing a grin and shrug with Slater, who was surprised to even be noticed. At a loss, he tried a smile and a shrug right back, which seemed to delight the stranger. His facial hair was a little patchy, but Slater thought it was cool - His grew in like that, too. "The hell!"

"Let's throttle down, Studd, baby," Dallas tried to placate him, pointing first at Slater then the seat across from him. "Take a seat, angel, let me introduce you to Vinnie Vegas. He's debuting on T.V. a little earlier than we planned, makes this a special o-ccasion."

Exchanging another glance with Vegas, Slater trot over, sat down across from them both and, without thinking much about it, looked up at the Studd and patted the seat beside himself. He was delighted when the big man rounded the table and sat next to him, grumbling the whole way over. Dallas brushed some imaginary dust off Vinnie's shoulder when he sat back down. "The rockstar-slash-leather angel lovechild is our man's Studette, Slater. You look fantastic by the way, sweetheart, I'll get you some eight-by-tens soon, I promise."

"Nice to meetcha," Vinnie said, not drawing attention to Slater's embarrassment over Dallas's comments. Instead, he held his left hand out and, as Slater marveled at how it engulfed the entirety of his own hand, he realised Vinnie was wearing a watch on the opposite wrist that was strikingly similar to one he'd seen the Studd wear. Rings adorned his fingers that matched everyone else's, aside from a card suit spinner ring, and, suddenly, Slater realised he was being welcomed into something more than just a faction. These people took care of each other, traveled together, signalled their bonds to people - Dallas wore the most rings, Studd and Vinnie wore fewer but identical rings, excluding one personalised diamond ring each, and Slater… He had been given the least amount of rings, but all of his resembled the Studd's most closely. His diamond was also unique, but the rose gold band the Studd had slid onto his left pointer finger matched the one on everyone else's. He swore he'd seen at least some of the Diamond Dolls wearing the same bands, too.

"-Settle this right now, huh? Who cut you, Slater?" Vinnie had released his hand and was talking to him again. Slater almost missed it, so absorbed in staring at everyone's hands he'd accidentally tuned out whatever inane argument the Studd was determined to carry.

"Huh? Sorry, what?" The Studd huffed and bumped against him gently, Dallas grinning madly. It was becoming more apparent that Vinnie showing up wasn't just a happy coincidence; Dallas wasn't even trying to put up a convincing poker face. Unbothered, Vegas hooked a finger under his upright collar, pulled it and the button-up underneath down just far enough for Slater to see the skintone vest underneath, and popped his collar back up. 

"Your surgeon. Studd's got this guy in Miami, totally obsessed with his work, but I like exploring my options," Vinnie explained, still fiddling with his collar. Turning in his seat, Dallas fussed at him until he was tastefully a little sloppy, but not enough to reveal the binder under his shirt- Oh. It hit Slater all at once, the deluge of questions making him giddy, nervous energy sending his leg into a restless frenzy, boot squeaking once or twice as he bounced his leg. The Studd was still bellyaching about the whole thing but Slater barely heard him.

"Oh- Uhm, okay. I- I can give you her card…? She's in San Francisco, she doesn't advertise, she's not that expensive but the hospital is, but it was a little hard to recover because of the gross drains, but my roommates are super rad and helped, and-" Cutting himself off, Slater tried to organise his racing thoughts, leg starting to bounce less when the Studd put his hand on it under the table. It was so warm. And distracting. "Uh, and… How long have you- Studd knows…? But you're so big-"

Studd squeezing his leg and Vinnie laughing simultaneously made Slater shut his mouth, nervously glancing between the two of them. The Studd was rubbing his knee but looking across the table at his stablemate, and he quirked an eyebrow and pointed at him. "You ride with us until we go back to Miami. You two can get acquainted- and I can explain why you're stickin' with my guy." 

"You know it ain't that easy to get rid of me," Vinnie teased, winking at Slater. He swapped the dice he idly spun in his left hand to his right before holding it out, fingers curling in a give it motion. "You got that card?"

