#xringwork

(open to one, multiple or rotating muses. adam, callum, chase, dante, emilio, harry, joshua, keith, lorenzo, roddy, uriel, xavier are all options!)

Now Oscar was not exactly what you'd call a sports fan, at least not in the traditional sense. He didn't have favourite teams and could care less about football and had only gone to a couple of games when he happened to be dating someone on the team or who worked behind the scenes in a high up position. The Federation on the other hand was a little bit different. He'd only gone originally for an in-person viewing since his family had invested quite significantly in the group and they wanted to see their investment in action. But once it became clear to Oscar that it was primarily handsome, strong men manhandling each other? Well, he suddenly became more interested.

So he went to more shows, always dressed to impress and had become aware that more than a few eyes would wander whenever he showed up. Managers and wrestlers alike and Oscar very much enjoyed the attention and the fact people that he was fairly certain some of the wrestlers put on more of a show for him. So there he was, in his VIP booth a good thirty or so minutes before the main event started when he noticed someone making their way over to him...

rafe growled as he wiggled and squirmed, attempting to find any weakness in the move. he shook his head when the other suggested he go ahead and tap out. "not going to happen," he growled. not a lot of people had been thrilled when he joined the wrestling company, and he wasn't going to prove them right by not showing off the best he could be. but he let out a gasp as his package was slapped and his hole was teased with that hand running around. "stop it, asshole..." rafe said with a blush, whining as he tried to power his way out. heavy tits heaving on his chest as he let out a grunt.

Milo sat at the counter of his shop, enjoying the play of the evening light simmering across the hedges in front of the store. His little occult shop was on the ground floor of the brownstone building he lived in, next door to the coffeeshop, Holy Grounds Cafe. He owned both, but the cafe was the bread-winner, so to speak. He sometimes had the magic shop open for select hours, but most of his work here was by appointment. He was a popular choice for fortune-telling, especially among the local bored rich housewives, looking for a cheeky little bit of amusement. He told them what they wanted to hear, with enough little details from his true psychic gift to convince them that he was worth listening to, and to pay him handsomely for his time.

It kept the doors open and gave him a little extra cash to play around with.

Something told him, though, that today was a good day to open the doors without any appointments scheduled, and just let folks stop in if they wanted. Maybe slip down the old stone staircase by the flowered hedges, and open the door. The little bell would ding happily as they entered, and Milo would smile wide, welcoming them, and offering to help. They'd glance at books, and muse over a few pieces of cute jewelry. Perhaps they'd make a purchase? Perhaps they'd ask for their tarot to be read?

Whatever it was, someone was going.to show up. He didn't know who, but he knew he should be here, ready for an arrival.

"Fucking psychic powers," he whispered to himself. "Always so vague."

~//~

Fred walked into the address his boyfriend had texted him, dressed in a beige overcoat to hide the sky-blue singlet he had underneath, to find an empty gym. It was dimly lit, except for the ring, which was bathed in light. There he saw his boyfriend, Zain, waiting for him. "Good to see you're ready," he teased, taking off his overcoat and walking to the ring. He gave his boyfriend a quick kiss. "So what's the plan for today?"

Owen had been keeping an eye on the federation for sometime now, it was quite the impressive establishment...well it could be if it was perhaps under better ownership. It would make quite the gem in Owen's every growing business empire. So he'd begun to set some plans in motion, gotten a few people involved with the business on his side and a few specific younger managers and fighters he had his eye on. Benton was one, being that he knew all that went on in that place and one the others was...well, right in front of him. An up and coming star who might be ready to shake things up.

"Was I not clear Mister Sanchez?" He remarked, looming over the young man with a raised brow and twitch of a smirk. "I'm saying that the federation could use some new...ownership and that those who assist me in that venture could profit handsomely. The best trainers, the best matches - perhaps even main event status. Their face on every poster..." He trailed off. "If they're willing to swear loyalty to my bid and to be my eyes and ears within that place..." He trailed off.

"As for what else you want, well...you need but ask. You wouldn't be the first one I've granted wishes to. But..." He trailed off and let his large hand wrap around the young man's wrist and pin it above his head. "You need permission to touch, son" He hummed.

Peter definitely didn't know what to do in this position - to truly fight back was to perhaps give away his unnatural, super human strength which could be a whole different problem. So instead all he could do was squirm and flail as those powerful legs were either side of him - pinning him down - that large clothed bulge shoved in his face making the poor boy's face red with humiliation. Peter couldn't see anything right now, face covered - what if people were watching them right now? That only added to the shame and perhaps some sort of...shameful excitement. He could barely even speak up given the position he was in and the threat of the bulge falling in his mouth if he opened those lips of his.

"C-Chase, we-we...we can stop. Can't I just give in?" He managed to say, gasping for air as he wiggled his face to the side a little to free up his mouth. Face red, curls a mess. Trying to see who else was in the room if anyone, worried that Chase might be putting on a show for some of his boys.

Cyrus let out a slow, measured breath through his mouth. His fingers tugged once at the frayed hem of the sleeveless gray top he had been wearing for the past few days since his arrival, a hooded sweatshirt on top to keep him warm—it was far too thin to be armor, too tight to be comfortable—paired with battered combat pants and boots that had already seen more blood than he wanted to think about. Not exactly the best outfit for combat; and in truth, he had no interest in it. His gaze swept the pit, cataloging the men around him with a sharp, calculating precision: scar-latticed brutes pacing like caged animals, lean veterans with large arms and larger legs, a few wide-eyed rookies tucked in corners, minding their own business. Every one of them could be his counter. "Yeah," he muttered, half to Chester, half to himself. Jaw tightens as the noise of the men around him pressed in. He didn't do well in confined places. "I see the appeal—keep the dogs hungry, throw them bones, call it a system." His eyes narrowed, already trying to map out an exit strategy, blind spots, patterns in the chaos that was to come. "But I'm not built for obedience, and I sure as hell didn't slip into this dimension on accident to become part of the décor. I'll fight if I have to—but I'm fighting my way out, not up."