#sgmfic

[swedishgoaliemafia]

TJP is so proud of himself for being able to overcome the bloodthirsty urges of the aswang. He hasn’t fed it in months and he feels great.

(He doesn’t know that Akira is taking it hunting at night.)

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Interpersonal Effectiveness by McSpot

Pairing: Francesco Akira/Jeff Cobb/Henare/Callum Newman/TJP/Great-O-Khan/JAY

Summary: To join United Empire is to join their polycule. Things were going pretty well, until Will Ospreay left for AEW. Now, it seems like they're fighting more with each other than anyone else. They need to take drastic measures to keep this family together.

So now they're going to make it someone else's problem.

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"You're boring."

"Excuse me?" Brock didn't yelp, turning to glare at his - and he shuddered to think it - partner.

Pettersson wouldn't even look at him as he continued taping his hands, like that would make him look any less like a skinny kid who would have gotten laughed out of the WWE Performance Center.

"You're boring. That's why the fans didn't get excited to see you. You're-" He turned and gave Brock a very obvious once-over, followed by an eye roll, in case Brock couldn't sense his rejection well enough already. "-that."

Brock knew he shouldn't let Pettersson get to him - that was his thing, after all, making bitchy, snarky remarks with that bored, haughty little tone, like he was too cool and everything that wasn't his edgy indie wrestling bullshit was beneath him.

And yet-

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Maybe he was getting under Pettersson's skin too, because the man finally threw down that stupid roll of tape and turned to glare at him.

"I mean this! Look at you, you're fake! Everything about you is fake! The fucking - the stupid little crown, the cape-"

"It's a mantle," Brock interrupted. "Because I'm a prince."

Pettersson's glare somehow intensified. "I'm so sure. That's exactly what I'm talking about. You were an NCAA hockey player, for fuck's sake. You were tough for real, and then you turned around and let them dress you up like a Ken doll and give you a stupid little crown and a prince gimmick and they told you to act a role and you did it because you were their fucking prized poodle. It's fake. Everything about you is as fake as that crown, and that's why the fans here booed you. You have no personality outside of that ridiculous outfit and your wrestling reflects that."

"That's- that's not- you don't even know me. Where the fuck do you get off talking to me like that? You know nothing about me!"

He was starting to understand why the infamous death glare became the namesake for Pettersson's finishing move. "That's the point, dumbass. I know nothing about you and neither do the fans. The way you looked last week, you don't know anything about yourself either. You put on a costume that someone handed you and wrestled like you were doing a dance routine someone helped you practice. Being pretty and having muscles doesn't get you that far in the real world. It didn't even get you that far in WWE. Grow a fucking personality and maybe you won't get us laughed out of here before we even make it out of the round robin."

Pettersson grabbed his gross holey sweatshirt, the one that he wore to the ring like it was a badge of pride to run around in something that even Goodwill would reject, and threw it over his shoulder as he made for the door, apparently unable to stand one more moment in Brock's inferior presence.

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, not bothering to turn around as he gave one last parting shot.

"The Brock Boeser who led his team to a championship in his freshman year had a personality. Maybe you can ask to borrow his."

