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Then. Now. Forever

Pairing: Paul Levesque/Shawn Michaels

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Shawn Michaels stands barefoot in the bathroom, staring at the tiny white stick trembling in his hand. He reads it once. Twice. Three times. The second pink line is unmistakable. Positive. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. His stomach turns in slow, uneasy circles. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, the only sound in the room besides his shallow breathing. Time warps around him, stretching thin and taut, until he jerks suddenly—gagging. He drops to his knees in front of the toilet and vomits.

It started a week ago. The nausea. The fatigue. The soreness. At first, he blamed the travel, the late-night NXT meetings, the stress. Then he blamed the spicy barbecue Paul ordered. Then he blamed—hell, anything except this. Pregnancy was never part of the plan. Not now. Maybe not ever again. He and Paul had talked about it once, long ago, after the last time ended with heartbreak they’d buried under time and distraction. But now, it’s real. Shawn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flushes the toilet. His knees ache against the tile, his chest tight. He tries to calm down. He tries not to cry. He fails.

Paul is at Raw, two hours away in Tampa. The house feels colder without him, lonelier. His suitcase still sits near the door. His shaving cream still lingers in the air. Shawn thinks about calling. He really does. But how do you even begin that kind of conversation over the phone? Hey babe, remember when I said my body felt weird? Surprise—I’m pregnant. Don’t freak out. Shawn groans and pulls himself up, swaying slightly. He leans against the sink and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His eyes are red. Pale. His hair’s a mess. He looks… fragile. For someone who used to be the Heartbreak Kid, he feels like a shell right now. A very emotional, nauseated shell. He glances down at the test again. Still two lines. The hours drag. Paul doesn’t text much—he’s busy, running the show. Shawn doesn’t blame him. But every notification that isn’t from Paul makes his stomach flip. He lies on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders, clutching a heating pad against his abdomen—not for cramps, just for comfort.

At 10:49 p.m., the garage door finally rumbles open. Shawn’s breath catches. He hears the familiar thump of boots being kicked off, the jingle of Paul’s keys landing in the ceramic dish.

Then Paul’s voice: “Shawn? I’m home!”

Shawn’s mouth is dry. He swallows.

“In the living room,” he croaks, voice hoarse from vomiting and anxiety. Paul appears a second later, still in his black suit from the show. His face softens instantly when he sees Shawn curled up.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, already approaching with concern. “You look pale.” Shawn opens his mouth. Closes it again. His eyes sting. He nods quickly, then shakes his head.

Paul crouches in front of him, resting a hand on his knee. “Shawn. Talk to me. You look like hell.”

Shawn’s lips tremble.

“I… I took a test,” he whispers.

Paul stills. His brow furrows. “A… test?”

Shawn reaches behind the couch cushion and pulls out the stick. Hands it to him like it’s radioactive. Paul stares at it. Stares at him. Back at the stick. Silence. Then:

“Is this…?” Paul’s voice is rough, thick. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Shawn nods.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room is frozen in time. Paul’s hand, still holding the test, begins to tremble.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You’re pregnant.” Shawn waits for a reaction—for panic or pacing or disbelief. He braces for rejection. But Paul does none of those things. Instead, Paul sinks to the floor, cross-legged, still staring at the test like it’s a miracle he’s afraid to break. His mouth opens and closes.

Then, finally: “Are you okay?”

Shawn bursts into tears.

Paul scrambles closer, wrapping his arms around him, gently pulling him off the couch and onto his lap. “Hey, hey,” he whispers into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I puked so much,” Shawn chokes out. “I didn’t know what to do, Paul—I didn’t want to be alone.”

Paul squeezes tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m here now. I’ve got you, Shawn. You’re not alone, ever.”

They sit there on the floor, wrapped around each other, while the clock ticks past midnight.

Later, Paul makes peppermint tea and sits next to Shawn on the bed. He’s got a hand on Shawn’s thigh, grounding them both, while Shawn sips from the mug slowly.

“I didn’t know,” Shawn says softly. “I didn’t think I could.”

“I didn’t either,” Paul admits. “But God, Shawn… I’m so damn happy.”

Shawn blinks at him. “Really?”

Paul laughs, and it’s shaky. “Yeah. Terrified. But happy. So happy I could scream.”

Shawn leans his head on Paul’s shoulder. “What if it’s not okay? What if something goes wrong?”

