cry1ngame

[cry1ngame]

TELL ME IT'S YOU

Damian Priest

- Second post! Short lil story, Fem pov, cursing, may be a few mistakes I've glossed over, ( not super familiar with Spanish so let me know if I messed that up at all ) - ever since Damian joined Smackdown, I had to write a little something.

You avoided him like the plague after he got drafted to SmackDown. You thought you were in the clear. Judgment Day? Left behind. RAW? In the rearview. Your past challenges? A distant memory. And him? Especially him. Damian Priest. He was more than an afterthought. He had been forgotten by you. But fate, or whatever cosmic joke the universe was playing on you, had other plans. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and the past, you ended up bumping into him. Like an old bad habit. Or a song stuck in your head that you swore you hated, but deep down maybe you didn’t. Because there you were, once again in close quarters on SMACKDOWN with the one man who had a knack for getting under your skin. Just like old times on RAW. You and Damian had history. Not the kind you could neatly sum up in a sentence, either. You’d joined the RAW roster a few months back, full of fire, only to get roped into Judgment Day, Finn Balor’s crumbling faction. A rookie mistake. Literally. You were new, naive, maybe even a little reckless. The details of why you joined? Hazy at best. Maybe you thought aligning with Finn would give you an edge. Maybe you just got caught in the undertow. Either way, it was a decision that painted a giant target on your back.

Enter Damian Priest.

You expected hostility. After all, he and Finn were locked in an intense rivalry, and you? You were just another pawn on Finn’s chessboard. But Damian’s fixation wasn’t about taking you down. No, it was something else entirely. He was convinced you were better than this. That you were wasting your potential in Judgment Day. That you, someone he barely even knew, were capable of more. And that unsettled you. It wasn’t the words themselves that got under your skin, it was how right he was. He saw straight through you. It was frustrating.

"You're not like them," He had told you one night backstage, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your wrist tape, pretending like his words didn’t sink in deeper than they actually did. "Wow, Priest. That’s really insightful. Did you figure that out all on your own?”

He smirked, unbothered. "You know what I mean. This whole Judgment Day act? It’s not you. You’re forcing it. Me entiendes?”

You scoffed. "And you’re an expert on me now?"

He leaned in, his lips mere inches from your cheek in a barely-there kiss, close enough to steal the breath from your lungs. "I don’t need to be an expert to know when someone’s faking it.”

That was the problem. He didn’t need to know you to see you.

You thought you’d escaped all of that. That you’d finally found some peace after leaving Judgment Day behind and jumping to SmackDown. That those tangled complicated feelings would stay buried where they belonged. But there he was. Making his way down the aisle, his entrance music blaring, wearing that damn knowing smile like he had the answers to questions you hadn’t even asked yet. You were just in the ring, mid-promo, talking about your determination to win the Royal Rumble. You were fired up. And then he interrupted. Because of course he did! And as much as you wished otherwise, you had a sinking feeling that Damian Priest wasn’t just there to mess with you.

He was there because he still saw you.

You let out a slow breath, rolling your shoulders as you listened to the crowd’s surprised reaction, but you weren’t paying attention to them much. You were too busy glaring at the man walking down the ramp like he owned the place. You shifted your weight, folding your arms as he swiftly climbed into the ring. “You lost, Priest? This isn’t RAW. I was hoping we'd never do this again.”

Damian chuckled, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket. “Nah, I know exactly where I am.” He gestured around the arena. “SmackDown. Your new home. Or well, our new home. Thought I'd come check out your side of the fence.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Right. Because obviously you don’t have anything better to do.”

He took a step closer, tilting his head. “You tell me. I was back there listening, and I gotta say, you sounded motivated, hermosa."

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I am motivated. It's literally the Royal Rumble.”

“Mhm, I get you.” He nodded, feigning deep thought. “It's, I don't know, interesting. ‘Cause I remember a time when you had your sights set on somethin’ else entirely.”

Your stomach twisted and the crowd cooed. You weren’t going to let him pull you back into the past.

“That was a long time ago,” you said coolly into the mic.

“Como? Was it now? I don't know, it feels like yesterday.” The way he was looking at you made your pulse spike. He had a way of doing that, of making you feel like he was peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had.

“You think you know me so well,” you muttered.

“I do,” he shot back without hesitation. “And that’s what’s got you so pissed off, isn’t it?” Your jaw clenched, but before you could snap back, he continued, “You left Judgment Day because you finally figured it out. You realized you didn’t belong there.” He let the words hang in the air before adding, “But that doesn’t mean you’ve figured out where you do belong.”

Your jaw fell agape.

He leaned in just slightly, the distance between you both threatening to close. “That’s what you’re really fighting for, isn’t it? More than a Rumble win. More than a title shot. You want to prove to yourself that you made the right choice.”