And then he was gone, leaving Brock sitting alone in the dressing room, plastic crown in his hand.

~~~

And that is all I will ever write of this. You can tell it's all bullshit because hockey players don't have personalities sorry @ Petey

Brock Boeser, the "Prince Charming" of NXT, thought he was set for life when he got scouted by WWE right off his college hockey team. After a few years in developmental, where he quickly became a champion and heartwarming fan-favorite, everyone knew there were big things in his future when he was called up to the main roster. But after some confusing matchups and a few too many shows where he was left in catering while management "didn’t have anything for him," he’s suddenly found himself released from his contract due to "budgetary cuts" in a year where the company has record profits.

Now left without a job and with zero experience navigating the world of independent wrestling, Brock feels like his wrestling career is over - until he gets an offer from AEW owner Tony Khan to participate in a sort of "try-out" contract as a surprise entrant in an upcoming tag team competition. It seems like all of Brock’s prayers may be answered - the only problem? He’s never been on a tag team in his life, and neither has his randomly assigned partner: standoffish scrapper and long-time indie darling Elias Pettersson, who has no patience for the fallen prince. Can Brock survive Pettersson’s "death glare" - and learning how to wrestle without staring into the hardcam - long enough to win this competition and maybe get himself a contract?

^^^ joke summary for a fic I am never writing because @jupiterjunebug said I'd have to write a hockey RPF wrestling!AU to convince people to give my wrestling fics a try.

[swedishgoaliemafia]

“Something is coming, Akira. Something new. And for new things to begin, the old need to end.”

TJ raised their joined hands, a mimicry of their gesture before matches, and brought them to his lips.

“I need you with me on this,” he spoke into Akira’s skin. “I need to know that you’ll help me see this through.”

Or, a story of what it was like to be Francesco Akira while his partner started planning his own vampire-turning demise.

[swedishgoaliemafia]

Shin Nihon, Motherfucker

Tumblr will no longer make me pretty links to AO3 so I have to do this by hand (ew).

Shin Nihon, Motherfucker by McSpot Fandom: NJPW Summary: Gabe wasn’t one for big, fancy words. He didn’t know what that feeling in his chest was, but it didn’t feel like losing. It didn’t feel like embarrassment, like shame. He lost, but it felt like winning all the same. The dogs take care of Gabe as he processes his loss at Wrestle Dynasty. Well, some of them do.

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only a fool would complain

I started writing an Orange Cassidy/Jon Moxley abo fic literally over a year ago before Full Gear 2023 and I thought I'd have time to finish it because I was so sure that we wouldn't have another OrangeMox feud so soon, AND YET. So anyways it's still a WIP I'm chipping away at but it isn't done yet. But after last night's match and their total exes vibes these past few weeks I decided to write a sequel ficlet in the same AU, which takes place after the undisclosed ending of my WIP. So this is alpha!Orange/omega!Mox as exes post-AEW Full Gear 2024. Their relationship has always been fucked up and so the vibes continue to be fucked up. God knows maybe I'll eventually finish the original fic.

He could smell him through the door. Hotels tried to use scent-neutralizers in the hallways, but Orange had always found that Mox's overwhelming iron scent could overpower any neutralizer.

Possibly because he always seemed to be covered in blood. This night, it wasn't even his own, but everyone knew he hadn't had the good grace to stop and shower before he and his band of merry assholes ran out of the arena with their tails between their legs, like they hadn't just beaten the shit out of Orange and broken whatever pathetic championship aspirations he had only just barely allowed himself to have.

There was a knock on his door again, far too civil for a man currently wearing Orange's blood. Part of him wondered how Moxley had even gotten his room number – as far as he knew, Tony was still trying to book warring factions in different hotels to avoid being stuck with the bad press when they got into fights over breakfast – but he shouldn't have been surprised.

The resigned part of him felt like he'd never truly be able to escape Jon Moxley.

"I know you're in there, Orange," Mox's voice rasped, muffled through the door. "I can smell you."

He shouldn't have been able to. Orange, unlike Moxley, had taken two showers after their match. One at the arena, the perfunctory post-match shower to get the worst of the sweat and blood and ring-grime off.

Then a second one at the hotel, where he scrubbed at himself over and over with the most astringent scent-neutralizing products he owned until his skin burned an irritated red all over and he couldn't smell a scrap of smoke or iron on himself anymore.

Washing away all evidence of Jon Moxley felt like the only revenge he could muster when his chest felt as empty as his backpack and his brain refused to stay in his head, watching his life happen with a clinical detachment that used to be comfortable.

Opening the door for Moxley would ruin all of that hard work. He'd have exfoliated himself to the point of near-bleeding for nothing. Mox would just come in and get his scent all over him again – and that was always the goal, to smother Orange until there was nothing left of him but Moxley, but what Moxley wanted him to be – and it wasn't- it wasn't-

It wasn't a good idea. That's why he'd ended things with Moxley. It wasn't a good idea.

It had never been a good idea.

For a while it had been – he'd thought it had gotten better. It was getting better. They'd talked and it had felt like maybe it was approaching something that could be real, be equal and god forbid maybe a little bit healthy (normal was far too much of an ask for either of them).