Paul kisses the top of his head. “Then we go through it together. Whatever happens. I’ll be with you every second. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

Shawn closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Paul’s heartbeat under his ear. He’s still scared. But he’s not alone. And maybe, just maybe, this is going to be okay.

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See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil

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Dark Angel

Pairing: Paul Levesque/Shawn Michaels

The seminar room buzzes with energy—bright lights, the shuffle of feet, and the distant hum of the crowd settling in for what’s supposed to be a day of learning and camaraderie. Shawn Michaels stands near the entrance, greeting a handful of young wrestlers with a warm smile and a nod. Paul Levesque, his husband, stands beside him, calm and steady, watching Shawn with that familiar look that says, I’ve got your back. It’s supposed to be a good day.

But then, the door swings open with a sharp crack, and a chill snakes down Shawn’s spine before he even sees who walks in. Angel. The man from Shawn’s past who still haunts the shadows of his mind. The man who calls himself Shawn’s husband on paper but hasn’t touched him in years—who controls with cruelty masked as authority, who broke Shawn down bit by bit until he escaped but never quite free. Angel strides in, eyes cold and calculating, a twisted smirk curling his lips. His presence steals the warmth from the room. Paul notices immediately. His hand tightens around Shawn’s arm.

“Angel,” Paul says flatly, voice low but firm. Angel laughs—a hollow sound, echoing with menace.

“Paul. Still playing the hero, I see. Protecting the fragile little dreamer, huh?”

Shawn swallows hard, fighting the wave of panic rising in his chest. The room seems to narrow, every face blurring except Angel’s. He steps closer, voice dripping venom.

“You think you can keep him safe? Keep him from me?” Angel spits. “He’s mine—always will be. That naive little smile? The way he acts like he’s untouchable? I broke that.”

Paul’s jaw tightens. “You’re done, Angel. Shawn is done with you.”

Angel sneers. “Done? Ha! Shawn’s nothing without me. You just don’t see it yet.”

Paul steps forward, ready to say more, but Angel’s hand snaps out faster than anyone expects. Smack. The sharp slap lands across Shawn’s cheek, a brutal punctuation in the middle of the seminar hall. Shock rings through the crowd. Shawn’s eyes fill with tears, and everything inside him fractures. He stumbles backward, hands trembling, and then the sob breaks free—raw and desperate.

Paul’s voice is frantic now. “Shawn, hey—Shawn, look at me.”

But Shawn’s gaze darts past Paul, past everyone, his breath quickening, heart pounding so loud it drowns out all sound. The walls close in. The lights blur and pulse. His chest tightens. He’s trapped—no escape. A panic attack claws at him, sharp and merciless. Without thinking, Shawn spins and bolts away from the crowd, past the rows of chairs and the stunned onlookers. He slips into a nearby office—an empty one—throws himself to the floor, and crawls under the desk. The cold metal frame presses against his back, the shadowed space a sanctuary from the overwhelming noise outside. He pulls his knees to his chest, hands trembling, tears still falling.

Paul’s heart pounds as he scans the seminar hall, his eyes darting between the startled faces of wrestlers and staff. “Shawn? Shawn!” His voice grows desperate. The moment Angel slapped him, Paul felt something shatter inside Shawn—something raw and dangerous—and now that something is breaking apart in the silence. A staff member points to the open office nearby. Paul doesn’t hesitate. He rushes toward it, chest tightening with dread. The door is slightly ajar, and Paul pushes it open to find the room empty, except— Under the desk. There. A small, trembling figure curled into himself like a wounded animal.

“Shawn.” Paul drops to his knees, voice soft but steady. “I’m here. You’re safe.” But Shawn doesn’t respond, his breath shallow and fast. His hands clutch at his knees as if they’ll hold him together. The room feels too bright, the air too thick. He’s lost in the panic spiraling through his body.

Paul reaches out slowly, careful not to overwhelm him, and gently takes Shawn’s shaking hands into his own. “Look at me, baby. I’m right here. No one’s going to hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”

Tears spill down Shawn’s cheeks. The sobs start again, smaller this time, quieter. Paul strokes Shawn’s hair, whispering promises of safety and love. Minutes pass like hours, but gradually Shawn’s ragged breathing slows, the tight knot in his chest loosens.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn whispers, voice broken. “I thought I was past this. I thought he couldn’t touch me anymore.”