You hated how much he understood. But you weren’t going to let him get the last word. Lifting your chin, you met his gaze head-on you said, “I don’t need your validation, Priest.”

He chuckled, stepping back with his hands up. “Good. ‘Cause I ain't here to give it. I’m here to see if you can back it up.”

Your brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

His smirk deepened. “It means I ain't goin’ anywhere. I guess we’ll find out if all that motivation you’re talking about is real. Or if you’re still just running.”

"Running from what, damn it?" You threw an arm up dramatically. “Go on, tell me.”

Damian didn’t answer right away. No, that would’ve been taking it easy. Instead, he let the moment hang in the air, stretching the silence just long enough to make you roll your eyes into next week’s Smackdown. Then, with that same smirk, he scratched at his upper lip and let out a deep rumbling chuckle, the kind that sent a shiver straight into your core, though you’d sooner take a chair shot than ever admit that.

“Heh.” He started pacing. “You really that dense?”

“Oh, please,” Your jaw tightened, “Enlighten me, Priest. What exactly am I running from?”

Damian stopped pacing, shaking his head. “You really want me to spell it out for you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” You grumbled.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re not running from Judgment Day. You’re not even running from your past mistakes. You’re running from yourself.”

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “That’s the best you’ve got? Some dime store fortune cookie psychology?”

“Call it whatever you want, but we both know it’s true.” Damian gestured toward you with a lazy flick of his ringed fingers. “You act like you’ve got it all figured out, like you’ve moved on, but deep down? You’re still trying to prove something. To yourself.”

He picked you apart. You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

“Newsflash, Priest,” You stepped forward, closing the gap between you two again. “Everyone in this business is trying to prove something. It’s called ambition. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“Ambition and fear? Two different things.”

You sucked in a breath through your nose. “I’m not afraid.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “No? Then why are you getting so worked up?”

You opened your mouth to fire back - only to realize you didn’t actually have an answer. Fuck him. Fuck his insight, fuck the way he had this irritating habit of making you question yourself. You huffed out a sharp incredulous laugh, because of course he’d say something like that. Because if there was one thing Damian Priest excelled at, besides South of heavin-ing people into oblivion, it was knowing exactly what buttons to press and how hard to press them. You squared your shoulders, refusing to let him see the way his words sent a shockwave through you. But he knew. You knew that he was aware. “You really piss me off. Yet, you wonder why I don't ever give you the time of day.”

“Oh, you give me the time of day, sweetheart. Every single time I walk in a room, you feel it. Just like I do.”

He’s messing with you. He’s just trying to get in your head.

So you did the only logical thing, and dismissed him with a flick of your wrist. “Cute. Real cute. But here’s the thing, Priest, I don’t run from myself. I like who I am right now and I like where I'm headed."

That earned you a full-blown laugh, deep and rich, like he actually enjoyed this ( God, he did ). “Better yet,” Damian began, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was savoring the moment, like he knew exactly what he was about to do to your sanity. His eyes darkened with something unreadable, something dangerous. “How about,” he drawled, voice smooth as sin, “you stop running from me?”

Oh.

Oh, hell no.

Your entire body went rigid, heat creeping up the back of your neck. The crowd’s reaction was instant, a mix of oohs and gasps, like they’d just witnessed someone flip a match into a gasoline pit.

“I- I don’t-” you stammered, internally cursing yourself for it. Stuttering? Really? You were better than this.

“No, c’mon now.” Suddenly, Damian's voice shifted from playful to razor sharp, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline shoot through you. You stepped back instinctively, only to find him stepping forward, closing the distance between you again, even further this time. “You run from me. You just keep on running.” And there you were, caught in a bit of a dilemma. You took another step back, nearly into the ropes behind you, trying to regain some semblance of personal space, but he was having none of it. He placed a hand on your shoulder, the cool metal of his rings pressing through the fabric of your wrestling gear. It was like he was anchoring you in place, and somehow that made the whole thing worse - and also a little thrilling. He leaned in, lowering himself to your eye level, which, considering your height difference, felt like he was towering over you in a very intimate way. “Look me in the eye and tell me it’s really you who wants me to stop,” he demanded, “That it’s really you who wants me to keep my distance. Tell. Me. It’s. You.”

Your mind raced as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. How could he be so infuriatingly accurate? Damnit, he knew exactly how to handle you, like a skilled musician plucking at the strings of your tension. Deep down, you realized you loved this as much as you "hated" it. It was the thrill of the chase, the magnetism of his confidence. It was all so maddening. Because, if you were honest with yourself, there was a part of you that was undeniably drawn to him, a part that was tired of running.