-

Gorilla position was simultaneously louder and quieter than Slater expected. Almost everything happening beyond the curtains, set pieces, and walls was audible, but it wasn't deafening. Some people tried to keep it down, but it seemed like every hall was filled with people talking to each other, on mobile phones, or to themselves. The production crew seemed to move in orchestrated chaos. It was similar enough to the other promotions Slater had worked for that he understood what he should and shouldn’t do without being told, not that it mattered all that much; the Studd had carefully instructed Slater to remain by his side or immediately behind him at all times. Standing behind him didn’t bother him in the slightest, considering he could observe his pre-match preening without any fear of being caught. Vinnie sidled up beside him, propped an arm on the scaffolding Slater was leaning back against, and whistled quietly.

“You got the best view in the house,” he commented affectionately, voice a quiet rumble. Slater thought it sounded much better when he let his throat relax and didn’t try to pitch it too deep. Sighing deeply, Slater held his hands up, relieved to finally have someone he could talk to who understood his feelings.

“He’s just, so- so hot, you know? His looks, his personality, his…”

“Machismo,” Vinnie supplied, hand gently patting Slater’s shoulder. He nodded in agreement to his statement, giving the Studd a small smile and wave when he took a moment to peer behind himself. The Studd looked pleased, returning to curling strands of hair around his fingers. “Makin’ sure his assets are secured.”

“You couldn’t pay me to leave this spot,” Slater said, sighing again. He leaned back against Vinnie’s arm and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his new tights, feeling more at home in his own skin than he could remember ever feeling backstage. Someone signaled at Dallas, who signaled to Slater and Vinnie that they had five minutes left before the main event. “Okay, except for when I follow him out there. I can’t believe I’m about to strip him on live television, I mean, I can’t- even- just- All I can do is look.”

At Slater’s dramatic huffing, Vinnie laughed and shook his head. His voice breaking whenever he laughed was starting to grow on Slater, he really liked it. He could distinctly remember when his voice sounded like that, too, and the other guys gave him advice on surviving male puberty. They did warn him about the rampant horniness, but he was pretty sure he was always this crazy for guys like the Studd. And, not for nothing, but standing this close to Vegas, Slater could smell the cologne he wore, his deodorant when he lifted his arm, the agua de Jamaica he’d chugged on his breath. After stopping himself from leaning too close to his new friend’s chest, which he barely came up to, Slater cleared his throat and tried to orient his thoughts again. “But, anyway, he’s super sweet to me. He wanted me to be his Studette because he saw a pin I made, that was all it took. Everything moved so fast after that.”

“The Diamond Exchange works fast, baby.” Arm falling back to his side, Vinnie straightened up, head turning towards Dallas as he speedwalked over. “What’s up, Dally?”

“Orders from the top, fuckin’ Turner, always writing notes in his crappy handwriting.” Before Dallas had even finished griping, Vinnie was holding a hand out, fingers curling and uncurling until his manager all but threw the paper at him. 

“Huh. Looks like we’re goin’ over,” he said, handing the paper back. Dallas snatched it with a ‘give me that,’ trying to parse the network founder’s handwriting for himself. “Who’s telling Brian and Zenk they rolled snake eyes?”

“Hold on, hold on.” After a few seconds, Dallas grunted, folded up the paper, and stuffed it in one of his pockets. He was tapping his foot, tussling his hair, fidgeting as he thought. “Studd just beat Zenk down yesterday-” “What, on Power Hour? He’s makin’ you run the Gauntlet?” As Dallas groaned and dart towards the first jobber he saw, intent on shaking them down until they agreed to deliver the message for him, Slater looked up at Vegas and nudged his shoulder against his arm.

“You guys still do that? I thought it was old news by now?”

“Yeah,” Vegas grunted and said, “It is. I gotta tell big Studd,” gently tugging Slater with him and trying to shorten his strides. By the time they were in hearing range, the Studd was already facing them, arms out, eyebrows raised. Hair immaculate.

“My entourage. What’s up, chicos?”

“We go over.”

“We go- Aw, hell.”

A crew member started counting them down just as Dallas re-appeared, smile bright and relaxed, his hands on the Studd’s chest before either of them could utter a word. “Breathe, beautiful. You go out there and you knock ‘em dead.”

The music that hit was unfamiliar to Slater, who frowned at Dallas just as much as the Studd did. Vinnie chuckled.

“The hell is that?”

“Van Go,” Vinnie supplied, turning Dallas around and pushing him with one hand, the Studd with the other. He jerked his head towards the curtain at Slater, giving him a reassuring smile. “That’s me.”