Paul’s grip tightens, filled with fierce protectiveness. “You’re stronger than he ever was. And you’re not alone. We’re going to get through this. Together.”

Shawn lifts his tear-streaked face to Paul’s, searching for the truth in those steady eyes. The fear doesn’t vanish completely, but for the first time since Angel appeared, it feels smaller—contained.

Paul helps Shawn to his feet, steadying him. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk when you’re ready. No rush.”

As they leave the office, the seminar hall watches in silence—some with sympathy, others with respect. Outside, the air feels fresher, the weight of the moment starting to lift.

Paul holds Shawn close, whispering, “You’re safe now, love. Always.”

And Shawn, though trembling still, leans into the strength he’s found in Paul, ready to fight the ghosts of his past with the man who stands beside him.

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The Pulse Between Us

Pairing: Paul Levesque/Shawn Michaels

The phone rings at 2:16 a.m. Shawn bolts upright in bed, heart thudding in his throat. The world is fogged in sleep and shadow, the only light a muted glow from the hallway nightlight. He fumbles for his phone, squinting at the screen. It’s a number from Connecticut. He already knows something is wrong.

He answers. “Yeah. This is Shawn.”

The voice on the other end is clinical. Calm. Too calm. “Mr. Michaels, I’m calling from Yale New Haven Hospital. Your husband, Paul Levesque, was brought in tonight in cardiac distress. We believe it’s heart failure, potentially linked to a recent respiratory infection. You should come now.” Everything slows down.

“No—what?” Shawn stammers. “What did you just say?” The nurse repeats it. The words don’t change. Heart failure. Come now. He’s already out of bed, throwing clothes on inside-out. He yells something unintelligible at the walls, grabs his keys, forgets his wallet, turns back for it, then forgets why he came back at all. The ride from Orlando to Connecticut is a blur of turbulence and sweat. WWE arranges the private flight, but Shawn barely remembers the boarding. He just keeps replaying the nurse’s voice, over and over, like static under his skin.

“Cardiac distress.”

Paul has been tired. A cough that lingered. He brushed it off as exhaustion, maybe stress. They both had been grinding for years. NXT, the Performance Center, family, everything—but Shawn should have noticed more. That’s what gnaws at him. Should have seen it coming. Should have made him rest. Should have—should have—should have. Paul looks pale. That’s the first thing Shawn notices when he enters the ICU. The second is the silence. Machines beep softly. A rhythm he can’t trust. Paul lies still in the hospital bed, wires trailing from his chest like vines from a dying tree. A ventilator mask rests at his side, unused now but a warning. His lips are chapped. His hair is damp. Shawn swallows down a sob.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers, pulling up the plastic chair and settling beside the bed. “You scared the hell outta me.” Paul doesn’t respond. He’s sleeping, sedated. Shawn takes his hand and holds it like something ancient and sacred. Time unspools strangely in hospitals. Morning comes, then disappears behind the whirr of machines and whispered rounds. Paul wakes on the second day, groggy and confused. Shawn’s face is the first thing he sees. His eyes flutter open and focus.

“You look like shit,” Paul mumbles.

Shawn lets out a laugh-sob. “You’re the one with a busted engine, you asshole.”

Paul smiles faintly, then coughs. It rattles in his chest like broken glass.

“Don’t make me laugh,” he croaks. “Hurts too much.”

“I’m not leaving this room until you do it again,” Shawn says, brushing hair from Paul’s forehead. “So you’d better keep hurting.” A week passes. Shawn barely leaves Paul’s side. They eat Jell-O and broth together in silence. They argue about whether Paul can have his phone. They sit and listen to music—old Van Halen tracks, some country, nothing too emotional. They don’t talk about wrestling. They don’t talk about death. But it hangs between them. Like an undertaker in the room, just waiting for the wrong note.

Paul sighs on a quiet Thursday morning. “If I had died…”

“Don’t,” Shawn snaps, too sharp.

“No, listen,” Paul insists, weak but firm. “If I had died—I want to know you would’ve been okay.”

Shawn leans forward, gripping the side of the bed so hard his knuckles whiten. “You think I would ever be okay without you?”

Paul tries to reach for his hand. “I think you’d find a way. That’s what you’ve always done.”

“I didn’t find a way without you in 1998,” Shawn says bitterly. “Or 2002. Or when I was a mess and you—God, you were always there. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“You deserve everything,” Paul says, voice ragged.

