#gcw fanfiction

[kylefletchersgf]

☠︎︎⋆✩☠︎︎『Deathmatch』︎⋆✩☠︎︎

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-ˋˏ [Word Count] ˎˊ : 1.1k

-ˋˏ [Genre] ˎˊ : fluff

-ˋˏ [TW] ˎˊ : death match, mistakes I might have, gxg, blood

-ˋˏ [Taglist] ˎˊ : @stacksifino @nev-danielgarciawife

[Let me know if you want to be in the taglist]

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You and Allie walked into the Gcw arena walking together to your locker rooms “we have that death match against each other tonight” she reminded you and groaned.”I forgot about that death matches are ok but I’m just not feeling it today” you say walking into your locker room “me either” Allie replied walking into hers. Don’t get It wrong you love death matches but it’s cleaning the blood off of you that you don’t like or that something goes wrong. It was almost time for your match so you look through your suitcase and grabbed pink gear.

Now it’s time for your match so you walk to the curtain adjusting your hair as your theme played, you walked to the ring smiling as always until Allie’s theme started playing. She walked down to the ring ready to fight not playing around and neither were you, she got in with a steel chair so you got out the ring and got a kendo stick getting back in the ring ready to use it. You waited anxiously moving the kendo stick around ready to use it, once the bell rang you came at her with the kendo stick ready to fight.

You was swinging the kendo stick at her but she was blocking herself with the chair, the kendo broke so you toss it to the side but when you turn around Allie throws the chair right at your face making you fall back holding your face. You hold your face in pain as Allie picked you up your face dripping of blood from the chair that was thrown at you, she Irish whipped you to the turnbuckle hard ramming her shoulder to your midsection over and over. As you slumped down she went out the ring and got a ladder.

She put the ladder in front of you on the ropes trapping you behind the ladder then running against the other turnbuckle running back at you drop kicking the ladder making it hit you in the face. Your head goes back connecting with the turnbuckle before you slump down to the mat completely and when you do Allie drags you to the outside letting you fall to the floor. You hold your back in pain while it arched off the ground, Allie picked you up about to hit you until you did a headbutt out of nowhere knocking her down.

You pick up Allie ramming her back into the ring apron over and over again until you decide to stop, you tied her arms up in the bottom 2 ropes making to to where she can’t escape as you get a Kendo stick from under the ring. You hold the kendo stick swinging it in your hand talking inaudible shit laughing at her before you start swinging the kendo stick. You hit her stomach over and over again with the kendo stick as hard as you could making it leave marks where ever you hit her with the kendo stick.

You kept doing that over and over finally stopping when the kendo stick breaks over her stomach as you scream out while the adrenaline kicks in. The fans cheered as you pulled the steel steps closer running at them then jumping off them drop kicking her making yourself land on the ground on your back. You screamed in pain when you landed on your back kicking the floor as Allie screamed in pain as the welts started to become more clear on her body. You got up yelling at her “you asked for this!” Referring to her promo last week.

“You’re gonna get what you asked for” you said getting a table that was wrapped in barb wire sliding it into the ring. You set the table up getting a lighter and fluid from under the ring setting the table on fire then getting Allie out the ropes dragging her to the closest turnbuckle putting her on the top one then climbing up yourself. You grapple her to do a superplex which was successful putting you and her through the flaming barbed wire table. You roll around screaming in pain as Allie did the same to make sure you’re safe.

You both continued to scream in pain from the flame hitting your back until the referee checked on the both of you, you was the first one back to your feet with the help of the ropes so you walk over to Allie but she got up quickly grabbing a kendo stick that was in the ring hanging onto it tightly ramming it at your neck making you cough while holding your throat. She started smacking you repeatedly with the kendo stick to return the favor as the welts started to form on your body she started hitting you harder.

You screamed in pain as you rolled out the ring to get away from the pain but it didn’t last long until Allie went on the other side of ring going to you smacking you hard with the kendo stick across breaking it as a harsh welt from it was now on your side and back. She looked at you with the blood from the barbed wire table dripping down her face she moved back a few inches pump kicking you making you fall back, you was in so much pain but held on because you loved what you do.

You laid there playing possum as she walked over to you and when she got close enough you sprayed her with a fire extinguisher that you some how got making her stumble back trying to get the smoke out her eyes and face. You was done playing around, you smacked her in the back with the fire extinguisher making her scream out in pain again as she held her back laying on the floor. You picked her up rolling her in the ring grabbing a glass pipe and a 4x4 covered in barbed wire getting in the ring after her.

The match continued but at some point you blacked out and didn’t know what happened, you woke up to the sound of the bell ringing and Allie getting her hand raised. You don’t remember a single thing after smacking her with the glass and the barbed wire 4x4, Allie helped you up hugging you since you was still her friend off the screen and she helped you backstage since you were each others support so you wouldn’t fall. “That was one hell of a match” she said happily “yeah if I can even remember the ending” you joked chuckling yourself.

[emmys-library]

Until the end of our days

Prompt

After a grueling battle that stretched across realms, the Heavenly Host finally returned to the Celestial Realm, victorious against the relentless onslaught of the Demon King and his malevolent armies. Sariel walked alongside his brethren, his wings tattered yet his spirit resilient. 

The gleaming gates of the Celestial Palace loomed before them, a grand and imposing sight. With weary steps, they made their way to the palace, their hearts heavy with the weight of their recent triumph and the toll it had taken. Michael, the commander of the Heavenly Host, led the way, bearing the burden of delivering the hard-won news to Father.

Within the shining halls of the Celestial Palace, the Heavenly Host lined up in silence. The magnificence of the surroundings offered little solace as they awaited Michael's report.

Seated upon the illustrious Celestial Throne, was Father—the divine embodiment of wisdom, power, and boundless love. His countenance was beyond human comprehension, for it held the essence of all creation and the knowledge of every moment that had ever existed. Eyes like blazing orbs gazed upon His army, and though they shone with eternal brilliance, there was an enigmatic depth to them that concealed cosmic secrets.

Michael stepped forward, his angelic form emanating power and authority. He recounted the events of the epic struggle, how the Celestial Realm's army fought valiantly against the demonic forces, displaying unwavering loyalty and courage in the face of darkness.

As the details of their hard-fought victory were relayed, Father's divine presence seemed to intensify, His eyes attentive to every word spoken by His commander. They listened to Michael's account, hoping that their triumph would bring an end to the bloodshed.

When Michael concluded his report, the hall fell into a respectful silence. The moment seemed to hang in the air, and Sariel noticed Father's expression was inscrutable, as if contemplating the weight of the universe itself.

In the quietude of the celestial chamber, Sariel expected Father to order a well-deserved retreat for the Heavenly Host.

But to his surprise, Father didn't issue such a command.

Instead, Father's voice echoed through the hall, resonating with an unexpected strength, "My valiant archangels and heavenly warriors, you have achieved a remarkable victory against the forces of darkness. Your unwavering devotion and sacrifices are not unnoticed, and your presence here brings hope to all realms."

Sariel exchanged a glance with his brethren, but he saw no trace of pride in their weary eyes. Not any more. Their once-gleaming wings were now tattered and bruised just like his own. Their angelic forms bore scars, both seen and unseen, from the relentless clashes with the forces of darkness. Despite the victory they had achieved, there was little celebration in their hearts, for the price they paid was steep, and it would grow ever steeper.

The bad days were supposed to be done. They had won that fight. They were all supposed to be okay until the end of their days. But the question remained, why weren't they all okay? Sariel couldn't help but feel a heavy weight in his heart, and hope seemed distant amid the doubts that troubled him.

As the silence lingered, Sariel stepped forth, unbidden.

"Father," the archangel spoke, voice heavy, "we have prevailed against the demon army, but the Devildom remains. Why do we keep fighting if darkness persists? Why do we suffer these battles if they don't lead to lasting peace?"

The atmosphere in the hall shifted imperceptibly. He felt Father's gaze boring into him. A fleeting shadow crossed his face before His divine composure returned. Sariel felt a shard of icy fear pierce his heart.

But Father's eyes softened. With a voice that carried the weight of the cosmos, He responded, "The path to lasting peace is not always straight, my child. Even in victory, darkness may still find footholds, for it is the nature of free will and choice."

Sariel listened intently, seeking solace in Father's words, yet the gnawing doubt persisted. "Will it ever end, Father?" he implored, his desperation seeping into his words. "Will there ever be a time when we can truly rest and know that the darkness is vanquished?"

More questions. The hall seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the divine response.

Yet, like a beacon of hope cutting through the uncertainty, Father's regal presence remained unbroken and He spoke with unwavering assurance, "My archangel, fear not. While the battles may seem unending, the grand design unfolds as it should. Your actions, and your unwavering devotion, are integral to the cosmic order. Trust in the significance of your endeavors, and know that every step taken in the name of righteousness resonates throughout the realms."

Father's words reverberated in the hall. Sariel looked up, meeting Father's gaze with a mix of emotions—and then he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he should have never doubted. Though he might not have all the answers, he knew that his purpose was clear—to stand for love, goodness, and compassion in a universe that often veered towards chaos. His heart swelled with gratitude for the opportunity to serve in Father's celestial army, to be a sword against the darkness that threatened the realms.

"Father!" Sariel cried out, his voice filled with reverence and remorse, "I apologize for ever questioning. I see now that our struggles are not in vain, and that every step we take in the name of righteousness serves a greater purpose in the cosmic order."

With a nod, Father seemed to understand the unspoken emotions in Sariel's heart. "Continue your noble endeavors, my archangel," Father said, "and trust in the significance of your actions. The legacy of your devotion shall forever shape the destiny of the realms."

Sariel stepped back, the doubts that had troubled him only moments ago now erased as if they had never existed. 

As the Heavenly Host began to disperse, Michael's gaze lingered on Sariel, frown deepening. With a final glance at Father's celestial throne, the Seraphim set forth, to lead his armies back into the abyss.

He knew the archangel would not return.