Passing through the curtain was like stepping under a waterfall. The roar of the crowd drowned out the announcement of their names, but Vinnie nudged him forward, keeping him between the two big men. When Slater seemed at a loss, defaulting to trying to hold a stoic face even when he saw the cameras despite how unbelievably freakin’ cool the whole thing was, Vinnie draped an arm over his shoulder, raised his other arm up, and then started taunting the front row as obnoxiously as possible. It made Slater laugh, catch himself, try to walk with a little more swagger. He’d shed the borrowed jacket backstage, the humid air heavy on his bare skin, and he felt even more heat flood him when the Studd stood on the ring apron and turned to face him. Vinnie’s arm fell away from his shoulders and he climbed the steps with zeal, miming listening to dice in his clasped hands before rolling them at the hard camera, the section behind it popping. Anxiety was starting to make Slater’s whole body buzz and he ascended the steel steps carefully, eyes on the Studd. The light shone on his leather jacket and glinted off his diamonds brilliantly. Studd grinned at him before waving over his shoulder for Dallas, stepping over the ropes he sat on and held down. On the other side of them, he held his hand out for Slater’s and helped him step over, Dallas saluting as soon as Slater was clear then springing away. No doubt to find a microphone.

Slater only realised he was clutching the Studd’s hand when he was wrenched into a spin, the Studd catching him in his other arm. Vinnie was shaking out his arms, circling the ring, making faces and bantering with the crowd. Slater let himself lean back against the Studd and tried to match his breathing to the rise and fall of the chest against shoulder and head, Dallas calling for attention and circling post to post like a shark.

“Los Angeles, feast your eyes upon the fortune standing in the ring with me, Diamond Dallas Page,” their manager began, only stopping his circling to sweep an arm towards the three of them. The Studd moved his arms away from Slater to nudge him to the side, earning himself some space to flex. “At a combined weight of a whopping six-hundred-and-five pounds, the Diamond Exchange’s most valued assets, one of whom you’ve admired on display many times: The Diamond Studd and Vinnie Vegas!”

As Slater looked around, doing his best to avoid staring straight at the camera men, he tried to accurately gauge the radio of people cheering and booing. It seemed like Vegas may actually be improving their approval rating, but that could just be the California crowd’s usual pop for the stable. It was rare they had the opportunity to perform this deep in the NWA’s Hollywood territory despite how over they were, after all. On the other side of the Studd, Vinnie popped his jacket by the lapels, building up the heat. Dallas carried on, grin threatening to split his face.

“Vinnie Vegas, hailing from the gambling capital of the world, Sin City itself, is here to celebrate my second most recent acquisition.” Uh-oh. Slater didn’t try to posture as much as he usually would, only moving around to try and dispel some of the nervous tension coiling up behind his neck and between his shoulders. The butterflies in his stomach did him no favours and, realising he was the only one without sunglasses at the stupidest time, he couldn’t decide if he should sneer or just play it cool. His face probably ended up somewhere in the middle as Dallas strode over, Vinnie backing off to lounge in the corner while the Studd made his way centre ring. “This handsome little number is exactly what the Studd and I have been searching far and wide for: His Studette. I know!” -the crowd was appalled- “I didn’t think the perfect Studette existed, either! But what the Studd wants, the Studd gets, and I want you all to watch carefully as Slater shows all of you and all those rejected auditionees how it’s done!”

Showtime. As Dallas made his way ringside, Studd’s discarded trench coat and shades in hand, Slater made eye contact with the Diamond Studd, the massive man raising his arms behind his head and flashing his Studette a wolfish grin. This was his inauguration, he had to do it right. He had to do it slowly and sensually and, carefully fisting the Studd’s overalls and swallowing back the sudden burst of adrenalin threatening to send him firing off like a rocket, Slater did just that. The velcro came away with some resistance, keeping the pace slow at first, the Studd’s body revealed inch by inch. It was hotter than any arena Slater had ever been in. People were going wild. They still had to announce their opponents.

As soon as Slater saw the tan skin over the Studd’s abs, he tore the rest of the overalls away, throwing them without a care. The Studd’s smile was so broad, Slater could have kissed every one of his teeth.