[cry1ngame]

BACK TO YOU

Drew McIntyre

- First ever post! Fem pov, cursing, may be a few mistakes I've glossed over, I've had part of this story saved in my notes for a long while but after this week's raw I HAD to continue it. ( Drew McIntyre my beloved )

You had been dodging him for weeks - literal weeks - and that didn't stop him from constantly trying to get in front of you, larger than life, with a smirk that said he knew exactly how much he was throwing you off your game. Drew McIntyre. The Scottish Psychopath. That Drew McIntyre. You didn’t think you’d done that much to get on his radar. Sure, you were killing it by climbing the ranks, match after match, win after win. Your face was starting to plaster itself on posters, advertisements, and highlight reels. People were noticing you. But Drew McIntyre noticing you? That felt...big. And honestly, a little alarming. At first, you thought it was jealousy. Maybe he didn’t like the attention you were getting. Maybe your growing momentum annoyed him. But no, he’d made it clear (in the most frustratingly confident way possible) that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t mad about your rise. Hell, he was happy for you. Said he was proud of what you were doing. The problem, according to him, was that you were doing it alone. He thought you had potential - more than potential. He thought you were destined for greatness, the kind of greatness that came from being at his side. He wanted to mentor you, partner with you, and create an alliance. He claimed you. He just wished, you know, that circumstances were a little different. Like, maybe you should be killing it with him. That’s right. Drew McIntyre wanted to team up. Which, to be fair, sounded great on paper….if he wasn’t embroiled in every ounce of drama under the sun. The Bloodline? Check. CM Punk? Check. Random chaos at every turn? Double check. But you? You weren’t a team player. Never had been. You were a lone wolf from day one. Sure, there’d been a tag match or two along the way ( obligatory stuff, for the views ) but alliances? Long-term partnerships? Not your style. You thrived on independence. Did your own thing, earned your own victories, made your own name. And Drew, frustratingly enough, respected that about you. Admired it, even. He just thought, “Hey, maybe you could be even greater with me.” I mean, he even called you the prodigal one ( second to him ).

But every week, you shut him down. Again. And again. And again. At first, it was the baggage he had...his drama-filled life wasn’t exactly appealing. But then you realized the truth - you loved the chase. Sure, you still preferred working alone, but this back-and-forth? The tension? The game? It was intoxicating. Drew might’ve been dead serious, but you? You were having fun. Not that he didn’t get under your skin every now and then. You still remember the day it all started. The Royal Rumble was on the horizon, and you were determined. This was your moment, your shot. The crowd was behind you, the energy electric. And then…his music hit.

Drew McIntyre.

He walked down the aisle, microphone in hand, head dipped low. His shadow stretched across the ramp and you could imagine the smirk on his features before you even saw it. He climbed into the ring swiftly, his towering frame making you feel so very small.

“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” he said, extending a hand like this was some kind of networking event. “Drew. Drew McIntyre.”

You raised the mic, ready to respond, but nothing came out. You weren’t exactly sure why he, of all people, had decided to interrupt you. You’d never crossed paths before. Not backstage. Not in the ring. Not even a sideways glance.

“Oh, sorry.” Drew took a mockingly apologetic step back, his smirk widening. “You’re confused, yeah? Don’t worry, I get ahead of myself sometimes. Jump right in without explaining. Allow me to fix that.” You stood there, rooted to the spot, the microphone still in your hand but forgotten as Drew stared at you. The crowd was eating it up, cheers ringing through the arena, wondering how this would play out with you two strangers, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was Drew McIntyre. “You’ve been making waves, aye?” Drew began, pacing the ring in front of you. “Winning matches, catching the eye of management, getting the crowd behind you. I mean, look at them!” He swept a hand toward the audience, who instinctively erupted into another cheer, and you felt your cheeks flush despite yourself. “They love you. They’re invested in your story. They see what I see.”

Your brow furrowed slightly at that last line, your brain catching up with his words. What did he see?

Drew stopped pacing, turning to face you fully now. He tilted his head, a knowing smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Still no words, eh? That’s alright. I like a good listener. But let me make one thing crystal clear-” He stepped closer, and the air between you seemed to charge with something unidentifiable. “I’m not out here to take anything from you. I’m not out here to dim your spotlight or put you in your place, as they say.” His smirk turned almost wolfish, “I’m out here because I see potential in you. Potential that’s being squandered.”

The crowd gasped, and you blinked, finally snapping out of your daze. Squandered? Did he just say squandered? Your lips parted, and you raised your mic, but Drew placed his hand on it, pushing it down before you could speak.

“Ah, let me finish, please,” he said it like he wasn’t really asking. “I’m not saying you’re not doing well. Quite the opposite, actually. You’re thriving. But you’re thriving alone. And while I respect the whole lone wolf schtick, believe me, I’ve been there, I can’t help but wonder…” He leaned in slightly, a breath away from you. “How much further could you go with someone like me by your side?”