[randy-ortons-chair]

Me, waiting for my favorite Wrestling fanfic to be updated:

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Down in Flames

This is what I did with the request for a jealous Atticus fic. Hope that you like it and I hope I didn't get too dark with it. Set in the buildup to So Alive.

Pairing: Atticus Cogar x OFC

Word count: 5,729

Content advisory: graphic violence, psychological elements that some people may find upsetting

You often wonder if he’s aware of the effect he’s having on you when he stays next to you like this. He’s not stupid and he’s very perceptive, so it’s pretty much a given that he’s worked out how you feel about him. It seems more like he hasn’t worked out how he feels about you, so he keeps you close all the time while he’s making up his mind. Or he just really gets an ego boost out of being around someone who’s so obviously sweet on him.

The two of you are standing, not even talking, just leaning against a table and flipping through your phones while you wait to get some clarification on tonight’s line-up, timing, and other mundane details for the show. It’s not a small table but he’s pressed right up against you, your sides flush from the ribs down. He’s resting one hand behind him, so to anyone else in the room, it undoubtedly looks like he has his arm around you. Do people think you’re a couple? Hard to tell. If there’s gossip, no one repeats it to you, probably because they wouldn’t want it to get back to him. He sets everyone on edge, you included.

When you’d first seen Atticus Cogar at a grungy venue in the middle of a torrential downpour, your first thought was that he was unbelievably cute. By the end of the night, which had run late because there were flash flood warnings in effect until after midnight, you’d decided that he absolutely wasn’t cute but you were still attracted. He’d brutalized his opponent for the night and then sat sullenly by himself, like he couldn’t be bothered with any of you. You’d tried to think of a way to engage him in conversation but he proved way too intimidating.

As you were finally gathering your stuff to head out, though, he’d walked over and stood in front of you without a word. When you looked up, he gave you a quick once over and thrust his chin out.

“Cool shirt,” he grunted, indicating the band t-shirt you were wearing.

He walked off before you had a chance to reply.

That had apparently been enough to elevate you just slightly in his estimation because when you’d run into him at shows afterward, he’d at least been civil to you, which was more than anyone else got. A couple of months later, you’d been eating at a dirty spoon when he’d just plunked himself down in your booth, half-finished plate of food in hand.

“You live near me, right?” he muttered without even a greeting.

“I think so.”

“It’s stupid that we’re driving separately to these tiny shows. We could save money by going together and splitting the gas.”

“Yeah,” you stammered, trying to hide the excitement in your voice, “I guess that makes sense.”

“It definitely does.” As he spoke, he’d stretched one of his legs out under the table and for the rest of the time the two of you were there, it rested against yours.

So he was definitely sending signals that he was interested, right? Damned if you knew. In the time you’d known him, he’d become your closest friend, although sometimes it felt like you weren’t very close at all. You bonded over music and wrestling and a shared passion for breakfast. You liked a lot of the same movies so, when you weren’t on the road, you would frequently get together to watch some. And since you both had to stay in shape to do the same job, it made sense that you worked out together. If one of you was nursing an injury, it was easy for the other to be on call to help out. And, of course, you drove together to get to shows, which turned into sharing rooms because that would save money too. You’d slept in the same bed on many occasions, in hotels and at each other’s apartments. And while he was always nonchalant about it, he was almost aggressively affectionate with you, in public and in private. He was always touching you, leaning into you, even hugging you.

And that was it. You’d never once kissed, never touched each other in a sexual way, and your conversations seemed to stop short of really getting to know each other. You were forever in a state of intense agitation, being so close to what you wanted that you could literally touch it and yet things just never came together.

It’s not like there were other women. If any women ever approached him, they’d end up walking away in frustration because he would completely freeze them out. You wondered sometimes if he preferred men but it had started to seem like he just didn’t have a sexual bone in his body. More the pity for you.

There weren’t any other men in your life either. Sexual frustrations aside, you had the guy you wanted, so no one else was of much interest. Men tried to make moves on you from time to time, especially after shows, but they’d usually end up backing off because they’d get a look at Atticus lurking and get nervous he was going to kill them. You couldn’t really blame them because you’d seen the looks he’d give them. You wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of those either.

His reasoning is always that the guys hanging around shows are scumbags or dweebs and that you don’t want anything to do with them. The two of you joke a lot about the kind of guys who have audacity and delusional pride to hit on you. Maybe you’d flirt back with some of them if Atticus weren’t around but he’s always around and given the choice between platonic time with him and having a one night stand with anyone else, you’ll choose him every time.

He presses his face against your ear and whispers, “This is bullshit. Let’s go get something to eat.”

The sensation of his breath on your neck makes your insides quiver, as it always seems to, and you have to compose yourself before speaking.

“I have to wait for Jody to finish what she’s doing so we can block out our match.”

He sighs and pushes back a little. “Ok, give me your bag, I’m going to go check into the hotel. Text me when you’re finished and we can have dinner at that place down the street.”

He’s really supposed to stay here, you all are, because the promoter wants to run through a few things. But it’s true that you have been waiting for longer than you should, so you don’t try to persuade him to stay.

“Have you told him yet?”

The second Atticus is out of the room, Jordan Oliver is there in front of you, giving you a cheeky grin. You double-check to make sure no one’s looking.

“No,” you mutter, “I’m trying to delay that until the last possible moment.”

“Come on, he’s gonna find out soon enough and it really should come from you. I mean, you’re his friend, right?”

You shift your weight a little uncomfortably, scanning the room again to see if anyone is watching. They aren’t but you still feel like you’re on display.

“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” Jordan’s face gets a bit flushed.

“No, I’m in, it's only… things are so tense between you two and it's just…”

It’s just that you’re worried your erstwhile best friend is going to blow a gasket when he finds out that you’ve agreed to team with his biggest rival. You’re worried he’s never going to speak to you again.

Atticus and Jordan have had an escalating series of encounters over the last several months. The latest bout is scheduled for a few days’ time, with Atticus and his stablemate Eddy Only facing off against Jordan and a partner of his choosing. People are expecting that choice to be Nick Wayne, who’s also been the subject of attacks from your best friend but instead, Jordan asked you.

The easy answer to his question was “hell no”. But he’d persisted, pointing out that it would be a high profile match for you, something that you really needed because you were at risk of being expendable on GCW shows. So you’d acquiesced in the name of furthering your career, but there was also just a tiny part of you that did it because it felt like a way to force Atticus’s hand, to see how he’d react if he felt a bit threatened not by some schmuck trying to buy you a drink after a show but by another wrestler, someone you saw all the time.

However, you’d been unable to summon the nerve to tell Atticus about any of this.

“Are you absolutely sure you want me for this?” you whine. “Because there’s still time for you to get Nick or… anyone.”

“I know Nick would do it. I chose you.”

“You’re up against two killers, Jordan. You’re an amazing wrestler but you need someone who’s big and strong. You need a killer of your own.”

“No, I need someone who’s good. The two of us are way faster than either of them. We can hit moves they couldn’t dream of. It doesn’t matter how deadly they are, they can’t beat what they can’t catch.” He rests his hands on your shoulders which makes you nervously look around the room again. “You’re an amazing wrestler, you just haven’t had a proper chance to show it yet.”

You try to give him a little smile but it feels more like you just fold your face into an uncomfortable configuration.

“I have to go talk to Jody,” you tell him, nodding towards your opponent for the night. “I’ll tell him tonight, I promise.”

*

“What’s the matter?” Atticus nods at your plate. “You’re not eating.”

You push the toast through your congealing eggs. “It’s not as good as it usually is,” you lie.

“This is. Here, try it.” He carves off a bite of his steak and holds it out for you.

You feel like you’re going to choke if you try to eat anything but you figure you’ll accept the offering, in case it’s the last nice thing that ever happens between you. Even with your nervous stomach, it’s too delicious not to enjoy, perfectly seared and rare. When you try to pull back, a little of the bloody juice escapes. Atticus laughs a little and wipes it away, his fingers trailing around your lips for what feels like too long to be purely innocent, although you’ve given up trusting your instincts as far as he’s concerned.

“Seriously, what is wrong?” He gives you a hard, but not unkind stare.

Nothing to do but blurt it out.

“I’m going to be Jordan’s partner for your tag match.”

His eyes widen as he searches your face for any sign that you're joking, then takes another mouthful of meat before he speaks.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a great opportunity for me. It’s way higher up the card than I normally get to be.” You hate the sad little girl voice that comes out of you.

“That what he told you? That you should do this because it’s this big break for you?”

“Well he’s right, isn’t he?”

“It’s only a good opportunity if you come out of it in one piece. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m going to get myself killed? I’d be in the ring with you!”

“Oh you think I’m going to go easy on you? That I’m going to tell Eddy to pull his punches because you’re my-” He slams his fork against his plate and just leaves the sentence unfinished. “Jordan’s a little bitch and he’s going to get what’s coming to him. He’s putting you in danger.”

“He seems to think I can handle it.”

“He doesn’t think that,” he snaps without any hesitation. “He only asked you to do it as a way of getting to me.”

You have to look down because you realize that you’re about to start crying. In all the time you’ve spent with Atticus, you’ve never cried in front of him and this is definitely not the moment you want to break that streak. You’ve never felt like more of a rank amateur than at this moment and the worst part is that you suspect he’s 100% right.

“Get out of it,” he grumbles. “Just forget about it. He’ll find someone else and we’ll find another way to get you on the card.”

“Just say that you don’t think I’m good enough.” You can still hear the tears in your throat, even though you’ve prevented them from falling. “You don’t think I belong on these shows.”

“That’s not what I said,” he sighs exasperatedly. “You’re good enough. But you’re not good enough to fight me and you’re not good enough to fight Eddy. Not yet. I’m sorry but that’s just how it is. You’re going to be in there against two guys who are bigger, stronger, more experienced, and more violent than you. Tell that little bitch Oliver to take his offer and shove it up his ass. We’ll find another match for you.”

“I don’t need you to find a match for me. I have a match. You’re not worried about me. You’re worried about being embarrassed in front of your boys because your little tag-along buddy is going against you.”

His expression darkens. “That’s what you think? Seriously?”