But then the shit with Trent started, and Chuck, and Mox lost his belt back to Naito and Danielson announced his retirement and-

It just didn't work out.

Nothing in Orange's life had worked out since he'd first lost the International Championship to Mox at All Out last year. Even when he'd won the championship back, beaten Mox to retain it...

He'd give it all back if it meant wiping away the last year.

Some days he thought maybe he'd give back his entire championship run, all of those record-breaking title defenses, if he could have his friends back.

It would mean he wasn't so damn alone.

And that's what had started this, hadn't it? He'd been alone. He's still had friends then, but he'd been alone, and "alone and vulnerable" was Mox's favorite way to have him. Orange could hear it echo in all of Mox's promos against him, about him, calling him cold-blooded, a snake, untrustworthy, all of the things that Mox himself saw in the mirror every day.

The only thing he liked better than making sure Orange was alienated, making sure that nobody trusted Orange including Orange himself, was making Orange just like him.

And now he'd won. Again. They'd battled not just for the World Championship but for the soul of AEW, and Orange, the chosen leader of the resistance, had lost, just the way he'd first said he would.

Just the way Mox said he would.

And now they were back where they were over a year ago, with Orange lost and alone, in a hotel, with Jon Moxley's wound on his forehead.

Last time Orange had been weak. He'd felt depressed and unmoored, like he'd just irreparably failed everyone who had ever supported him, and Mox had swooped in with a too-understanding voice and big, warm hands and had made himself seem like a good idea, if only for one night.

(Of course, it wasn't just one night. Mox had never planned on letting it be just one night. )

He wished he felt depressed now. It would mean he was still feeling something.

Now, he felt numb. It was like Mox had bitten his flesh and drunk his blood and sucked all of his soul out with it and now he was just a body, a revenant, going through the motions of a life.

It probably wasn't good. He probably was supposed to call Chuck when he felt like this.

(He was definitely supposed to call Chuck when he felt like texting Moxley again. That probably also applied to letting him in his hotel room.)

He didn't call Chuck.

It was late, and Orange had already screwed up Chuck's life enough this year.

"Orange," Mox crooned through the door. For a man who never seemed to know or care what the fuck Orange was thinking when they were together, he seemed to have an uncanny ability for it now.

It didn't matter. They weren't doing this again. It had been- the only reason that Orange had gotten free was because Mox had fucked off to start a cult with Marina Shafir, and Orange only figured that out when everyone else did because Mox finally bothered to show up for work again.

That was part of the problem though. Mox didn't decide they were over. Apparently the fighting and the vitriol and the disappearing for months didn't count as a breakup if Mox didn't say they were broken up.

And when he came back and their old feud rekindled, when everyone forced Orange to be their chosen savior against the one man he'd never wanted to face again, Mox had said whatever shit he had to say to make Orange out to be the worst person in the world, and maybe he wasn't wrong.

Trent and Kris and Yuta all seemed to agree with him. If everyone Orange cared about seemed to be in agreement about him, then maybe he really was that bad.

(Chuck didn't agree. This was why Orange was supposed to call him in moments like these, but the opinion was four-to-one. Chuck would agree with them too, eventually.)

Moxley liked him this way. Moxley was at his door right now because he wanted to see Orange this way. To gloat, for sure, because gloating had been what had started this whole thing. The man truly got off on lording himself over Orange. Something to do with dominating an alpha.

But on some twisted level he did like Orange. It was flattering, when Orange tried not to think about it too hard. He'd picked Orange out special, decided he liked him better than all of the other alphas he'd ever had, and that he wanted to keep him.

Jon Moxley was just about the strongest omega in the world. He was certainly the strongest omega in wrestling. One of the strongest wrestlers ever, period.

Orange should feel so lucky, that Mox was set on him.

He wished he felt lucky.

The knocking started again. It would have been easier if Mox was pounding on the door, if he made himself out to be some evil caricature, an abusive brute who wanted to enact his revenge. It would have been easier to convince himself that this was the bad idea he knew it was.

It had never been like that. That was the problem. Mox had never really been a "good" person in their relationship, but he hadn't been a bad one. At least, not the type of bad that was easy to explain to other people.

But he was calm. He was civil. It would make Orange seem like the unreasonable one, to not answer the door.

He shouldn't answer the door. He should go to bed. He should call the front desk and ask them to remove this man from his doorway. He should just get in his car and drive back home to Philly and put this whole nightmare behind him and change his name and go back to architecture and-

"Orange. Open the door."

Orange opened the door.

Mox's smile was a slow, curling, predatory thing as he leaned in the doorway, bracing one forearm on the doorframe and looming over Orange.

He still had Orange's blood smeared across his mouth.

"There you are," he purred, not in the comforting way that an omega purred, but more like the sound of a hunting tiger right before it struck. "You gonna let me in?"

Orange stood there in the doorway, staring back at him. He suddenly wished he had his sunglasses, anything to make him feel less like Mox was picking him apart with his eyes.

He knew that he wasn't. He knew that Mox was only seeing what he wanted to see.