Shawn curls into the bed and presses his forehead to Paul’s shoulder. “I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not next to me.”

The next cardiologist appointment changes everything. Paul is stronger now. Off the oxygen. More color in his face. But the diagnosis is concrete—viral myocarditis, compounded by undetected pneumonia. The heart muscle had been damaged. Recovery is possible, but slow. A new way of life. No more caffeine. No more twenty-hour days. No more pretending he’s invincible. Paul stares at the floor. Shawn watches him.

“Do you want to keep doing NXT?” Shawn asks softly.

Paul shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

There’s a long silence.

“I’m scared,” Paul admits.

Shawn pulls him in. “So am I.”

At night, in the hotel room across from the hospital, Shawn watches Paul sleep. He studies the scar near his collarbone from the implantable cardioverter. It’s small, but permanent. A reminder. Every time Paul coughs in his sleep, Shawn jolts awake. He doesn’t tell him that. Doesn’t say how every flutter, every shallow breath makes his heart skip. But it does. It always will. He remembers something stupid. Something sweet.

Years ago, in catering, Paul stole Shawn’s dessert and kissed him on the cheek like it was nothing. That was the moment, Shawn realizes now. That’s when he knew. They were never meant to be temporary. Weeks later, Paul is discharged. They return to Florida with bags under their eyes and prescription bottles in hand. The kids throw themselves at Paul’s waist. Shawn watches from the hallway and cries silently. Later that night, they lie in bed, Paul curled around Shawn’s back.

“Hey,” Paul whispers. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not letting me die.”

Shawn squeezes his hand. “You don’t get to leave me that easy.”

Paul kisses the nape of his neck. “I don’t plan to.”

And for the first time in what feels like years, Shawn believes him.

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But first lemme take a selfie

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My wife

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30 Day Idol Challenge- Day 3: Drinking

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I've got my makeup on

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Jesus Mary and Joseph

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Do I look like a real girl?

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Damn

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Rhea looks like a real girl

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Hell yeah! Stephanie is going to MITB

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People screaming “We want Truth” on Monday Night Raw is insane

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Live, From Monday Night Raw

Pairing: Paul Levesque/Shawn Michaels

The cameras roll. The red lights of Monday Night Raw burn above the ring, a digital sea of screaming fans in the packed arena. “The Game” stands under the lights in his charcoal suit, mic in hand, eyes steady.

Paul Levesque clears his throat, letting the roar die down. “Thank you,” he says, voice gravel-smooth. “Tonight, I want to honor someone who changed my life in and out of the ring.”

A knowing pop rises from the crowd. They chant:

“HBK! HBK! HBK!”

From behind the curtain, Shawn Michaels waits in black jeans, boots, and a sleeveless denim jacket. His hair’s tied back in a short ponytail. He watches Paul on the monitor with soft eyes—until movement behind him freezes his blood.

That walk. That swagger. That unmistakable, predatory presence. Vince McMahon. Gray suit. Black shirt. Arms stiff like iron rods. Face stern, plastic-tight, like a mannequin with malice.

“Not now,” Shawn mutters. Vince walks past crew members without acknowledgment and heads straight toward the curtain. The producers whisper frantically into headsets.

“Is he cleared to—?”

“No one cleared this—”

Paul senses the shift in the arena even before he turns. The crowd gasps as Vince McMahon’s theme hits. Paul freezes in the ring, the mic slack in his hand. His face stiffens, not with fear, but with incredulous fury. The man they thought gone. Retired. Finished. He’s walking down the ramp like nothing’s happened, like time hasn’t moved, like lawsuits and headlines didn’t crack the Earth open beneath the WWE. He climbs into the ring. Paul doesn’t move. The crowd is losing its mind, unsure whether this is storyline or hostile takeover. Vince takes a mic.

“Paul,” he begins, voice rough with age and smoke, “I’ve let a lot of things slide since I stepped away. I let you run this place, thinking you understood what this business needs. But I’ve been watching. And I’m seeing… a damn love story when I should be seeing war.” A murmur rolls across the crowd.

“You married Shawn Michaels. You made it a public affair. And now this company,” Vince gestures around, “is supposed to celebrate… that?”

Paul’s face twitches.

“Say that again,” he says slowly.

Vince smirks. “You heard me, son. You turned my company into your personal soap opera. Husband and husband—what are we doing? Is this a wrestling show or a romance novel?”