You fold your arms and give him the toughest look you can manage. Immediately he stands and storms off and you’re about to start crying again when he reappears just as suddenly.

“I paid the bill,” he growls. “Let’s go.”

*

The next days are the most uncomfortable you’ve ever felt in your life. You were prepared to have to find another ride home, even another room at the hotel, but Atticus won’t hear of it. At the same time, he completely freezes you out. He doesn’t talk. He barely makes eye contact with you. You’re self-conscious about everything, feeling the full weight of his eyes on you as you move around. You pass an almost sleepless night in silence, wondering if he’s awake too.

The ride home is tense and you have very little to say to each other. For the next few days, at least, you’re enemies. You hope it isn’t longer than that.

“I’ll come by and pick you up around 9 on Friday to go up to Detroit,” he mutters as you get out of the car. That’s it. He still doesn’t look at you. He clearly doesn’t want to see you before then. He doesn’t even say goodbye.

By the time Friday rolls around, you feel like you’re almost hallucinating. You haven’t been eating enough. You haven’t been hitting the gym enough because you’re terrified that he’ll be there. You haven’t been sleeping. If you weren’t underqualified for this match before, you are now.

His sullen demeanor hasn’t changed at all but there is something different. He looks a little tired himself, a little sadder. He very obviously avoids looking at you for the length of the ride. He makes a little conversation, nothing like what normally passes between you but at least it’s something.

“Listen,” he says as he pulls into the hotel parking lot and slams the gear shift into park, “you move as fast as you can. Don’t try to do any flippy shit, you’ll get knocked off the ropes. Keep enough distance so that you don’t get punched or kicked, stick close to your own corner, and always keep moving. Let Jordan do most of the offense. It’s his fight anyway.”

You nod and slide out of the passenger seat, trying not to feel like you’re completely incompetent.

The contrast between him and Jordan has never been more obvious to you than when you’re sitting backstage waiting for your match to be called. He’s bouncing around, all unbridled optimism and excitement.

“Could you calm down?” you groan. “You’re going to wear yourself out before the match even starts.”

“We just need to get out there and get going.”

“No, Jordan, what we need is a strategy. We’re fighting two guys who work together all the time. We’ve never even shared a ring.”

“The strategy is that we make them move as much as possible so that they get worn out. Hit as many crazy moves as we can so that they don’t know what’s coming.”

“Ok, what happens when one of us gets hit? Or when they start with the weapons?”

“It’s not a weapons match. If they want to get themselves disqualified, who cares? We win.”

It’s like the boy has never seen a GCW show before. There are always weapons and if the refs see, they usually don’t care because that’s one of the reasons people pay to attend and watch these shows. Atticus has stuck so many skewers in this guy’s head you wonder if a couple of them might have punctured his brain.

“We need to care because we want to be able to fight next week and the week after. We need to care because we want to go home with all our limbs attached to our bodies.”

He smiles a little and reaches over to gently stroke your hair. It feels weirdly invasive, although it’s a pretty normal gesture.

“Ok, let’s try this,” he tells you, “Keep Eddy out of the ring as much as possible. Atticus is going to be pretty freaked out and emotional, so he’s the weak point. If we can make him do most of the work, he’ll mess up and we take that opportunity.”

You want to tell him that Atticus doesn’t get emotional unless the emotion is angry and that seems to help him more than hinder him in the ring, but it’s time to go out. Your music is starting.

*

When you reach the ring, you actually feel better than you have in days. The lights, the crowd, the energy, the anticipation of being in a big match, they all combine to settle your stomach and make you feel stronger.

You assiduously avoid looking up during Atticus and Eddy’s entrance but when they take their place in the opposite corner, you can’t resist. He’s staring straight at you. Eddy is talking to him but Atticus’ eyes are bearing right down on you. If Jordan wanted to get him angry, he’s clearly succeeded. But he also looks more focused than ever.

Jordan and Eddy start off the match and go at it for what seems like a long time. It’s a contrast of styles, athletic versus brutal and both of them are scoring points off the other. After Eddy ducks a big move, though, the tide turns. He’s able to keep Jordan down and just pound on him for what feels like an hour. You know he won’t go any easier on you but you lean forward, yelling at your partner so that he can follow the sound of your voice.

“I’m right here, Jordan! Come on! You can make it!”

He’s finally able to dodge his attacker and roll close enough to the corner so that you can smack his arm and enter the match.

Eddy is a little winded from the flurry of offense he just unleashed so you dart around him as much as possible to keep him moving and swinging. Sensing your moment, you land a drop kick right to his knee that takes him off his feet, followed by a double stomp right on the small of his back. You grab his arm and pull it back as hard as you can while putting all your weight on him and you’re encouraged when he cries out in pain. Unfortunately, you’re too close to the ropes and he manages to get one leg under them, forcing you to let go.

He slips outside the ring, trying to collect himself and you glance back at your corner, wondering if you’ve done enough. Jordan still isn’t back on his feet.

Steeling yourself, you run at top speed and fly right through the ropes, taking out Eddy and about two rows of chairs as startled, delighted fans leap clear. The move knocks Eddy off his feet but you hit hard as well. Both of you get back up and at that moment, you realize that you have a problem. You don’t have the leverage of the ropes to put any power or velocity behind your moves, which is the only thing that’s allowed you to get the upper hand thus far.

He grabs you and while you attempt to swing him around to loosen his grip, he gets a tight grasp on your head and just hurls you forward. Your head crashes right into the corner of the steps, slicing the skin dangerously close to your eye. Blood flows instantly, and as you try to wipe it away so you can see, Eddy grabs you again and smashes you into the ring post. You don’t even manage to get an arm out to protect yourself. From there, he picks you up and throws you back into the ring. It gives you a moment to crawl towards your corner before he’s on you again, sitting right down on your spine and slamming your face into the canvas.

“You need to learn a fucking lesson, bitch!” he snarls in your ear.

He’s sweating from the exertion and this allows you to wriggle slightly forward, holding out an arm in the hopes that Jordan is recovered enough to take over. When you don’t feel the tag, you wipe your eyes to see what’s going on.

Fuck. You’re in the wrong corner. Atticus is staring back at you, eyes lit with rage. Your arm drops and immediately Eddy pins it behind you.

He starts gouging away at the cut on your face, making noises like a wild animal. You’ve seen guys take beatings before. Your (apparently former) best friend has come out of them covered in blood and glass and splinters. You realize now that you’d underestimated how painful and how terrifying this could get when you’re disoriented and overpowered.

You can hear Jordan’s voice in the distance, encouraging you. He might as well be in the parking lot. You’d tap out if you could but Eddy has your arms pinned back and the ref isn’t anywhere in sight. You feel Eddy’s fingernails rip right across your face, through the already cut skin. He’s not even trying to pin you.

You open your eyes again and appeal to the one person you hope will help you.

“Atticus for god’s sake,” you scream, staring at him through the red haze, “call him off!”

He stares back emotionlessly for what feels like a long time but then leans over and slaps Eddy on the arm, tagging himself in.

His expression doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence that he’s going to treat you any better and he’s rough as he pulls you to your feet. You’re able to steady yourself a little before he drops you again with a heavy lariat. Still, you’ve sparred with him before and you know he didn’t hit you at full strength.

As intensely as he was staring at you before, his eyes now are pinned on Jordan in the far corner. He leans over to pick you up, wrapping one arm around your neck to set you up for his finisher. You know how it’s usually done, so you can feel that he’s locked his arm in such a way that your head will be protected from the impact.

“You’re a fucking dead man!” he screams in Jordan’s direction and drives you straight down into the mat.

He rolls you over and climbs on top of you. “Stay the fuck down,” he hisses.

You do as he says and it’s sweet relief when the ref’s hand hits the mat the third time.

Atticus springs off you and walks away without another word. Jordan enters the ring and helps you to your feet, back to the medical room and safety.

Having the wound cleaned hurts and the five stitches needed to close it hurt more but the damage is more aesthetic than anything. Jordan stays with you, trying to reassure you that you actually did pretty well.

“Until that asshole used the steps, you were winning.”

You resist the urge to tell him that that was exactly the kind of thing you meant when you said that they’d find a way to use weapons but there’s little point in doing so now.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” you mumble.

“Hey, can you give us a minute?” Jordan asks the nurse.

She steps back into the hallway and suddenly you feel on edge.

“Hey,” Jordan cups one hand around your face, “have dinner with me.”

“What? I’m not even that hungry.”

“No, I mean have dinner with me. Let me take you out.”

You don’t know if it’s that it’s been so long since anyone’s gotten to the point of asking you out or because you’re still shaking off the effects of the stairs to the head but you don’t know how to begin to respond.

“Are you… a date?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “I’m asking you on a date.”

He leans in and presses his lips to yours for a couple of seconds.

“Let’s see where this goes.”

Your first instinct is to say no, but then you think that the reason you’d say no is largely because you just want to sit here and hope the guy you really love decides to forgive you, despite having basically cut you out of his life.

“I need to clean myself up,” you mumble.

“I’ll wait outside.”

Jordan kisses the crown of your head and leaves quickly while you head to the locker room to grab a shower. You wash and change faster than you ever have in your life, despite the lingering effects of your head injury, because what you really want to do is find Atticus. If he gives you anything, a look, a kind word, any sign that he still wants you around in any capacity, you’ll leave Jordan waiting all night.

After fifteen minutes, though, you feel like you’ve searched everywhere in the building and you haven’t been able to find him. The show is still going on and he’s not one to leave early unless he’s pressed for time but it’s like he’s disappeared entirely. That is, until you make your way back to the locker room to collect your belongings and admit defeat. Because there he is standing in the hallway, looking like he’s been waiting the whole time.

He looks at you expressionlessly.

“It’s not so bad,” he says, pointing to your cut. “Those things bleed a lot but they heal quickly.”

“My pride hurts more.” You approach him and he steps forward to meet you, brushing his fingers lightly over your bandage. “You were right. I wasn’t ready.”

“Eddy shouldn’t have gone after you as hard as he did.”