The problem was, Orange wasn't sure if there was much difference anymore between who he was and who Mox wanted him to be.

Being Orange Cassidy hadn't been working out so well for him lately.

Mox made a considering noise deep in his chest, trailing the fingers of his free hand across the mark on Orange's neck.

Orange jumped, suddenly feeling like he was very much back in his body and wishing he could exit it again.

Moxley's fingers didn't leave, still tracing a firm path back and forth on Orange's neck as he looked him in the eye.

"You knew it was always going to end this way. There was never another option. I have to bring change to this company, whether people like it or not. You were never going to win, but I know you needed me to beat you for you to understand that."

His fingers continued their hypnotic path. It was rather difficult to believe that Orange was the snake, when he was sure he was staring into the snake's eyes.

"It's okay. Some people are hands-on learners, and I'll be the bad guy if it's what I have to do to save everyone."

He pushed off the door frame, keeping one hand on Orange's neck while the other slid to his hip.

"But now you've learned your lesson, right? We've had our little spat. This is done now."

His nose trailed along Orange's hairline, scenting him deeply. Orange couldn't mistake the pleased sound Mox made as he inhaled against the bandaged wound on Mox's forehead.

"Just like old times, huh? You gonna let me in?"

He shouldn't. He shouldn't. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't afford to- what would everyone think-?

Well, that didn't matter now, did it? He'd already failed them again. What was one more time?

It was their fault for ever believing in him anyway.

Orange stepped backwards into the room; Mox moved with him.

The door slammed shut behind them.

[swedishgoaliemafia]

Beast Mortos has turned his back on the Undisputed Kingdom - and more importantly, on Matt Taven - in favor of LFI.

Well, Matt doesn't need him. Surely there are other monster luchador attorneys in AEW.

As the tags say, it's basically "Are You My Mother?" but done by a horny monsterfucker trying to find a new freak to match his freak. Yes this is the second fic I posted today and yes you should read both.

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Yeah idk either. Jay White doesn't want to admit that he loves the homies.

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I guess this is just who I am now.

Matt Taven/Beast Mortos, based solely on this:

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Welp. This happened.

Matt Taven/Beast Mortos

When the Beast Mortos gets a little agitated by his allies in the Undisputed Kingdom, there's only one man who can calm him down.

[swedishgoaliemafia]

The devil works fast but I work faster (sometimes).

Immediately post-AEW All Out 2024. Yuta's heart is broken, his world is falling apart, and his faith in the Blackpool Combat Club has been shattered.

But when he's standing outside of a hospital in Chicago at two in the morning, there's only two people in the world he thinks of calling.

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I’ve been up at 2:30am reading Discourse about whether or not fic authors should delete their works (vs orphaning etc) because that’s what you can do when you’re gainfully funemployed. And every time I see something on this topic I have a lot of Thoughts about it because I rarely see people reflecting my unpopular opinion, ie, that it’s my story and I can do what I want with it and if I don’t want it anymore I’m allowed to make it disappear.

I’ve done it before; you guys just don’t see it because I haven’t done it with any hockey RPF fics. I’ve never regretted it. I didn’t care about them anymore and nobody else was reading them anymore and the world didn’t stop spinning because they were gone. Those stories were often objectively poor quality (I started posting fanfic in middle school and it was what you’d expect), some shared some harmful ideas, but a lot I just no longer had a connection to. I didn’t enjoy rereading them, had no desire to reread them, didn’t really care for the idea of anyone else reading them, and biggest of all, I remember who and where I was when I wrote them, and sometimes I don’t want that reminder anymore.

I think we all know my biggest white whale in my writing career is finishing the werewolf detective trilogy. (Actually no, my biggest white whale is in Band of Brothers but that’s for another day.) And I know it’s kind of become a joke at this point about how long it’s taken between installments, and I still get people asking me about it (understandably fewer over the years but it does happen). And I feel so bad every time someone mentions it because I want it to be complete. It would feel so satisfying to put a period on the sentence and be able to hang it up on the wall and say it’s done. I know how I want it to end and I would love to share it with you all and joke about how long it took and have everybody get the satisfaction of a conclusion.

But here’s the thing.

We all have a connection to a story based on our first experience with it. Sometimes I have people share those stories with me, maybe what it reminds them of or a moment it helped them through, and that’s so cool.

Here’s what the werewolf AU means to me:

It was being in undergrad, on vacation in Hilton Head Island, SC, right before the fall semester started. I wrote those fics the week of my birthday, doing prompt fills sitting on the patio of the house we were renting. I was texting a friend I now haven’t spoken to in years about how excited I was to get so much positive feedback in what was still a relatively new fandom for me. It was the drama, on that same trip, of another friend writing in my new little AU and getting more attention than me and I was horribly jealous because I was baby-aged and felt like my One Good Idea was being taken from me. It was writing a full-length fic in that AU, and being so excited that people were enjoying my One Good Idea, and sending me messages about it, and prompts, and showing me attention for my writing for the first time pretty much ever.