Booing erupts. Loud. Furious. Paul doesn’t blink.

From backstage, Shawn storms forward. He doesn’t wait for music. Doesn’t wait for a cue. He walks to the ring with his fists clenched and eyes blazing. The cameraman scrambles to keep up. The crowd cheers as he slides under the ropes. Vince turns, just in time to see Shawn Michaels standing in front of him.

“You’ve got five seconds to walk out of this ring,” Shawn says.

Paul reaches out. “Shawn—”

“No,” Shawn snaps. “Let me handle this.”

Vince laughs. “You’re really going to make this about feelings, aren’t you?”

The mic is ripped from Vince’s hand. Shawn steps in close, breathing hard into the mic.

“You want to humiliate me and my husband on live television? Say we’re a joke? We’re soft?”

The crowd chants again:

“HBK! HBK! HBK!”

“I was addicted. I was broken. I should’ve died in ‘98. But he—” Shawn points to Paul “—he kept me alive. He stayed through every withdrawal, every relapse, every time I said I didn’t want to wake up.”

Paul looks down, hand resting on his wedding ring. Shawn’s voice cracks, but he keeps going.

“He loved me when I didn’t love myself. And I don’t care if that makes your precious empire uncomfortable. I died for this business. And I found love in it.”

The crowd erupts into a thunder of applause. Shawn drops the mic.

Vince sneers. “You done?”

And that’s it. Sweet. Chin. Music. CRACK. The crowd roars as Vince McMahon hits the mat, sprawled like a bag of wet cement. Shawn breathes hard, hands trembling. Paul is at his side instantly, eyes wide with a thousand emotions. Security rushes the ring. Agents shout into radios. The commentators are screaming over each other.

Corey Graves: “SHAWN MICHAELS JUST KNOCKED OUT VINCE MCMAHON ON LIVE TV!”

Michael Cole: “I don’t think this was part of the script, folks—this is real!”

Paul’s hand is on Shawn’s chest.

“You okay?”

Shawn nods once.

The crowd chants:

“You deserve it! Clap clap clap-clap-clap You deserve it!”

They don’t leave the ring. They just stand there—two men who built an empire with broken bodies and now stand, hand in hand, in front of the world. Vince is dragged out by officials, his face a mask of stunned silence.

A producer signals from the side. “Wrap it up.”

Paul lifts the mic again.

“Love wins,” he says. “Whether Vince McMahon likes it or not.” He kisses Shawn on the forehead. And Raw cuts to black.

Backstage, the air is chaos. Vince is being treated by medical staff. Shawn sits on a bench, his hands wrapped in tape, eyes hollow with adrenaline.

Paul paces in front of him. “You know this is going to be a PR nuclear bomb, right?”

“Yeah,” Shawn mutters. “And I’d do it again.”

Paul smiles.

“Same.”

Hunter crouches in front of Shawn. He takes his husband’s hands and places them on his shoulders.

“You always did have a flair for drama,” Paul says.

Shawn chuckles, just barely. The door opens. Stephanie McMahon steps in. She looks pissed—but not at them.

“That bastard walked in without clearance,” she says. “Legal’s gonna have a field day. You guys okay?”

Shawn nods. “How’d it look on TV?”

“Epic,” Stephanie says. “Might be the most honest segment Raw’s had in years.”

She closes the door behind her, leaving them alone again. Paul leans in.

“I meant what I said. You’re the reason I’m still human.”

Shawn touches his chest. “You kept me alive. I just paid it forward.”

They sit there in the dim light of the locker room, the roar of the crowd still echoing faintly through the walls. There’s a knock at the door. It’s a young crew member with trembling hands.

“Uh—sorry, Mr. Levesque, Mr. Michaels. Just wanted to say… what you did tonight? It meant a lot. My boyfriend and I—uh, we watch every week. Never thought we’d see something like that on WWE.”

Shawn’s eyes soften.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Tyler.”

Paul claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tyler.”

As the kid leaves, Shawn smiles.

“See that? That’s why I don’t regret it.”

Paul squeezes his hand. They sit together, quietly, as the world spins around them. Outside, Vince McMahon is already drafting statements. Legal teams are scrambling. Networks are furious. Headlines are being written. But none of that matters. Because in this moment, under the cracked leather of a locker room bench and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights, Shawn Michaels and Paul Levesque are finally free.

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