“That’s the job, though.” You shiver a little as he runs a hand over your arm. “I guess I got a couple of hits in, though.”

“You’ll do better next time.”

His hand rises from your arm to the side of your head, holding you in place as he gently presses his face into the side of yours. The two of you stand there together, his breath heavy against your temple, not speaking. Finally, you feel his lips graze the side of your face, down to the center of your cheek, where he gives you a soft but determined kiss.

He steps back, eyes cast downward.

“I’m actually going to drive back tonight. You okay getting a lift with someone else tomorrow?”

“I guess, but I can leave now. I don’t have to wait.”

“Nah, stay here, get a good night’s sleep or whatever. I don’t know if you booked a room but you can take mine if you want.”

He steps close and pushes a hotel room key into your hand. Once again, he leans in, lips touching your face a little more insistently until he finds your mouth. He lingers there for a long second before he steps away again, still refusing to look you in the eye.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he mutters.

He takes off down the hall so quickly it shocks you and while you try to call after him, it does no good. When he pushes the door open it swings wide and crashes against the wall so loudly that you see several people on the other side jump.

*

If the show in Detroit felt like purgatory, Dallas is like being in hell. You’d begged off dinner with Jordan and had barely responded to him when he tried to contact you in the intervening time, so things with him are a little awkward. And things with Atticus are… non-existent. You’d been too scared to try reaching out to him since the night of your match, since the night he sort of, almost, kind of kissed you, and once you’re at the venue, you don’t even know how to approach him.

You have a match early, which you win and gets very over with the crowd.

“She had a bit of a rough outing in a tag match last week,” one of the announcers says as you head to the back, “but she made a real impression and you see tonight that she’s got a lot of momentum.”

But you barely have time to feel proud of yourself because coming up shortly, Atticus and Jordan have a singles match. Remembering Atticus’ last words to you, you know he must have overheard Jordan inviting you out to dinner. Maybe he saw the kiss. So is he angry? He hasn’t let on. He always seems angry going into his matches (and most of the rest of the time) but is it worse than usual? It wasn’t like the two of you were a couple and Jordan knew that. Does he feel like you ditched him because you have unrequited feelings for Atticus?

You shower and by the time you’re back in your regular clothes, their match is being called. Maybe it would be wiser to stay in the back and watch what happens on your tablet, or just listen to how the crowd reacts. But you can’t resist. You need to see this.

The match is exciting and goes back and forth for a while before going off the rails.

You don’t even see how he does it but one second Atticus is crouching and the next it’s like his core just erupts, like all of that fury he has in him comes out in a literal ball of flame. Jordan catches it right in the face and jumps back, screaming in pain, and the ref stops the match immediately. The audience, the officials, the commentary team, no one seems to know what’s just happened. A couple of medics attend to Jordan while Atticus, unfazed by any of it, grabs a microphone.

“You and me, barbed wire, no ropes match.”

Jesus. He’s luring Jordan right into his lair and everyone knows it’s going to work.

Atticus stalks backstage and you can’t help staring at him. He sees you right away and it's like a shadow passes over him, or from inside him. His whole face darkens. He straightens up as if he’s about to say something but instead goes barreling back out into the hall.

You shift so that you can get a better view of the proceedings but it’s still unclear what’s happening. You see him snatch something off a table where the AV people are working, which sets them off. They’re yelling angrily but you can’t make out about what. He ignores them.

Instead, he stalks down to where the medics are still checking on Jordan. He shoves them aside and grabs his rival around the neck, hauling him back up the ramp in a headlock. He looks like a madman as he turns and holds Jordan over one of the pyro canisters. The AV people, the commentators, the medics, the security people, they’re all losing their damn minds but seem hesitant to approach him as he brandishes whatever it was he grabbed on the way down to the ring. It looks like some kind of tv remote. Then it occurs to you: it is a remote. It’s the remote that controls the pyro.

He laughs as he presses a button and a shower of sparks and flames shoots up, directly into Jordan’s unprotected face. You can hear Jordan shrieking and crying as he struggles helplessly to get free. The smell, that acrid, burning smell fills your nostrils and you have to take a few steps back as you try to process what’s just happened.

You shake your head a little, trying to clear the image out, trying not to pay attention to the sounds coming from the crowd. This is not because of you. There is no way what happened in Detroit caused this. You are not responsible.

You glance up and there’s Atticus, eyes blazing but otherwise disturbingly calm. He rubs at his arm a little and stares straight at you.

“Get your stuff,” he snaps. “We’re leaving.”

He moves forward and you start to retreat, whimpering a little when your back hits the wall

He keeps advancing until you’re just inches apart, resting his arms on the wall on either side of your head. You try to steady your breathing but it’s a fight.

“He should have known better,” His voice is like ice. “He shouldn’t have tried to test me.”

He leans in and runs his lips lightly along your hairline, then places his thumb under your chin and tilts your head to face him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sweetly.

“I’ve watched you throw people through glass. I’ve watched you cut into their skin with skewers. I’ve seen you break people’s bones,” you murmur. “But this is the first time I’ve ever been afraid of you.”

His eyes are gleaming.

“Probably a good instinct.” He plants a kiss on your forehead. “Now go gather up whatever it is you need and let’s go.”

[loooreleii]

https://www.cairn.info/revue-francaise-d-etudes-americaines-2012-1-page-78.htm

i don't know if you've already read this. I've been reading GCW and this article came to my mind as soon as the first graffiti scene came up. i love your work sm. thank you for doing what you do. and thank you for the link you shared for the essay on gentrification as colonialism (fanfiction does help me w my degree, yaayy).

OMG THIS IS SO COOL!!! I only read the first few paragraphs so far, but I'm already excited to read the rest of it. Thank you for sending this my way! I'll be honest, I'm winging most of the activism stuff bc I unfortunately don't have enough time to do proper research. But I really want to know more, so this is just great. And if you have more suggestions, and it's not a bother, I'd love to read more 💛💛

And aaaaha I'm glad the article was useful for your degree. Who says reading fanfic is useless 😄 I'm so happy to hear you enjoy the story. Messages like this always make my day, so THANK YOU

[emmys-library]

A thousand futures

Prompt

Diavolo stood at the window and gazed into the eternal twilight that enveloped Devildom. The weight of his new responsibilities weighed heavily on his heart. His father had abdicated the throne and retired from public life, leaving Diavolo to preside over a realm in ruins. It was only through his personal intervention that a stalemate and cessation of hostilities between his forces and the Heavenly Host had been achieved.

As he stared into the darkness, Diavolo's thoughts turned to the future. He considered the challenges that lay ahead. Rebuilding Devildom was a daunting task, but he refused to be deterred by adversity. He knew that if he persevered, he could one day realize his dream and bring about a better future for all who called the Devildom home. A vision that would bridge the gap between Devildom and other realms, fostering understanding and cooperation through cultural exchange. 

Perhaps, with a little luck, this would be the last war.

Barbatos arrived at Diavolo's side with a tray containing a teapot and two porcelain cups. The aroma of the tea told the prince that it was his favorite blend - bold and strong with a hint of sweetness that lingered on the palate like a fond memory. It was a closely guarded secret, known only to Barbatos, who had mastered the art of selecting and combining the finest ingredients from the depths of Devildom.

"Barbatos, you needn't go to all this trouble," Diavolo said with a grateful smile. "But I appreciate your company."

"Your well-being is my utmost concern, Young Master," Barbatos replied, calm as ever. "Please, allow me to serve you. It may lighten your dark mood."

Shaking his head slightly, Diavolo's smile turned sheepish. "I suppose I can't resist the temptation of your tea," he admitted. "You always seem to know exactly what I need."

Barbatos poured the tea into the cups. As he handed a cup to the prince, he said, "If a simple cup of tea can give you even a moment's respite, then I consider it a small but worthy effort."

He took the cup from the butler and settled back in his seat, savoring the tea for a long moment. The soothing flavors of the blend danced on his taste buds, and he closed his eyes briefly, reveling in the momentary peace it brought him.

"You have a talent for making even the simplest things feel like a gift," Diavolo remarked, his voice appreciative.

The butler tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Glad to be of service, Young Master.”

"Yes, I know," Diavolo began hesitantly, "But I can't help but wonder if you find true joy in serving me, given the circumstances that brought you here."

Barbatos' eyes met Diavolo's, evenly. "I serve you willingly," he said calmly but firmly. "While it is true that our paths intertwined through unforeseen events, the choice was my own."

The prince took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking again. "Barbatos, do you have any ambitions or dreams of your own that you wish to pursue?" he asked. "I can't help but wonder if it's wrong of me to keep you by my side, depriving you of opportunities or desires you might have."

The butler considered the question, his expression thoughtful. "In the past, I did have personal ambitions of my own,” he admitted. “But I soon learned that they were driven by selfish desires. That path proved to be misguided and brought unintended consequences."

Diavolo couldn't suppress his curiosity, and he leaned in closer. "What were these aspirations you once had?”

Barbatos remained composed, a smile still in place. "Young Master, I hope you understand that some aspects of my past are not something I wish to dwell on or share in detail," he replied politely. "Suffice it to say, I abandoned those goals."

While a tinge of disappointment flickered in his eyes, Diavolo understood that certain memories were best left untouched. "I appreciate your honesty, Barbatos," he replied. "You've shown unwavering loyalty and dedication to the Devildom, and that's what truly matters."

The butler’s smile grew a little warmer. "Indeed," he agreed, nodding. "The Devildom's well-being is my priority, and I am committed to serving you and supporting your vision for the realm."

Diavolo paused for a moment before speaking again. "I want you to know, Barbatos, that you are always welcome to pursue new dreams, should they arise," he said, a glimmer of nervousness in his golden eyes. "If there's anything you desire beyond your duties as a butler, I am more than willing to support you in your endeavors."

The butler offered another reassuring smile. "I understand your worries, Young Master," Barbatos began, his voice gentle yet firm, "But I want you to know that my place is here, serving you and supporting the Devildom. I've seen a thousand futures, and the only ones I'm content in are with you."