Your mind raced, replaying everything he’d said up until this point, and for a brief moment, you found yourself considering it. But then you shook your head slightly, the tiniest movement, and Drew noticed. Of course, he noticed.

He straightened up, chuckling softly, the sound low and almost… amused? “Ah, I see,” he said, taking a step back, giving you space. “You’re skeptical. That’s fair. I’d be the same in your shoes. But let me ask you this.” He gestured toward the titantron, where a montage of your highlights began to play, your most recent victories. “Is this enough for you? Are you satisfied with being good when you could be great?”

Immediately, you raised your mic, finally finding your voice. “Why do you care?” you asked, “What’s in it for you, Drew?”

He grinned at that, a genuine, almost boyish grin that took you by surprise. “Now that is a good question,” he said, nodding in approval. “And the answer is simple. I care because I’ve been where you are. I’ve walked this path, and I’ve seen what happens when you try to do it all on your own. I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did.”

Suddenly, you felt a flicker of something other than confusion. Was it….understanding? No, you shook the thought away. You weren’t about to fall for his charm or his words. “Thanks for the advice,” you said finally, “but I’ve been doing just fine on my own. And I don’t need anyone, especially not you, to tell me how to succeed.”

Drew chuckled again, this time with a hint of frustration, and for a moment, you thought he might press the issue. But instead, he took another step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright then,” he said, “But don’t say I didn’t offer you soon enough.” With that, he turned and exited the ring, his music hitting again as he walked back up the ramp. But before he disappeared backstage, he glanced over his shoulder, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours one last time. At that moment, you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Week after week, it was the same routine. Drew McIntyre would just happen to bump into you, like clockwork. Oh, and he’d always play it off as a complete accident too. “Oh, didn’t see you there!” Like he wasn’t a six-foot-five wall of Scottish muscle with the stealth of a freight train. And then, with that disarming grin, he’d launch into some casual small talk. “How’s your day been?” he’d ask, all innocently, as if he hadn’t been strategically timing these “accidental” run-ins like he was plotting a heist. You weren’t stupid. You knew the guy had probably analyzed your whole routine like it was game tape. He seemed to have mapped out your water breaks, gym sessions, and post-match cooldowns just to stage these little encounters. And the worst part? It was kind of working. Not that you’d let him know that.

You almost tripped over yourself completely when the staff asked you to join commentary as a special guest one night. It sounded simple enough - sit down, watch some matches, sprinkle in your witty insights, maybe drop a one-liner or two. Easy! But no one bothered to mention who was lined up for a match that night.

Drew McIntyre. Of fucking course.

The moment his music hit, your once bubbly and confident persona took a nosedive. You went from charming and talkative to awkward and painfully aware of the walking hurricane now striding down the ramp. And Drew? He noticed. He noticed everything. Mid-match, as he laid waste to his poor opponent, Seth Rollins, he still found time to torment you. After slamming the man into the mat with the kind of force that made the entire ring rattle, Drew would glance your way. Sometimes he’d wave, like you were just an old friend in the crowd. Other times, he’d tilt his head at you, as if he were trying to crack open your skull and figure you out.

And you? Your attempts to play it cool were failing spectacularly. A simple question from the loveable Micheal Cole - “What do you think of Drew’s strategy here?” - felt like a trap. What were you supposed to say? “Oh, yeah, he’s terrifyingly good at his job, but can he stop staring at me for like five seconds?” Yeah, that wouldn’t fly. You really thought the torture was over when Drew had his win, did his signature post-match victory flex, and was presumably on his way to the locker room. But that wasn't the end of the story. Nope, you were wrong. So, so wrong. It was Drew McIntyre. And Drew McIntyre isn’t the kind of guy to let things lie when there’s an opportunity to stir the pot. You still remember how your heart practically jumped into your throat when he slipped out of the ring. His massive frame was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving from the match, but instead of heading for the ramp, he made a beeline for, you guessed it, the commentary table. Your first instinct? Lean back. Your second? Glare daggers at him. But the man was unfazed. No, he actually thrived off your discomfort.

With deliberate slowness, he placed a single hand on the table, leaning over just enough to close the gap between you. The sweat dripping from his brow only made him look more menacing. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, it was like time froze. No words, no smirk, no witty quip. Just that silent, piercing stare. You gripped the armrests of your chair like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, refusing to flinch. It was a standoff, a painfully long one. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Drew straightened up, with the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips as if to say, "Alright, you win this round." And then, just like that, he turned and sauntered off, leaving you to exhale the breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding in your throat.