-

They tore down the arena in under twenty minutes, the air itself reverberating against Slater’s skin where he stood, centre ring, surrounded by the Diamond Exchange.

-

Every inch of him was still buzzing with the unmatchable high of victory. With Vegas riding shotgun and the Studd squeezed into the entire back seat, Slater asleep in his arms, Dallas drove slow. They didn’t have any flights to catch, their hotel was already booked, and Vinnie was on the phone ordering pizza. The Studd dropped his head back, letting the wind wash over him, Slater’s head tucked into his chest, breathing deep and soft. Absentmindedly, he rubbed circles into Slater’s upper back, tracing the psoriasis scarring there gingerly. The sky above was glowing violet from all the neon lights; everything felt good. He didn’t even bother to try and stay awake when the adrenalin crash hit him, letting himself doze off on the highway.

-

The blankets were cool, the mattress was a water balloon, and everything smelled like delicious pizza. Gradually, Slater came to, face smushed into the softest pillow he’d ever laid his head on, Dallas’ voice from another room becoming more clear as consciousness drifted back to him. By the time Slater convinced himself to sit up, he parsed that Dallas was negotiating with his promoter - Something about payment, exclusivity, and acquisition. He may be half asleep, but he promptly decided Dallas could do whatever the hell he wanted and collapsed on the bed again, grinning when it wobbled in waves under him. Water beds, how retro. Ambient light illuminated the room enough for Slater to make out the old-school Hollywood decor, oranges, creams, and pinks muted in the low light. Aside from Dallas's phone conversation and a quiet rock station, there wasn't much noise. Even the highway sound had disappeared.

Stretching, he rolled off the bed, hitting the bathroom. It was so luxurious, he turned the light back off almost as soon as he flipped the switch - It was beautiful, with a full spa, shower, and skylight, and, man, those pink counters edged in gold were gorgeous, but he needed to wake up more before he could process it all. Through the dimness, Slater tried to fix the shadowy mop that was his hair, finger combing it until it looked acceptable enough. It took a little more fumbling in the dark to find the complementary dental kit, and he marveled at the stocked under-sink cabinets. He didn't need the light on to tell it was stocked with everything. The floss had a minty coating and was tinted a soft green, matching the palm fronds painted on the tub's greenwall tiling. Unable to resist, he turned the light back on right before he re-entered the suite's bedroom. The ceiling was vaulted, the floor a softer pink than the plush shag carpet in the bedroom. The counter came stocked with colognes and perfumes. Overwhelmed, he slapped the light switch and retreated into the bedroom, wondering whatever happened to the hotel they'd originally booked. He didn't remember dumping his stuff anywhere as swanky as this.

After some poking around, Slater found most of his things in a corner beside the curved vanity. He dug around for his brush and raked it through his hair, dove back in for his deodorant, and searched one last time for his med bag. Instinctively, he ensured his vial, syringe, needles, and alcohol pads were all in the right spot before pulling out his skin cream. The soap he borrowed from the Studd wasn't very sensitive and the water in the locker room was hard, and the last thing Slater wanted was his skin acting up. Cream liberally applied, he zipped everything back up and stowed it again, headbanged his hair into its messy place, and finally followed the signs of life out of the bedroom.

Pacing a trench into the washed out, burnt orange carpet, Dallas was still talking, telephone in one hand and corded receiver in the other. Placating someone, from the sound of it; each time he turned away from the rustic fireplace and walked towards the sliding glass doors, Vinnie had to duck under the landline telephone cable, batting it over the coif of his hair. He was seated on a pink and white zig zag sofa, widely curving around the room to face the wine red arm chairs. Occasionally, he had to save the delicate orchard on the rattan table beside him. The Studd was nowhere to be seen. Nervous and only then realising someone had changed him into his pajamas, his packer still in place in his packing shorts, Slater felt oddly exposed without the Studd's presence. He was awash in relief when Vinnie noticed him creeping down the hallway, inclining his head toward the balcony and waving him on when Dallas turned away from the doors again.