He gently set his teacup down on the saucer, his gaze locking with the prince’s. His verdant eyes, usually calm and composed, now shone with a sincerity that was rare and unmistakable.

"So, please,” he continued, his voice resolute, “do me the honor of allowing this reality to be one of them."

The prince was taken aback by his butler’s words, feeling a conflicting mix of emotions washing over him. Ultimately, hearing those words reassured him in ways he couldn't explain.

"I... I don't know what to say," Diavolo admitted. "Thank you, Barbatos. Knowing that means more to me than words can express."

Barbatos inclined his head, his expression serene. "You are not just ‘Young Master,’ but a friend to me as well," he replied, his voice carrying even more warmth.

As the twilight deepened outside, the tea slowly cooled, and their conversation turned to lighter matters. The future may still be shrouded in uncertainty, but with Barbatos by his side, Diavolo knew he had the strength and resilience to face the challenges that lay ahead.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Death Match

Well, here it is, my first attempt at a GCW fanfic. (Second one is probably coming very shortly.) Thanks to the lovely anon who iencouraged me to try this. Hope you like.

Pairing: Atticus Cogar x OFC

Word count: 3,678

Content advisory: graphic violence, sexual content, language

The crowd is so hot for you, which helps quell your nerves a little. You’ve done deathmatches before. You’ve fought men before. You’re on a hot streak right now, so there’s more attention on you but you’ve got the smarts and experience to deliver. You take a few moments to pose and get the crowd even more behind you as your music swells and fades. The sound of the cheering is more powerful than any drug you’ve ever tried.

Of course, you couldn’t be the beloved baby face that you are tonight without the heel to balance you. The second his music hits, it’s like the crowd doubles in size. The boos rise up like a swarm of locusts and just hang in the air. Man, do they hate him. They hate him like he burned their city to the ground.

The second Atticus Cogar shows his face, the noise gets so loud you can’t even hear his music anymore. He glances around with contempt, looking every but the snot-nosed punk he really is, and heads straight to the ring. You could kill him tonight and every single person in this audience would cover for you. You’d kind of like to kill him.

The ring is already littered with some weapons: chairs, mostly, a couple of thick curtain rods, some lighting tubes, and an ominous-looking toolbox. You can’t help wondering if that’s an actual box of tools that someone left there by accident. It would be pretty hilarious if the night ended with some poor guy washing blood and god knows what else off the items he literally needs to do his job. You just hope it’s not all your blood.

You pace a little, stretching out your arms as he takes his sweet ass time getting into the ring. It helps with the nervous knots. You’ve got this. You know you can do this. Done it before and done it well.

He’s in his own corner now, slowly removing the stiff collared shirt he always wears to the ring. Pretentious, uptight little shit. Finally, he turns around, sneering at the audience that is already screaming for you to fuck him up. You grin and raise your arms but you know better than to take your eyes off him.

The ring announcer starts to do the honors.

“The following match is scheduled for one fall. There is no time limit and no disqualifications…”

The two of you approach each other as both of your stats are called.

“Finally found a way to get your hands on me,” he smirks.

And therein lies the problem.

Yes, he’s an egotistical bastard with a sadistic streak but he’s also right. You do want him and not just in the ring. You have for months as the two of you have been moving through the same indie circuit together, always on the same shows but never facing off. You suspect that the lust is mutual but he’s good at hiding whatever he’s thinking behind that obnoxious front, so you can never be sure. His attitude makes you want to break his back. But then you’d want to roll him over and climb on top.

The bell rings but he makes no attempt to approach you. He stands still with his head tilted and that infuriating sneer on his irritatingly attractive face.

“Try not to give up too quickly,” he teases. “We want to give these assholes a bit of a show.”

You pretend to laugh shuffling around a little. He outweighs you by twenty-five pounds, give or take, and has five or six inches of height on you. If you try to overpower him, you’re doomed. No, you’re going to have to rely on your brains and speed. You move just a little, enough that your body hides what you’re doing with your hand. He’s so convinced that he’s going to win that he’s not watching you carefully enough, doesn’t perceive your hand curling around the metal chair that’s leaning against the ropes behind you.

You even give him a little smile just before you make one quick move and hurl the chair right into his face. It doesn’t hit him hard but it does the trick. He throws his arms up to block and that gives you the chance to hit a running kick right into his solar plexus, knocking him back into the corner and off his feet so you can jump in for the kill.

You land on him, raining down as many forearm strikes as you can. What you lack in power you make up for in quantity. If you can hit him enough, he’s going to be too punch-drunk to counter you. At a point, you have to stop just because swinging your arm at full strength is taking the air out of you and hurting your arm. It’s just a second but you glance down and see his hateful eyes staring up at you. And even though you’ve been in this position with dozens of opponents, this is the first time you realize that it’s a perspective you normally only get in bed, straddling someone and watching them underneath you. His nostrils flare a little as if he’s thinking the same thing but you’ve given him a crucial break and when you pull your arm back to hit him again, he grabs a fistful of your hair and slams your head into the corner post.

Now you’re the one who’s dazed and he slithers out from under you, locking his arms around your waist and flipping you backwards without even standing up. Immediately, you feel a blunt pain in your back and it takes you a moment to realize you’ve landed on the stupid chair that’s still lying in the middle of the ring. You roll just enough to dodge his boot as he tries to stomp down on you but he recovers enough to give you a sharp kick to the ribs.

After a strong start, this has gotten away from you, so you roll out of the ring to regroup, looking up just in time to sidestep as he dives right through the ropes at you, crashing and burning as the audience separates like the red sea, cheering as he hits the floor. No point in waiting, so even though your side still hurts a lot you grab him by his shirt and pull him to his feet to get him back in the ring.

He has enough in him to hit one blow, nowhere near full strength but enough that he can overpower you and push you hard against the ring apron, your aching ribs absorbing most of the impact. He barges into you to injure them further, crushing you into the edge of the ring. Your eyes meet again as your bodies grind together and you’re almost certain you see a flicker of lust pass over him.

At the exact same moment, you both rake each other’s eyes and spring apart, yelping like dogs. You’re able to get one hand on the bottom rope, which allows you to pull yourself back in the ring. Son of a bitch scratched you right on the eyeball so you can barely see, but it’s enough for you to make out his form crawling back into the ring. He charges at you but he’s clearly not able to see either, so you’re able to pick up the chair and slam it into what you hope is his head.

Regardless, he drops and it gives you the chance to rub your eyes a little so you can get a handle on what’s going on. He's on the ground, trying to push himself up and as you approach, you’re pleased to see that you’ve opened up a cut above his left eyebrow. Grinning, you grab a handful of his hair and pull him up so that he’s forced to look at you from his knees.

“You look good like that,” you taunt.

He punches you in the thigh, not enough to knock you over but you know right away you’re going to have a nasty bruise there in the morning. The slight wobble in your stance allows him to grab your arm and snap it behind your back, twisting it painfully as he pushes you face-first into the canvas and lands on top of you.

“Why don’t you just tap out so we can go back to the hotel and I can give you what you really want,” he whispers harshly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you gasp, the air getting pressed out of you as you writhe, trying to force your way out from under him by bucking your hips back into his.

He thrusts back against you just a little, but it’s enough for you to get some leverage and force him back. He gets an arm around your neck but you roll over so that it’s his shoulders pinned to the mat. The ref counts two and he’s forced to release you to avoid the loss.

The two of you scramble backwards, away from each other but still staring, panting. The crowd is making a ton of noise but it all kind of blends together. There’s no one else here right now, just you and him. He gives a devilish smile as he unfolds one of the chairs and stands it up in the center of the ring. What the hell is he up to? You see him get to his feet and move towards you so you lunge at him.

You realize just a split second too late that you’ve fallen into a trap as he intercepts you and locks an arm around your neck, slamming your head into the chair so hard you bounce right off it.

“Oh you’re dead,” you snarl at him, barely able to register that it’s you talking.

“You fight like a little girl.”

Once again, you slide outside the ring and lift the apron to see what you can find there, a couple of doors that always seem to be on hand for these matches. You grab one but you have to keep an eye on what he’s doing, so it’s awkward and you know you’re wasting precious time.

He jumps down on the floor and grabs the other side of the door. You struggle to get it away from him but it’s useless. If he lets go too quickly you’ll fall over under your own momentum.

“Bitch, we both want the same thing!” he yells.

You’re about to retort but he cuts you off.

“We both want to use these things.” He shakes the wooden plank a little. “Let’s just get them in the ring and we’ll figure out how to fuck each other up after.”

“Still thinking about fucking me?” you gloat.

However, you have to admit he’s right, so you work together to throw one door and then another into the ring. As you grab the second one, you both see something else under there. The glint along its edges is unmistakable. Cutting a quick, excited glance at each other, you make the decision at the same time. Hell yeah, let’s do this. You reach under the ring and take out the pristine sheet of glass, lifting it with surprising delicacy and pushing it onto the canvas. This is going to be grotesque.

You slide back in under the bottom rope, both on your stomachs, eyes locked, breathing rapid. The crowd is roaring. They want blood. Together, you place the glass in one corner, then each of you takes a door to lean against other corners. You glance away for just a second to steady the panel and out of the corner of your eye you see him drop what he’s doing and run for you at top speed. You notice just in time to move and he crashes right through the wood, landing in a heap.

“Too eager,” you grunt, dragging him back enough that you can roll him up, your upper body between his legs, dangerously close.

One… two… the fucker kicks out, smacking his crotch right into your face.

He moves quickly to get to his feet, which puts you in an awkward position. if he jumps at you, he’ll flatten you. If you swing at him, there’s a good chance you’re too gassed to exert the force you’d need to take him off his feet. It’s still the better option, so you run forward and drive your forearm into his head, dragging it with all your might against the cut on his face, making it wider and bloodier. Red drops roll onto your arm.

“That all you got?” he hisses, pushing his face so close that you can’t see anything else.

“All you’re getting.”

“Keep pretending. You’re not worth the effort to take my dick out.”