You thought this whole cat-and-mouse game with Drew McIntyre would stay fun, but there were times when things started to heat up. And not the kind of heat that gets the crowd going, either. No, it was something else. Something a little too intense. You couldn’t tell if that made the chase more thrilling or just downright nerve-wracking. Probably both. Definitely both.

You remember one night in particular. Oh, you remember it very well.

“You’re so damn selfish.”

The words hit you like a slap. You’d just walked off the heels of a brutal match, your body aching and your mind replaying every hit you’d taken, embarrassing you. The last thing you expected, or wanted, was Drew standing there, waiting for you like some storm cloud ready to burst. His tone wasn’t playful, not cocky or teasing like usual. It was sharp. Raw. A little too real. You stopped in your tracks, staring up at the ceiling like you were asking whatever the hell was above in the heavens for divine intervention. Anything to avoid meeting his gaze. Maybe if you prayed hard enough, he’d just….evaporate. ( Spoiler alert! he didn’t! ) When you finally looked forward, your heart sank faster than a wrestler getting powerbombed. Drew was right in front of you, his shadow swallowing you whole. You’d think by now, after all the weeks of close encounters, you’d be used to his suffocating presence.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” His voice was low as he jabbed a finger between you and himself. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a demand. It was an order. And for the first time in this little game of yours, you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to play anymore.

Oh, who were you kidding? Of course you wanted to keep playing.

. . .

In reality, your hypocrisy knew no bounds. You’d sworn to steer clear of Drew’s mess, to avoid his drama like it was a tag team match you weren’t booked for. Yet, another faithful night, you perched yourself on one of those battered backstage crates, legs dangling like some carefree kid at summer camp, transfixed as hell. And what had your attention? One of his promos. Seth Rollins, CM Punk, and Drew McIntyre, all squaring off in a verbal slugfest that somehow felt more violent than most actual matches. Drew was holding his ground, trading barbs like a man with nothing to lose and everything to prove. It was riveting, okay? You hated to admit it, but for those few minutes, you might as well have been just another fan sitting in the expensive seats with merch and popcorn.

“God, he’s insane-” you muttered to yourself, unable to tear your eyes away from the screen. Insane was probably an understatement. The man seemed to collect enemies like other people collected Funko Pops. And you hated that you…liked it. Drew wasn’t just playing chess; he was flipping the board over, setting the pieces on fire, and daring everyone else to deal with it. The promo ended with Drew walking off, his mic-drop moment lingering in the air like smoke after The American Nightmare’s three pyro displays. He stormed down the aisle and into the backstage area. And then, like fate ( or mischief ) had decided to pull a fast one, his eyes landed on you. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled, all child-like.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you drawled, leaning back against the wall, “I’d say you’re all for the drama.” You tilted your head, sizing him up with the kind of playful curiosity that was half a tease and half a challenge. “Do you, like, keep a checklist of everyone in the locker room you’ve yet to piss off? Or is it more of a spin-the-wheel situation?”

Drew stopped in his tracks, his expression shifting from confusion to amusement so fast it was almost dizzying. He cocked an eyebrow, that trademark smirk creeping across his face. “Oh, I don’t need a checklist,” he shot back, his Scottish brogue dripping with sarcasm. “It’s more of an art form, really. You wouldn’t understand. I mean, you would if you, y'know - tagged along.”

You let out a soft laugh, kicking your feet a little for emphasis. “An art form? Please. You’re like a walking soap opera, McIntyre. And the worst part is, you know it.”

“And yet,” He said, his voice dropping just enough to make you lean in slightly, “you’re watching. So pray tell, do you enjoy the show?”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees as you met his gaze. “Don’t get it twisted, McIntyre. I like watching you from afar. But, I don't want front-row seats to your circus shit.”

He studied you for a moment, his smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. “Fair enough,” he said finally, taking a step back. “But if you ever change your mind…” He let the offer hang in the air before turning and walking away.

You watched him go, the corner of your mouth quirking upward despite yourself. Front-row seats? Not a chance. But sneaking a peek every now and then? Maybe.

. . .

You told yourself you had bigger things to focus on - mainly the Royal Rumble, which was practically breathing down your neck. All the fans were counting on your win. With only a week left, you needed laser focus. To your surprise, Drew seemed to understand that. Or at least, he pretended to. He backed off. No sudden interruptions, no cryptic stares from across the room, no impromptu speeches about your "wasted potential." And yet….you couldn’t help but feel off with that. Where was the usual chaos? The aggravating, borderline charming mind games from the man who appeared to be some kind of Scottish God? You tried to ignore the faint pang of disappointment every time you walked backstage, expecting him to appear, only to find yourself alone. Well, almost alone...because occasionally, Drew would stroll by, smirk in your direction like he knew something you didn’t, and then kept walking. And yeah, maybe that smirk made your pulse do something it absolutely shouldn’t. But you didn’t have time for that. No. No. No. Head down, full steam ahead. Unfortunately, focusing on the Rumble wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Case in point - being saddled with a random match against Liv Morgan. You weren’t exactly thrilled. Liv wasn’t your favorite person, but you respected her...a little. Okay, maybe barely. But she didn’t make it easy, with her need to talk and talk and talk and- whatever. Still, you showed up. That’s what you did. Match after match, day after day, even the ones you didn’t ask for. You stepped into the ring with Liv, and from the get-go, she was already running her mouth like her paycheck depended on it.