Slater, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, darted past, slid the door open noiselessly, and had breezed past it and the yellow, daisy print, vertical blinds before Dallas completed his lap. The air was just as cool outside, but just humid enough for it to feel like he walked into a wall. Arms propped on the pink Venetian parapet, the Studd loomed over Sunset Boulevard, Century City shining in the distance. In one hand was a glass of bourbon, barely touched, the other cradling Slater's sketchbook. Stomach doing acrobatics, Slater gave the Studd a wide berth as he approached, uncertain if he should announce himself or… Watch. Admittedly, he hated heights, and that parapet was a little low for his taste. He didn't bother trying to get close, fidgeting with the rings still on his fingers instead.

"Balconies," the Studd began before taking a sip of his drink, the low timbre of his voice making Slater jump, "were zoned out of Vegas, you know that? Makes this either special or run of the mill," he turned a page, "depending on your perspective."

"It's… Nice." That was a piece of trivia Slater knew, something he'd probably picked up during one of his deep dives into the unusual. Emboldened, he padded up to the Studd's side, sliding two fingers through one of his belt loops and firmly hooking them. He refused to lean against the low wall, eyeing the trees bordering the patio below them suspiciously, the babbling fountains audible but cloaked by the leafy canopy. To his credit, the Studd didn't seem to mind, passing Slater his drink without sparing him a glance. Obediently, Slater accepted the glass but didn't taste it - straight bourbon was a little dark for him. He wanted to ask about his sketchbook but was more curious to see if the Studd intended on acknowledging it. "A little high. When'd we check in?"

"Few hours. Too bad you missed the sunset," the Studd replied with a huff. He was closely examining one of Slater's lazier paintings. "The Beverly's undergoin' some major renovations soon, whole hotel's closed for reservations right after we booked. Dallas thought it pertinent we get a stay in before we missed our chance. What's this?"

Leaning in Slater's direction, he held the sketchbook out, one finger tracing the vague shape of a grey blob. "Oh- That. It was just an experiment. It's supposed to be Baby, here-"

Settling his weight against the Studd's side and careful not to wet the pages with condensation, Slater flipped a few pages forward, pointing to a detailed sketch of a cockatiel. Underneath that was a carefully coloured, but messier, sketch of another bird with bright red cheeks. "That's Baby. The lutino is Lucky. They're cockatiels; they aren't the best muses sometimes, especially when Lucky decides he's the most important thing in the world. Extra especially when he's being dramatic over eating his veggies. I think I have something in here like that, hold on…"

Excitedly, Slater swapped the glass in his hand for his book, releasing his hold on the Studd to flip around, mumbling to himself. Charmed, the Studd swirled his bourbon, finished the last watered down mouthful, and carefully balanced the glass on the top of the parapet. He draped an arm around Slater's shoulders heavily and guided him a step closer, tall enough in comparison to look straight down at the pages over Slater's head. When his Studette found what he was looking for, he beamed, holding the sketchbook out for the Studd to reclaim. The page was splattered with brilliant, vibrant colours, Lucky's silhouette a violent blurr. He was shaking what appeared to be lettuce in his mouth. Around him seemed to be some sort of dome, splashed with food gore. It looked like a scene out of a horror movie, it was so dramatically shaded. Unable to help himself, Studd laughed, fingers careful not to smudge or scratch anything as he traced some of the more dramatic strokes of paint.

"He's like Hannibal Lector." The Studd's voice was warm, chuckles still reverberating so deep in his core Slater could feel them. His face was starting to hurt from how widely he grinned.

"I know, right!? Him and Baby get so grumpy about which food bowl they want, too, but Baby's got seniority."

"No shit?" Shaking his head, the Studd flipped the front half of the spiral-bound pages behind the back half and held it up. "Oh, yeah. I'm thinkin' the Met. Then the Louvre."

Slater's laugh burst out of him so suddenly it took him by surprise. He almost snorted. "C'mon, Studd, it's just a silly painting of a bird-"

"No, no," he interrupted, voice gentle, free hand motioning for Slater to shush. "We're in the presence of a fine piece of high art. We should soak it in."

Doing his best to play along, Slater held his breath to keep quiet. Watching the Studd rub his chin and observe the rendition of Lucky's dinner massacre like it was making the gears in his head turn was too much for Slater to bear and, right before he corpsed all over again, the glass door behind them thudded open.

"Hey," Vinnie called to them, poking his head out. He'd swapped his ring attire for a tomato red Fubu sweatshirt with off-white trim. The embroidered, graffiti font FB on the front contrasted the striped, pastel pajama pants that looked right out of one of Slater's mom's Sears catalogues. "We still got a whole pizza left. Get your ass in here and fuel up, Slater."