It was also, for a variety of reasons, what turned into the lowest point of my life. I strongly associate posting Yours and what came after it with the hands-down shittiest time I’ve ever experienced. My One Good Idea became my One Good Thing I had going and then that got ruined when I discovered some less than kind things people were saying about it elsewhere.

I’ve talked about that before. I’ve also talked about how the three year road to writing Truly was largely impacted by that feedback, and that association between the fic and who I was when I wrote it, and not wanting to be there again. I’d grown a lot in that time: I was in grad school full time, I was working 20 hours a week and doing an internship the other 20 hours. I barely had time to do my homework or sleep and I wrote fanfic while watching hockey games late at night because that was the only time I had to myself. It was hard to reconnect with the girl who wrote Yours because she was still back in South Carolina, texting her friend about how desperately jealous she was to have fanwork, not knowing how much worse her life was going to be. It felt embarrassing to try to match styles when I felt like I’d grown so much as a writer and a person in that time.

But I dragged myself through Truly, and people liked it! People were thrilled! I got that good feedback again! And when I jokingly said it would take another three years to write the last part of the trilogy, people took me up on it!

It’s now been nearly four years since then. This month is the tenth anniversary of the werewolf AU. I have two degrees. I’m a licensed professional. I have a car. I have a mortgage! I have two dogs and two rabbits and I escaped my family home and I’m living a life that that girl on vacation in South Carolina right before school started would never have imagined.

I remember how much I loved that series, and how much it meant to me back then. I remember what it meant to her. And I feel fondness for it because I remember what it was to her, and I remember the friends it brought me, the little community it used to have, and those things carried me through a lot of bad times.

But in my head, it belongs to her. It belongs to a person I used to be and am not anymore. And it doesn’t mean that I can’t - or won’t - ever take up the challenge of putting on that old hoodie and trying to think the way she thought and write the way she wrote, but it would be just that: a challenge. Because I don’t write like her anymore, and that passion isn’t there anymore. It could possibly be rekindled, but it would take work on my part, and I haven’t really been that interested in forcing myself to be that girl again when I’m honestly having a lot of fun writing esoteric and incredibly niche professional wrestling fanfic that none of you would actually want to read (yet another thing that girl ten years ago would be shocked to learn).

This is all to say, when I look back at my stories, I’m looking back at a time in my life and what it meant to me, and what it means to me now. Sometimes the love is still there (I have a love-hate relationship with Carey’s fic, but Herb’s Electronics holds a very special place in my heart). Sometimes it’s completely gone and I wouldn’t care if I deleted the fic right now (there’s more than a few). Sometimes I remember that I used to love that story, but now I’ve changed so much that I don’t really like what it represents anymore.

Orphaning it or making it anonymous won’t hide that it was me when that cat has long been out of the bag, but more importantly, the fic still exists. And sometimes I don’t want it to exist anymore. And in that moment, thinking about a fic I don’t want anymore, that nobody else really cares much for now anyway (I see my AO3 emails; you don’t; I know what’s not getting read), I want it gone and I feel better knowing it’s gone. There are fics I’m only leaving up as a courtesy where part of me is like, I don’t care if anyone is still reading it because I personally don’t like it anymore. But I’m trying to leave it up to be nice.

This isn’t all some long-winded way of saying I’m deleting my fics, because I’m not. But I wanted to give some understanding on why an author may not want a story around anymore, and why we should all respect that instead of only looking at how it affects us. Orphaning a story or making it anonymous is not the same as deleting. I’ve seen people say it’s selfish to delete your fic; to me, it’s selfish to say I have to leave it up for you.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Happy ten years of James Neal: Werewolf Detective. I’d like to finish it one day. I haven’t the slightest clue when I’d do that because there is a long list of stories I want to write before that one gets to the top of my list.

Good night/morning/day. I’m going to bed now.

Read my fucking wrestling fics they’re so good you’re all missing out

[swedishgoaliemafia]

I said I was finishing my Bullet Club Gold Old West AU fic today and I did!...not! But I finished the first half and it's over 7k so that's something, right?

As discussed here, Billy Gunn is an outlaw-turned-sheriff who spurns his sons and hires some randos from Long Island as his new deputies. His sons are angry and hurt and heartbroken when Jay White swoops in and asks if anyone else was planning on raising these baby gunslingers (and then didn't wait for an answer).

Or, as I tagged it on AO3, found family, as in, Jay White found a family and said this is mine now.

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“Aw, fuck, is he building tunnels again?”

“Everyone just be nice to him, okay? He used to be an ant!”

Fire Ant lives on inside of Orange Cassidy.

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oops I did it again. Wrestling nesting but make it Orange Cassidy and his Best Friends.

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We've diversified our RPF portfolio, kids. Even though it's wrestling so it's just a soap opera with more suplexes.

Goalie nesting but make it wrestling.