“You’re all alone,” she sneered, her long blonde hair swishing with that irritating laugh of hers echoing throughout the arena.

You couldn’t help it but you laughed. Not loud, not big, just a dry little chuckle under your breath. “Yeah? I work alone,” you shot back, deadpan.

Liv, ever dramatic, planted a hand on her hip and draped her other arm around Raquel Rodriguez’s shoulders, practically standing on her toes to reach her. The visual was almost enough to make you roll your eyes into the day of the royal rumble. “It’s good to have friends, you know?” Liv said, her tone syrupy sweet in the most nauseating way possible.

And that’s when you nearly facepalmed. This again? Was this your thing now? Everyone acting like your lack of alliances was some sort of existential crisis?

“Liv, don’t even-” you started, already knowing where this was going.

“Oh, no, no,” she cut you off, raising a hand. “I’m not saying you should come to my side. Ew. That’s frankly disgusting to even think about.” Her face twisted into a mock grimace before snapping back into her sassy smile. “What I am saying is that you should have someone watching your back. Someone to...I don’t know...back you up in the Rumble? I’m just warning you because I’m nice like that.”

You blinked at her, completely unimpressed. “Oh, you’re nice,” you said flatly. “That’s what this is?”

“Exactly!” Liv chirped.

For a second, you considered responding. Maybe calling her out on the thinly veiled condescension or pointing out how ridiculous her "advice" was. But then you decided it wasn’t worth the energy. Instead, you smirked, tilted your head, and let her dig her own hole. Because if there was one thing Liv Morgan hated, it was being ignored. And if she wanted to make an example out of you, she was about to learn the hard way. Hell everyone was going to learn at the rumble, you'd make sure of it.

. . .

You didn’t think much about Liv’s little “helpful” comments at first, I mean, why would you? But as the Royal Rumble loomed closer, something shifted. Tensions backstage were clear, crackling in the air like a thunderstorm. Everyone had the same goal - to win, to headline WrestleMania, to make themselves unforgettable! You were still focused on taking it all for yourself, but you’d be lying if you said the growing tension didn’t throw you off a little. The stink eye became a constant routine. Other women in the locker room were eyeing you like you were nothing more than a punching bag. You weren't stupid, you knew it wasn’t personal, ( okay, maybe it was personal ), but you also figured you weren’t the only one getting this treatment. Survival mode was kicking in for everyone, and apparently, giving dirty looks was a stress-relief hobby for half the roster. Still, you tried to brush it off, keeping your head down as you made your way through the halls. You were lost in your own thoughts, mapping out strategies and mentally preparing yourself for the chaos of the Rumble, when something, or someone, caught your attention. At the end of the hallway, there he was. Drew McIntyre, standing by one of the equipment crates, adjusting his gear. You stopped dead in your tracks, your stomach doing a weird little flip before you could help it. Damn it. Why did he always look like he’d stepped straight out of an action movie? His broad shoulders, his bare back…Nope. Nope. No. Stop staring. You swallowed hard, glancing away as if that could erase the fact you’d been ogling him for far longer than you cared to admit. But instead of turning around and walking away like you probably should have, you found your feet moving toward him. It wasn’t until you were just a few steps behind him that you realized you hadn’t really thought this through. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan...you just... moved.

Still, you stood there, forcing yourself to speak. “You’ve been quiet lately,” you said, the words coming out more casual than you felt. Like you both were good buddies-

Drew straightened, glancing over his shoulder. When his gaze locked onto yours, his lips curved into that maddeningly confident smirk, the one that made you feel……well, something you didn’t want to think about too much. He turned fully to face you now, crossing his arms over his chest, making himself look bigger than he actually was. “Quiet?” he repeated, amused. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me.”

You blinked, taken aback by how easily he flipped the script. “I’m not,” you said quickly, though the slight defensive high pitched edge in your voice probably wasn’t helping your case. “I just…noticed something, that's all. You’re usually popping up everywhere, throwing your two cents in, but now? Silence.”

Drew tilted his head, his smirk softening. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I figured I’d give you some space. You’ve got a lot on your plate, don’t you? The Rumble, the spotlight….proving to everyone you can do it all on your own.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, as if he knew he was poking at a sore spot.