You give him a push because you have to get him away from you or you really are going to have a meltdown and try to tear his clothes off. It’s a hard push but you’re surprised when he drops down to one knee. You take one step forward and are clocked right upside the head with the goddamn toolbox. It’s empty, thankfully, but it’s still more than enough to knock you senseless and he tackles you to the ground, trapping your legs between his and pinning your wrists to the mat.

It’s an awkward hold because while his grip is painful, it’s not effective. Every time the ref goes to count, you’re able to lift a shoulder. He’s too strong and too heavy for you to escape and if he leaned down on your shoulders, you’d be done for. But he’s just staring at you like a wild animal, as if the match isn’t happening at all.

“I’m gonna break you in half,” he whispers.

You strain and push your head up a little, moving your lips as if you’re about to speak. He moves a little closer, just close enough for you to sink your teeth into his bottom lip. He roars and jumps back but you’re still dazed and he’s able to grab you by the hair and propel you forward into the second door, head first.

The fucking thing doesn’t break. You absorb every bit of the impact and you literally see stars. Instinct forces you up to your feet but you’re way too disoriented to mount any sort of offense. Atticus locks his arms around your stomach from behind, holding you so tight you can barely get any breath in. He pushes one fist up into the ribs you’d injured at the beginning of the match and the pain is so much you can barely move. You’re desperately trying to get free but even with the voices of the crowd willing you on, you can barely move. He keeps constricting, pulling you back against him.

As you struggle in vain, you realize, even in your dazed state, that you can feel the outline of his hardened cock against your ass. The more you fight, the more you can feel him getting turned on and you inadvertently let out a very sexual moan. He presses his head close and kisses your cheek.

“I love you too, babe,” he jeers.

He drags you over to the ropes, flinging you over the bottom one. You try to crawl over it but he grabs your head and presses it down so that your throat is getting crushed against the cable. You move as best you can but he straddles your back, pinning you in position with his legs so that your arms are strung, useless, over the rope. He keeps his hand knotted in your hair and out of the corner of your eye you see his free hand go to his pocket. Your heart sinks. You know exactly what’s about to happen.

He presses a handful of sharpened skewers against your scalp and removes his hand from your hair. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before he hammers down on the skewers, driving them into your scalp. It takes you a minute to realize that the noise you hear is your own voice screaming in pain. he steps back to enjoy his handiwork, a cruel smile on his lips as you turn around, streams of blood already trickling down your face and neck as you try desperately to get the tiny spears out of your head.

Some fall out on their own and you’re able to swat others loose but you’re in no position to defend yourself as he grabs you from behind once again and lifts you up, throwing you back with a massive suplex, right through the pane of glass you’d helped him put in place.

You know you’ve lost. You’ve got shards of glass all over you, inside your gear and covering your skin. There are still skewers in your head. There’s blood coming out of about eight different parts of you. Instinctively, you cover your face with your hands, partly wanting to protect your eyes and partly because you don’t want to see what’s about to happen. And then…

Nothing.

You lower your hands a little, wondering if he hurt himself on that last move but he’s already getting to his feet, a little unsteadily, yes, but he’s not bleeding any more than he was before and he isn’t showing any signs of injury. He’s just standing there, staring at you with an expression you can’t read, somewhere between surprise and confusion. This staredown seems to go on for a long time, long enough that a hush falls over the crowd. They don’t know what’s happening either.

Your right arm drops. You have a gash on your bicep that’s bleeding profusely. As your hand hits the ground, you feel something there. One of the curtain rods that’s been in the ring the whole time. Atticus looks down and shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to clear the cobwebs. Unbelievable.

You grab hold of the curtain rod and struggle to your feet. You aren’t too quick but when he looks up, he doesn’t move. This is it. One shot. You get that crazy burst of adrenaline that only comes when you feel like your life is literally in danger and god knows that with this guy, it could be. You swing the pole with all your might, crashing it into his stomach and dropping him with a sick thud.

He’s on his hands and knees, struggling not to vomit from the force. You doubt he has much idea what’s going on and take your chance, grabbing him by the arm and hoping you have enough adrenaline left to lift him up just enough to drop him on his smug face in the pool of broken glass behind you.

It’s at the last minute that you see his other hand grab hold of one of the light tubes and immediately you panic. You cannot take another faceful of glass. You can’t. You drop his arm and without thinking, you stomp down on his hand, shattering the tube and driving his palm down into it.

He shrieks in pain and immediately you see a red stain spreading all around his hand. You know you need to act, you need to pin him or choke him or something but you can’t. For the first time in your career, you’re horrified at something you’ve done. It’s not until he glares back at you that you even come to your senses.

“Don’t pussy out now,” he mutters.

You drop to your knees behind him, locking one arm over his face and the other under his arm so that you’re wrenching his neck back. Once again, he screams from the pain and you think he’s done but then he bites down on the inside of your arm with all his force. You can feel his incisors tearing into your flesh. You know you can’t hold on much longer so you crank back on his neck, driving your knee into his back so that he can’t get air in but the bastard won’t let up on your arm. If he can roll himself over a little, it’s going to be your shoulders on the mat.

“Fuck you!” you holler. “I fucking hate you!”

But you don’t mean it. And you stupidly hope he knows that.

You can feel yourself getting dizzy from blood loss, your strength draining out along with it. The angle you have him trapped, he must be in agony, but the pain from that bite is quickly growing unbearable. And just as you’re about to break, you see it. He pounds his hand repeatedly on the mat, leaving a bloody stain with every strike. He’s tapping out.

“That’s it! It’s over!” The ref calls and you hear the metal ring of the bell just as you collapse onto your back.

You’re supposed to stand up, take in the adulation of the crowd, but you can’t move. The sound of your breath going in and out is alarmingly loud. Your curtain call can wait.

Likewise, it’s customary for the loser to just roll out of the ring and slink backstage but Atticus isn’t moving either. He’s flat on his stomach and as you tilt your head to look, he’s staring right back at you. For a second, you’re not even sure that he’s conscious.

Your hands are so close, close enough that just relaxing your fingers a little bridges almost the entire distance. Straightening his fingers slightly, he’s able to bridge the rest. You’re barely touching, just the tips of your trembling hands. You’re both covered in rapidly drying blood, your own and each other’s, just trying to get enough air to stay conscious.

“Stupid asshole,” you murmur, barely able to summon the strength to move your lips, “you could have pinned me.”

He exhales heavily and gives the faintest of smiles. “I’d had enough foreplay. Figured we should move on to the good stuff.”

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The God of this Sh*t

Wheeeee... little bit of GCW melodrama because why not. This one is set during the buildup to and at the Art of War Games show which, if you're able to see it, is really worth a watch. That said, I've taken a little artistic licence, so not everything is going to line up exactly. Sorry if this is a bit of a slog... I seem to be incapable of telling a story succinctly.

Pairing: RSP (Rickey Shane Page) x OFC

Word count: 5,353

Content advisory: explicit sexual content, language

It’s pretty difficult to smile under the circumstances. Sure, you’re looking forward to seeing your MDK cohorts kick the living shit out of their 440OH! rivals, you’ve been looking forward to that for months. It’s going to be the best sort of bloodbath. For that matter, you’re excited for Allie to have her match against that piece of shit Tony Deppen, even though that one doesn’t go as you’d hoped. You’re happy for all your friends. The problem is that you were supposed to be part of this. You had a match scheduled and that all went to hell because at a small show five days ago you miscalculated a jump and slammed right into the ring post, immediately dislocating your shoulder and taking you out of commission for at least a month. Just fucking awesome.

So you’re sitting backstage with the gang, arm in a sling, hating the fact that you’re going to be stuck in the role of cheerleader. It’s not fair, but it’s your own fault and you should be relieved that you only hurt yourself, because you were the idiot who went into a match all distracted. That’s the other problem. The distraction.

You’re in a little pain but you don’t want to take any of the whopping ten prescription pills your doctor gave you. You have seven remaining and you want to reserve them for those times when the pain becomes completely unbearable. Besides, you’ve had a seemingly endless stream of people warning you not to rely on pills and shoving joints and edibles at you. You’ve been trying to take it easy with that, too, so that you don’t go and do anything stupid.

“Don’t worry, you got this next time,” Nick grunts at you, giving you something between a hug and a headlock which, you’ve come to realize, is his way of saying that he likes you. It kind of irritates the shoulder but you don’t care.

Before you found this weird bunch of misfits, you were alone. Even in the world of underground wrestling and its cast of weirdos, you felt completely isolated. Then one night you’d done a match with Allie. She’d beaten the crap out of you, to the point where you were spitting blood over the mat. Then she’d helped you up and walked you to the back, where she proceeded to ice your jaw.

“You need some friends,” she informed you, “or you’re going to get eaten alive, I don’t care how tough you think you are.”

You were a bit insulted because you thought you were plenty tough but no one had ever been as nice to you as she was.

“Will you be my friend?” you’d asked, embarrassed at how ridiculous the question sounded (even more so because your mouth was all swollen).

She gave you a wink. “You know, I think I will.”

Through her, you met her sometime ring partner Effy, and gradually the other members of the loose gang at GCW. You’d been around as the MDK alliance had formed over a period of months and had been accepted to that strange little family. Gage had been reserved at first but once he realized you came from a similarly rough background, he’d adopted you as a kind of little sister. He could still scare the shit out of you because his grip on his own level of violence seemed tenuous, but he was also your rock.

The only one of the group who had never entirely warmed to you was AJ, and, indeed, as you do what you get everyone as hyped up as possible, he’s eyeing you with the same hint of suspicion he always has. It’s like he knows there’s something up and it’s bothering him that he can’t figure it out. You’re trying to avoid looking in his direction because it’s started to feel like there’s a sign hanging over your head that reads traitor.

The rivalry between MDK and 44OH is no joke. They seriously want to hurt each other, and nowhere is the enmity any more bitter than between Nick and his opposite number, Rickey Shane Page. They’d fought over the title but everyone knew that the title was just an emblem of something that went much deeper. And when he couldn’t beat Nick, Page had resorted to fucking him over. You’d known these people for a small portion of your life but you felt the hatred every time you had to look at one of the 44OH! crew. You wanted to hurt them. You’d get in their faces, guys double your size and weight, knowing full well they’d hit you without thinking twice about it. This wasn’t a place where being a woman was going to protect you from anything.