"I got my figure to worry about, Vin-man," Studd called back to him, flipping Slater's sketchbook shut and returning it. He kept his arm around him and led him back to the suite, giving Slater enough wiggle room to snatch the empty glass he left behind.

"Yeah, you're keepin' it real slim these days, Christopher Walken," Vinnie snorted, making way. Dallas was on the sofa, feet kicked up, hands behind his head. It wasn't even summer yet and he was humming Christmas music. "Eat the damn pizza and I'll whip you up the blandest, whitest chicken breast you've ever had in the morning, honey."

Vinnie had a habit of putting on voices for jokes, Slater was learning. He was also learning he found it way funnier than he meant to, but, hey, he was starving and there was an entire pepperoni pizza sitting in the dining area, calling his name. He could worry about his sense of humour later.

-

Content to share the vintage, sweetheart back Hide-A-Bed sofa that had to be from the 1960s at the latest, Dallas and Vinnie let the Studd and Slater share the bedroom. They didn't have to, in Slater's opinion. The California King was wide enough for all three of the big guys and he could squeeze in just fine. Maybe it'd be easier to exhibit some self control if he had to worry about the rest of the Diamond Exchange. From his sprawled position in a sea of crushed velvet pillows, he watched the Studd toss his shirt into the corner, drop his watch into the hardwood valet tray next to his wallet, and start climbing across the bed towards him in only his boxers.

Or, Slater realised, sharing the bed with even more stunning men would make it harder for him to hold himself back. Stomach fluttering, fingers subconsciously curling into the comforter, Slater didn't budge, too busy staring at the Studd's eyes - Shadowed a heart stopping emerald in the darkness. Even when the Studd dragged Slater under him by his hips, rings catching on the waistband of his pajama shorts, he could only stare up at him, breath audibly hitching. He brought the comforter with him too, unintentionally, and a pillow rolled off the pile beside him and flopped right on his burning face.

Brutal.

"Slater, mi vida," the Studd laughed, whispered words smooth silk, thumbs rubbing circles into Slater's pelvis. Somehow it was even more embarrassing when he couldn't see him, Slater doing his best not to fidget. It was the first time he'd heard the Studd say his name and it was doing things to him. Like a cardiac event, maybe. "You don't need that… Yet."

Biting back a mortified groan, Slater threw his arms around the pillow before the Studd could flick it away. He hid his face even as the bigger man pretended to try to wrestle it away, chest warm against Slater's, stomach heavily resting on Slater's abdomen every time the Studd had to stop laughing at him and suck in some air.

-

The gymnasium was surprisingly cool, the Florida heat kept at bay by air conditioners that rattled and hummed. In the ring, the Studd was grappling some poor jobber, not even looking down at him as he flirt with Kimberly. She stood on the apron, hair tied up high and still cascading over her shoulders, leaning up against the ring post and tapping around on her PDA. Doing all the work, as usual. Watching the action from the bleachers and reclining on an almost comically placed lawn chair cushion was Vinnie Vegas, still working on breathing easy under the compression bandages around his chest. Sketchbook in hand, planning out a spray paint mural for an upcoming show, Slater could sympathise. He slept in the La-Z-boy for a week post-op.

A sharp, loud whistle caught Slater's attention. Looking up, he saw the Studd with one foot propped on the poor guy lying prone on the mat, motioning for Slater to come on down. Closing his book and handing his supplies off to Vinnie, Slater made his way down enough of the bleachers to hop off to the floor, trotting over.

"C'mere," Studd greeted, arm out, ready to engulf him in his usual side-hug. At some point Dallas had joined his wife, the two of them looking like a movie star couple. The Studd started leading him over, tucking a wayward strand of dark hair behind his ear for him. "It's about time you got in the ring for something other than stripping me."

"Huh?" Slater sputtered, almost tripping over himself when the Studd lifted him onto the ring apron before pulling himself up, herding him through the ropes. Centre ring, Slater turned to face the Studd, still baffled even when he saw the devious smirk on the Studd's face. He shifted on his feet, bent his knees, and motioned for Slater to come on, folding the fingers of both hands towards himself repeatedly.

“Alright, babe. Show Dally what you got.”