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms as well. “I can handle it.”

“Of course you can! I know you can,” he said smoothly, his tone so infuriatingly agreeable that it almost sounded patronizing. “But handling it doesn’t mean you have to do it alone."

And there it was...the classic Drew McIntyre pitch. You should’ve seen it coming. You had no idea why you even bothered approaching him in the first place, but now that you had, you weren’t about to let him turn this into another “team up with me” speech.

“I’ve been doing just fine on my own,” you said firmly, refusing to let him see the cracks in your armor. “And I’ll win the Rumble the same way. Besides you've got your own damn rumble to worry about.”

Drew chuckled softly, shaking his head like you were missing some inside joke. “We’ll see,” he said simply. Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping low enough to send an uninvited shiver down your spine, his beard pricking your forehead. “Just don’t forget, I never play quiet for long.”

With that, he brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours, just barely, but even that slight contact was enough to make you stumble, caught off guard by how ridiculously solid he was. You steadied yourself quickly, cheeks heating up as you glared after him. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking, all broad shoulders and confidence.You stood there for a moment, staring at him until he was gone, your mind a tangled mess of something jittering. Fuck him and his promises.

. . .

You dragged yourself out of those memories - Drew, the lead-up to the Royal Rumble, the side-eyes and whispers in the women’s locker room because none of that mattered. Not anymore. Because you were there. At the Royal Rumble. And what were you doing? Sitting backstage, watching the minutes tick by, mentally preparing for the war.

You sat further back from the rest of the women, away from the hushed voices and glares being thrown in your direction. You didn’t need to hear them to know exactly what they’re saying, how you were all talk, how you didn’t take teamwork seriously, how you though you were better than everyone else. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as if that could physically swat away their nonsense. Let them talk. Let them whisper and scheme and convince themselves that you aren’t everything you say you are. You specifically made sure to catch Liv Morgan’s eye and flash her a glare nasty enough to slice through steel. She got the message and she turned away.

Still, you sat there, watching people pass by, your mind unusually…..blank. Which was weird. Your brain was never blank. Maybe you were just focused? Too focused! Yeah, let’s go with that. Not nerves. Definitely not nerves. You rarely ever get nervous. You ran your fingers through your hair and shut your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. And then, just as you started to settle, you heard footsteps stop directly in front of you. You groaned, already preparing to shut down whoever thought that now was the perfect time to bother you. With an irritated sigh, you opened your eyes, ready to tell them exactly where they could shove their bad timing only to immediately lose your momentum the second you saw who was standing in front of you.

Drew. Of course it was him.

You leaned back instinctively as he loomed over you, his presence heavy even without a single word being spoken. “Drew…” You sighed, shifting under his stare. “Of all days, please. Not today.”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes. “Drew?”

Nothing.

You knew this man loved his dramatic pauses, but this was excessive even for him.

“Drew, c’mon-”

And then he moved.

Instead of answering, he dropped down into a crouch, leveling himself with you, his face at eye level with yours. You immediately tensed. Fuck him. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Fucking what?” you snapped.

Drew tilted his head slightly, considering you for a moment before finally - finally - speaking. “You ready for this?”And just like that, something in your chest tightened. Because for the first time tonight, someone wasn't doubting you. He wasn't questioning whether you’ll crack, whether you’ll fold under the pressure. He wasn't treating you like some wildcard that’s bound to fall apart. No. He was just asking.

And somehow, that made….a difference for you.

Your instinct was to scoff, to roll your eyes and hit him with something sarcastic, but for some reason, you didn’t. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you…calmly. No smirk, no teasing, no hidden agenda. Just Drew, crouched in front of you like you’re the only thing in the world worth focusing on right now.

You exhaled slowly, “You think I’m not?”

Drew let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Didn’t say that.” His voice was steady, “But I also know that no matter how ready you think you are, the Rumble changes people.”

You frowned. “That supposed to be a warning?”

“More like a fact,” he said simply, resting his forearms on his knees. “You go in there with a plan, thinking you’ve got it all mapped out, and then-” he snapped his fingers,“-chaos hits. People you trust? Gone in an instant. People you never expected? Suddenly your biggest problem. It’s a different kind of fight. You don’t just have to be good, you have to be smarter than the twenty-nine other people trying to rip your head off.”

You didn’t miss the way his gaze sharpened, the subtle way his voice drops, as if he was speaking from experience. Of course he was. Drew’s been in that ring before, he’s felt that pressure, survived it.

And you'll get to watch him in there that night too.

You shifted in your seat, eyes narrowing slightly. “So what? You come here to give me a motivational speech? Because if that’s the case, you can go ahead and just-”

“I came here to remind you that…whatever happens, you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

There it was. The pitch. Again. You knew it was coming, and yet, something about the way he said it now makes it oddly inviting.