But hatred, as you’d recently discovered, is a passion. And passions have a tendency to conflate when they get heated enough.

A week ago, you’d been settling in for an early night. You’d been plagued by allergies every spring and fall for as long as you could remember and this year was a doozy, so you took a pill to relieve the sinus pressure enough that you could get some sleep and were in the process of getting ready for bed when Brett, the GCW owner, texted you.

I’m house-sitting and we’re having a party, come on over.

You’d responded that you really weren’t in the mood for a party because of your sinuses but you kind of knew that he was going to be able to talk you into it.

Pop a couple of pills and come over. Come in your pajamas for all I care. You have to see this place.

Brett had mentioned that he was taking care of a house for friends of his parents for a couple of weeks leading up to the Art of War Games show and you had to admit, you were a little intrigued. Brett was vague about his family and background but you knew that he came from money. He didn’t like to talk about it because, in a weird inversion of how life usually worked, it was kind of shameful in this environment to be a rich boy. But there was no mistaking what he meant by telling you that you had to see the place: it was a place that would impress even wealthy people.

You’d already done part of what he said because you’d taken a pill, and so it just made sense that you should follow the rest of his instructions. How you came to that conclusion you didn’t know. You’d been raised in poverty. Your family had lived out of their car on a few occasions when you were still in grade school. You really wanted to see the fancy house.

And it was quite the house. You felt your eyes widen as soon as you walked in, because it was clearly the sort of place that was designed to impress people a lot classier than you. It backed onto the beach, not that you needed to go there because there was a giant fucking pool (that several drunken wrestlers and their friends were carousing in). You were certain you’d stayed in hotels that had fewer bedrooms. There was a big kitchen and a small kitchen, for what reason you couldn’t imagine. There was a room with a damn projection screen, basically a tiny movie theater. Wandering around, unable to find Brett or Allie or anyone who could make you feel like less of an intruder, the sheer scope of the place made you start to panic.

“They’re upstairs!” Jordan Oliver, who you didn’t really know but who seemed nice enough, waved and pointed to where you should go.

Indeed, there were your friends, along with a bunch of strangers at a bit of a distance, on the rooftop terrace, just shooting the shit like this was normal.

Allie beckoned you over.

“Come sit down, let’s act like fancy bitches!”

She poured you a glass of wine which you gladly accepted in order to steady your nerves. You’d been so freaked out by the house that you’d totally forgotten about the allergy pill with its bold warning about not drinking. But it’s not like you’d overdone it. It wouldn’t have even made you tipsy under normal conditions.

“Who the hell are all these people?” you whispered to Allie. “This is more people than are going to be at the show.”

“I dunno,” she giggled. “Friends of Brett’s? Random strangers looking for a party? We’ve been up here all night.” She laughed and pressed against you. “He gave us the top because we’re the best.”

“He what? Who?”

“Brett. He told us to hang out upstairs and on the roof. The evil fuckers are downstairs. Stuck in a cellar, I hope.”

You had to laugh at Brett’s way of dealing with the very real tension between his wrestlers: give them their own territory. And, yes, you guys had obviously been favored because it was a gorgeous night and the fresh air felt good. Nevertheless, your curiosity gnawed at you. You wanted to see the whole house. You bugged Allie to come with you but she flat-out refused. And so you’d abandoned the idea for a little while. But you couldn’t keep it out of your head.

It wasn’t just that you’d wanted to see the house, although that was part of it. You’d wanted to stir up some shit. The others were happy to observe the no-fly zone in the middle of the house but you were just itching to poke the bear a little. Finally, you’d excused yourself to go to the bathroom. You’d gone twice already and ended up in two different places so you told yourself that you were just playing a game: you were going to try to use as many different bathrooms as possible while you were in the house. And since you’d already found two, you figured you had to start heading further downstairs.

It didn’t really land with you that you were very inebriated, probably because you were too inebriated to know. You did notice that you were tripping fairly often and relying on the walls to keep you up more than usual. But you were excited to see what kind of mischief you could get into. That’s all it was. Mischief.

You did find a new bathroom on the main floor that had a tub almost the size of your apartment. But as long as you’d come this far and were this drunk, you figured it was easier to go down stairs than up them. You were never going to be in a place like this again in your whole life, you knew. You wanted to get the full experience.

“ALRIGHT IT’S GO TIME, LET’S FUCKIN’ MOVE!” Nick’s gravelly voice blasts through your thoughts and brings you right back into the present. He marshals his troops and calls them in for a last huddle before the big match begins. Two rings! A huge cage! Tables! Light tubes! Panes of glass! Those random doors that always turn up at these shows! You have one of those moments where you marvel that people do these things to themselves on purpose but it passes quickly enough.

“Get over here,” Nick barks, waving you into the scrum.

You and Allie aren’t part of the match but you’re part of the group, which means that you get to join in for the last motivational words and a sort of group hug, which you can’t really participate in because, ya know, arm in a sling. You’re a strange group, cobbled together from links of toughness and mutual respect. You’re going up against a much more unified faction and that makes you a little nervous. Still, there is something nearly religious about the way Nick conducts these things and normally it makes you feel like a member of the congregation. Tonight, however, you can’t get into it as much as you usually do, because you wonder if these guys would straight up kill you if they knew what you’d done. As you’re wondering, you raise your eyes a little and immediately there’s AJ with that same stink-eye expression.

You don’t go with them to the entranceway because, all other considerations aside, it’s kind of crowded there and you’d be in the way. But you also don’t want to risk any unnecessary confrontation. So you give them a few final words of encouragement, check to make sure Allie’s not expecting you to go back and sit with her right away, and then sneak off to try to compose yourself.

It’s all going to be fine. It was one stupid thing. You were drunk. None of them know and they’re not going to find out.

You feel a pair of large hands encircle your neck from behind, lifting you just enough that you have to stand on the balls of your feet to keep from being strangled. Rickey leans in and presses his face right against your ear.

“If you even think about coming out there to start something,” he snarls, “I’ll break the other arm.”

You try to twist and free yourself but it’s useless. The guy is huge and strong and he has you by the neck. You wince because the strain is hurting your shoulder. Mercifully, he relaxes his grip enough that you can plant both feet back on the ground. He doesn’t let go, though. Instead, he slides his hands back and forth like he’s trying to loosen your head from your neck. His grip tightens again, his forefingers pressed right up into your throat, as he plants a kiss to the top of the head.

“But if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll give you a treat after.”

That’s it, you think. You’re a dead woman.

What had happened at the party was that you’d gradually made your way down to the basement of the mansion. You could hear voices and music and figured you just had to check it out, to see who was there, to see what kind of amusing trouble you could get into. You knew damn well who was going to be there, the 44OH boys, because that was their established domain, down close to the sewers where they belonged. At no point did it occur to you that you were heading into enemy territory in a very real war, mere days before the ultimate battle was to take place.

You wandered into the room that seemed to be at the center of the action and glanced at what was happening. There were people, mostly people you hated, hanging out, drinking, and enjoying what appeared to be a games room. A couple of them were playing their own version of pool, which involved shoving the balls as fast as possible across the table while the other players placed their hands in the holes. The point of their type of pool seemed to be to try to nail the other guys’ fingers as hard and as often as possible. These dumbasses were going to break their fucking hands before the match even started. Awesome. You’d watched from a discreet distance, laughing the whole time.

When you noticed a couple of quizzical looks coming in your direction, you’d made your way towards a darker corner of the room. There was Rick, Rickey, Dickhead as you usually called him, reclined on an expensive-looking leather sofa, having a boisterous conversation with a few friends.

He wasn’t like Nick or you. At a party, in dim light, he could almost pass for someone who belonged in this place. If you didn’t know what a lowlife he actually was, someone could think he was a fancy bitch.

Rickey noticed you, his eyes flickering over you with a look of mild curiosity, nothing more, before he returned his full focus to his conversation. It wouldn’t do. You’d come there to start something and you weren’t going to be denied. So you’d stumbled towards the group and grabbed a drink from the table before you walked back to your shadowy corner.

This definitely got attention and one of his friends, presumably the one whose drink you’d taken, seemed ready to approach you, but the big man just shook his head and waved them off. And that was absolutely unbearable. The bastard thought he was protecting you? He thought you were so insignificant that it wasn’t even worth confronting you when you’d brazenly stolen from them? You’d choked down the scotch you’d taken, not a lot, not enough to have made you lose your damn mind, but still a bad idea under the circumstances, and you’d marched back to where they were sitting.

The man closest to Rickey looked up. He didn’t stop talking but he did give you a hard stare. But he wasn’t the one whose attention you were trying to get, so you’d planted one of your knees on Rickey’s thigh , leaning into him and giving a defiant look.

What are you gonna do about it?

“You lost?’ he snapped, finally turning to face you. He’d sounded more annoyed than anything, which was not the reaction you wanted. You wanted to get under his skin. You wanted him to be riled up and he was refusing to give into it.

So you’d basically climbed onto his lap, balancing yourself as best you could without looking at him. You’d just nodded at his friend to continue talking. You know, like you weren’t even there.

Page had made no effort to touch you, spreading his arms and giving his boys a theatrical shrug. Might as well keep talking.

They did try to continue with the conversation as best they could, pointedly trying to ignore you. So you’d upped the ante, coiling your arms around Rickey’s neck and pushing your head against his like a cat.

“I think someone wants you to herself,” one of the guys chuckled.

“Great.” Page rolled his eyes. “Just the thing I need.”

He was steadfast. He kept trying to talk to his friends, even as you did everything to distract. It had seemed hilarious in the moment but it’s so humiliating in retrospect that you can barely stand to think about it. What the hell had your plan been? You’d gotten it into your head that it would be funny to get him all hot and bothered and then take off but the more he insisted on ignoring you, the more frustrated you got.

