Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Swerve Strickland/Darby Allin
Additional Tags: Fear, Knifeplay, Blood, Handjobs, Death Threats, Bondage
Summary: Swerve digs right into what makes Darby tick.
Original Date Of Publication: September 2, 2023
Notes: An AEW Kinkmeme prompt fill.
"You say you're 'half dead'. You like to skate and jump around and get your ass kicked like the other half don't matter to you."
Swerve stalks catlike around Darby. Smooth. Slow. His loose posture and fur-collared coat makes him look more like a vulture ready to pick at all his soft parts, just as soon as he can pull them out with that knife in his hand. Darby sees fear in his own eyes, reflected in his sunglasses when he crouches to meet him face to face. He can't school his expression back to indifference fast enough. Swerve flashes a gold grin and laughs at him.
"Nah, nah, don't act tough now! I'm givin' you exactly what you want!"
"You don't know what I want," Darby spits, struggling against the tape binding him to a chair.
"Darby..." Swerve drawls. "Some old man with dementia callin' you an enigma on commentary don't make you one. You're an open book. Pickin' fights with guys bigger than you? Sleepin' in your car in Seattle by choice? All that daredevil bullshit you play around with on your own time? You really think nobody's got you figured out?"
Swerve digs the tip of his knife into Darby's chest, just below his sternum. The cutting edge is pointed up. One wrong move, he could cut his heart right out, like a splatter flick. He tries to take shallow breaths, but adrenaline makes him twitchy. He breathes just a little too deep and feels the metal pop through his skin, just enough to draw blood, without Swerve moving a single muscle. He clenches his teeth.
"I got you figured out. I figured you out a long time ago. Everybody in this business is a masochist, you know? You're not special like that."
Swerve turns the blade, and swipes diagonally across Darby's stomach. It barely skims his abs, a thin stinging line. Darby shouts wordlessly, more from the surprise than the pain. If it had been deeper, he'd be spilling his guts all over the floor instead of just oozing a few drops of blood. His chest heaves in and out, rage and fire flooding his veins as Swerve laughs at him again.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Me?" Swerve puts a hand to his own chest, clutching at his non-existent pearls. "How about you ask yourself that, dead boy?"
The next spot Swerve prods with his knife makes Darby's whole body stiffen. For two reasons. He's got it positioned right at the seam of his shorts, over his dick-- which is hard, and he's not sure when that happened. It's hard to ignore now, though, now that he's noticed it. He can't ignore or explain how it twitches when the knife presses harder... And when Swerve swipes it away again, he moans. There's nothing he can say about it. He can't even fight him when he straddles his lap. Can't even see his eyes (he knows they're creased and full of sick, sadistic joy, he's seen it a million times) behind his dark glasses. Swerve slides the blade back up Darby's stomach and places the edge across one of his pecs. Darby's pulse races. He grits his teeth and wills his body to stay still, not to twitch or shake, even as Swerve's free hand gropes between his legs. He gets his shorts open, fishes Darby's cock out of his tights. The trickle of precum down his shaft eases some of the friction, but the rope calluses on his fingers still pull a reedy whine from his throat. The knife bites into his skin, and Swerve picks up the pace.
"See, your thing is fear."
He cuts a horizontal line into Darby's flesh. Deeper than before. Pain and blood bloom simultaneously and spill down his chest. Every few strokes, he makes a new cut. Every few strokes, it becomes clearer and clearer. He's right. It's not the pain that makes his cock twitch and his stomach flutter. It's the anticipation. Not knowing how deep the next slice will be-- whether it will be a fruitless whisper against his skin or a slash that'll need stitches later. Whenever Swerve lets him go.
Darby's heart lurches.
If Swerve lets him go.
As if on cue, Swerve tightens his grip around Darby's cock, now slick with the blood pouring down his torso. He brings the knife up to his throat.
"You know you're gonna die here, but this is what it does to you."
He gives him a couple hard, punishing tugs, twisting his hand around his tip. Darby squirms under him. He's so close. He's so fucking close, with cold steel under his chin and a hot, bloody hand around his dick.
"So what's it gonna be, dead boy? You wanna go out with your dick still hard, or--"
"Fff--fuck!"
Before Swerve can even finish his threat, Darby bucks and comes so hard he sees stars. The sudden movement causes the blade to cut into his neck-- just a shallow cut, Swerve takes it away before he can accidentally slit his throat on it. Streaks of white mingle contrast the drying, darkening coat of red on his stomach. The knife clatters to the floor. Panting and trembling, Darby slips forward as much as his bonds will allow, resting his forehead on Swerve's shoulder. Swerve shrugs his coat off and tosses it aside with his sunglasses.
"Alright. Okay, I got you. You good?"
Darby nods. Swerve scratches through his stiff, bleached hair, damp with sweat. The tremors die down.
"Good. Let's get you cleaned up."
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