Drew watched your reaction, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Relax, I’m not asking you to be my tag partner and braid each other’s hair. I’m just saying….when you’re in that ring, when the numbers start to stack against you, remember that not everyone in there wants to see you fail.”

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did.

You shifted your gaze away, inhaling deeply through your nose. You didn’t do partnerships. You didn’t rely on people. And yet…You glanced back at him. He was watching you, unreadable as ever, but there was something to his expression, something you weren't sure what to do with.

So you did what you did best. You deflected. “You getting soft on me, McIntyre?”

Drew snorted, standing back up to his full, ridiculously tall height. “Not a chance,” he said, looking down at you. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Just….don’t be stupid in there.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you sitting there, stuck in your mind. That was….new. A little too genuine, a little too caring coming from Drew. You weren’t sure what to make of it. You clenched your head. Whatever that was, it couldn’t ( wouldn’t ) be a distraction. Not tonight. You had a Rumble to win.

. . .

The roar of the crowd yanks you back to reality, shaking you out of the daze of embarrassment . The match is still going, the ring still packed with women clawing for their shot at glory. And you? You’re sitting on the cold, unforgiving floor outside the ring, pathetically perched against the apron like some kind of afterthought. And now, the questions start creeping in. How the hell do you come back from this? Maybe you should’ve played nicer, built bridges instead of burning them. Maybe if you’d actually given a damn about those forced tag teams, you wouldn’t have been easy pickings, ganged up on. Maybe, just maybe, you were never meant for this level of the game. Because right now, you feel like a joke.

You bite down on your lip, then wince at the sharp sting. You touch it and when you pull your fingers away, there’s blood. Great. Perfect. Like you needed another reminder of how thoroughly you got your ass handed to you.

With a sharp exhale, you slam your fist against the floor and tilt your head back, staring at the ceiling as tears well up in your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. This business is ruthless. Not everyone is going to make it, not everyone is going to be liked, and success isn’t guaranteed. But knowing that doesn’t make this sting any less. The noise of the match continues, bodies slamming, the crowd gasping, the referee shouting. You should still be in there. Then the crowd erupts, the volume suddenly loud as ever. Another elimination, maybe? Some huge moment you’re missing?

You lower your gaze, and - oh. Your stomach drops. Because striding down the aisle, eyes locked onto you, is Drew McIntyre.

You clench the edge of the apron, forcing yourself to stand despite the ache in your limbs. But the second you put weight on them, pain shoots through your body, and you sink right back down. “Get the fuck out of here." The words come out sharper than intended, but you don’t care. You glare up at him. Drew. He just stands there. Watching. Unmoving. "Are you kidding me?" you snap, "Go."

Drew blinks. Doesn't move.

Your patience, already thin, snaps again. "Go, Drew!"

Nothing. No irritation, no amusement, no snide remark. Just…..silence. And then - he moves.

You stiffen as he crouches down, his massive frame suddenly close, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. His expression is unreadable, which is somehow worse than if he were gloating. Then, without a word, he reaches out. You flinch instinctively, your body tensing, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his rough thumb drags over your split lip, smearing away the blood.

Your breath hitches. The touch is gentle. Too gentle. Especially for someone like Drew. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you stare at him, your mind scrambling for something, anything, to say. But he just watches you, as if waiting.

For what? you don’t know. And that? That excites you again. Just like it did when this whole game started. Although, it didn't feel like a game anymore.

Your eyes flutter as his hand shifts, trailing from your lip to the side of your face. His palm is warm, like it belongs to someone who’s always been there, always should be there. And somehow, against every stubborn instinct in your body, you find yourself leaning into it. A shaky sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should be pushing him away, snapping something sharp and cutting, reminding him that you don’t need comfort, that you don’t want it. But instead, you just… sink into the moment. Like this is natural. Like this is allowed. And, God help you, it feels that way.

“Drew,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Before you can second-guess it. His thumb stills against your cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s waiting. He knows. “Please?”

And that single word? It’s not just a plea. It’s a confirmation. A surrender of acceptance. Of him. Of this. Of whatever the hell has been building between you both, thick in the air, woven into every lingering glance, every sharp exchange, every time he’s looked at you like he’s just waiting for you to see it. And now you do.

And God, the relief of it, of finally stopping, of finally letting yourself go, hits harder than a punch to the gut. You exhale shakily, your body relaxing just slightly against his touch, and Drew’s fingers curl just the tiniest bit against your skin, like he’s grounding himself in this moment too. For the first time, you don’t treat it like a game, don’t pretend you’re still running. Because you’re not.

You can’t.

[cry1ngame]

MATERIALIST

WWE

Damian Priest

- tell me it's you

Drew McIntyre

- back to you