When the comparatively subtle approach of squirming around on his lap didn’t get the results you wanted, that was when you opened your big, stupid mouth.

“Rickey, Rick, Richard,” you giggled in a sort of sing-song cadence. It got a look of irritated confusion but nothing else, so you burrowed your face close to his ear. “I usually just call you Dickhead.”

“That’s sweet,” he quipped.

It was at that moment that you’d decided you were going to say something outrageous, just to get a reaction.

“Well I think you’re a dick. But I kind of want to suck yours too.”

“What?” his eyes widened and for an instant you did have his complete attention. The laughter of his friends brought him back to earth, apparently. “Ok, miss, it’s time for you to go.”

He grabbed your hips and lifted you off him, although he was at least nice enough to make sure you were steady on your feet before letting go. Pulling a petulant face, you’d grabbed his drink from the table but he pulled it away from you.

“No,” he growled, brushing you away. “You need to go back to your people. Go bother them.”

You’d thought about trying his patience more but decided against it. It had been more fun trying to find all the bathrooms, so you figured you’d go back to that. You were dimly aware that you’d done something very bad, something humiliating, but in the state you’d been in at the time, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. Drunkenness knows no consequences.

On your way out of the room, you’d walked straight into Eddy Only. You kept on going as if nothing had happened but as you did, you’d heard him mutter “The fuck is she doing here?”

It didn’t mean anything to you at the time, but when you woke up the following morning, the memory triggered a panic attack. Rickey’s conversational buddies might have been aware of who you were but didn’t think much of it. Eddy knew very well who you were and how scandalous it was that you had walked into the lions’ den. Him blabbing on you was one of the things that had had you worried since that night, although not the main thing.

You were wandering the halls for long enough that you’d forgotten about what had just happened, probably about five minutes. You’d sensed a very quick, silent movement behind you and immediately felt yourself bodied against the wall and pulled into the laundry room.

Rickey closed the door and looked down at you with a lot of suspicion but also some interest. You were a little frightened in the moment because in all the time you’d been around GCW, all the time you’d been participating in this blood feud, you’d never really noticed the size difference between you. You had said some very nasty things to this man and he could have squashed you like a bug.

You were trying to figure out what to say when he gave your shoulder a push, enough to knock you off balance and send you to the floor, so you were on your knees in front of him.

“Ok,” he snapped, unfastening his belt, “you want this? Well, show me what you’ve got.”

He tapped the back of your head and without any further hesitation, you’d dived in, freeing his semi-erect prick and pressing it into your mouth with vigor. You hummed in satisfaction as you felt him becoming harder, stroking his shaft with your tongue, resting one hand on his massive thigh to keep your balance. His breathing quickened and grew deeper but he was still eyeing you like he expected some kind of trap. No, you hadn’t trapped him. You went at it with greater intensity, paying attention to any little cues as to what really drove him crazy, and gradually he let his head fall back, a stream of whispered curses and praises falling from him.

He wrapped his fingers in your hair, pulling you a little tighter, and you expected he was about to get rough but he didn’t- he let you set the pace and do whatever you wanted because that was apparently better than just ramming himself into your throat. A hot feeling of pride flowed through you. It was crazy that you’d managed to get this great beast here, more or less at your mercy, that all this hatred had suddenly turned into this. You pulled back a little, still swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, and glanced up. He looked back at you through hooded eyes and gave a little smile, something you’d never expected from him.

His grip on your hair tightened as he approached his climax and he couldn’t resist bucking his hips a little, pressing into your throat as he spilled inside you. He slowly relaxed and gave a little laugh as he tucked himself back in and fastened his pants and belt again. You were feeling very proud of yourself and just as a little alarm started to go off inside you, he’d lifted you against the wall, pulling one of your legs around his waist.

It wasn’t even like he was holding you, he just somehow managed to keep you stuck to the wall with his own bulk and strength, jamming one hand between your legs and tugging your panties to the side.

“Guess you deserve a little something,” he rasped.

He pushed two thick fingers inside you, quickly adding a third when he felt how wet you were. He was so rough that it hurt for a couple of seconds but then that melted away and it felt very, very good. It felt amazing. You yelped and cried out a little, unable to stop yourself, and after the second or third outburst you felt his hand still.

“You need to find a way to shut yourself up or I’m stopping this now,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours.

You nodded and buried your head in his chest to muffle the sounds you couldn’t help making. The scent of him was kind of hypnotic, the remnants of laundry detergent over musky skin, something that made you relax, which made the sensation of his hand feverishly working at your cunt even better. You bit down on his chest hard as you came, which drew a little grunt but nothing more, and then let your head fall back against the wall while you caught your breath.

He shifted and for a second you were afraid he was going to just let you drop. Instead, he pressed into you enough to keep you in place until your breathing regulated, at which point he set you gently on your feet.

He gave a little smirk as he raised his fingers, visibly soaked with your juices, and pushed them into his mouth for a few seconds. Then he turned with a cheeky little wink and left without another word.

You can’t remember at what point reality had started to set in. In fact, after your little tryst, your memory of the night is very fuzzy. The alcohol and the allergy pill were hitting their full combined force and you’d ended up struggling to find your way back up to the roof, to safety, only to panic just as you were about to make it. You’d somehow made your way down onto the beach, ignoring the people cavorting around it, and started frantically scooping water into your mouth and spitting it out because you’d become convinced that if your friends, your MDK crew, talked to you, they’d be able to smell what you’d been doing and that they’d know who you’d been doing it with.

“Fucking hell, there you are!” Allie came rushing up to you just as you took another mouthful of lake water. “What the hell are you doing? That’s probably got nuclear waste in it or something.”

Strangely clear is the memory of her face, genuinely frightened and worried.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We thought something had happened to you.”

“Sorry, I got lost,” you mumbled, gesturing in the direction of the house.

Immediately, her expression became softer. “I know, right? That place could house an army. How does just one family live there? Like they must never see each other.”

She wrapped an arm around you and started to guide you back towards the mansion.

“Just take your phone with you next time you want to go exploring. I was worried sick.”

You have no memory at all of making it home, although you have a very fuzzy memory that you’d started to cry at one point when you were back on the roof. You knew you hadn’t said anything because you would have heard about it in the days following. All anyone said was that you’d been pretty far gone but, they were quick to reassure you, everyone had. No big deal.

No, very big deal.

You’d woken up hungover but not congested and ever since that moment you’ve been unable to think about anything but what happened. It was on your mind when you’d gotten in the ring and busted your shoulder. It had been on your mind as you tried to have normal conversations with your friends. It had definitely been on your mind when you caught glimpses of Rickey in the days leading up to the show. He never seemed to notice you were there, although a couple of times, you saw him nervously chewing at his lip ring a little, like there was something making him ill at ease. He hadn’t tried to approach you or even speak to you. If he’s bragged about his conquest to his 44OH boys, they give no sign. If Eddy remembers catching you in their territory, he doesn’t say anything. None of this relaxes you at all.

Along with the worrying, you can’t stop thinking about what happened and feeling turned on by it. You don’t just want Rickey to notice you because you want some kind of assurance that he’s not going to rat you out. You want him to notice you because you want to know if something is going to happen again. You’re kind of desperate for it and that is infuriating. Even more infuriating is that you can’t even take care of yourself because, even if you can get started with your weaker hand, the strain of actually trying to get yourself off makes your shoulder seize up and the pain is so much that you can’t finish. You’ve no idea if there’s a name for feminine blue balls but you definitely have it.

The first you’ve come into contact with Rickey at all is here, in the hallway, waiting for him to go out and kill or be killed by your friends.

He releases your neck and starts to walk away without even glancing back. You can’t let that happen.

“Ambulance or hearse?” you call after him.

He turns back, frowning. “What’s that?”

“Which do you think you’re gonna leave in tonight?” You give an impudent little smile.

He blows you a kiss, flipping you off at the same time, and then he’s gone.

You make your way towards the curtain separating backstage from the main room, wanting to get a look at what’s happening. Once all the team members have entered, you’ll be able to get close to the entrance and have a better view but for now, you content yourself with peering through a crack in the fabric. You rub at your neck, although you know there’s no way he grabbed you tight enough to leave marks. It does make you wonder what it would feel like to have him mark you up, leave you with bruises and scratches, and you wonder if he wants to. Once again, you’re all hot and bothered and can’t think straight.

This is why you rarely get sexually involved with anyone, because it’s always like this, always some bizarre complication that causes chaos and disaster.

“I am the god of this shit,” you sigh to yourself.

From what you can see, the ring is already a mess and there aren’t even that many bodies in it. The real match won’t even start until all twelve of them get there.

You sense someone approach you and you turn around in anticipation. But goddamn, it’s AJ, who bumps against your arm with that barrel chest of his.

“Better be careful,” he grunts, dead eyes locked on yours.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

He rolls his shoulders but never breaks eye contact. “There’s gonna be glass and chemical dust flying, god knows what else. The crowd can get rough when they get into it, maybe bodies falling. It’s called a deathmatch. People have actually died doing these. So just watch yourself so you don’t get hurt.”

It’s almost unfathomable to you that the man looks like he wants to bury you but seems to be showing you a rough sort of kindness.

“Ok,” you stammer, “I’ll keep my distance.”

“You can watch. Just take care of yourself.” He starts to head off but turns back and gives you a very serious look. “Nick really likes you. It’d fuck him up if you got hurt because of this.”

You gulp as a whole new wave of guilt washes over you.

“Hey,” you croak, “kick their asses.”

AJ nods and heads out as the first notes of his music hit. Soon, everyone is going to be in that cage. It’s going to be carnage.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

I just read your "Bad Guy" fic, and I loved it. I love that you wrote about someone who's imperfect and manipulative (and I'm not saying she's a bad person, I genuinely loved her character.) It's very refreshing to see someone like that, because most fanfiction OC's are so perfect. Would you consider writing more characters like Lauren? I feel like that kind of character would fit in a GCW type of fic.

Thank you! I would love to do more stories for a character like that. I feel like a flawed person myself so I can relate…