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artificialqueens · 2 years

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Bitch Fight, Ch.15 (Multi; Jela) - Lita

Welcome to the world of Femme Fatale Wrestling. The future is female, and we're here to prove it.

A/N: Sorry for the HUGE break in posting, I've been in uni deadline hell for the last month but we're out of it now and we're celebrating with this HORRIBLY depressing chapter lmao. Okay, it's not all grim, but I sure do like making Dela sad, huh? Enjoy loves <3<3

CW: disordered eating; lots of body image talk including weights/numbers

CHAPTER 15: PLEASE DON'T GO

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Looking at you like what?” Dela asks, sincerely confused. Jinkx sits across the table from her, her hands clasped around her mug of coffee.

“Like I smell bad or something,” Jinkx gives a small laugh.

“It’s not you - I have buyer’s remorse,” Dela admits, apathetically pushing her half-finished egg white omelet around her plate with her fork. Oh to be twenty-one and able to exist primarily on french fries and vodka without spilling out of her clothes again. “This is really gross. I miss bread.”

Dela’s eyebrows crease as she puts her fork down. She’s a little over a week into some bullshit low-carb diet thing, and it’s obliterating her will to live.

“Then eat some fucking bread - you wanted the French toast. Nothing’s stopping you.”

“I can’t.”

“Dela, I don’t know why you bother with this shit. You’re torturing yourself for no reason,” Jinkx says, emphatically taking the final bite of her pancakes.

“It’s not for no reason,” Dela says, not entirely sure she believes herself. “Nobody wants to look at a gross forty-year old in a singlet - it’s damage control.”

“You’re not gross. And since when did you wear singlets?” Jinkx looks puzzled.

Since Bill had told her she was getting too old to be wearing two-pieces about six months ago. Not like she was going to tell Jinkx that. He had a point. She was pushing a hundred and ninety pounds; despite constantly arguing with herself that muscle mass had to account for some of that, it still made her feel a little sick.

Jinkx nudges her from across the table, trying to prompt her to answer the question.

“French toast before working out feels counterintuitive,” she eventually says, aware that she’s not even come close to giving her a real answer, and hoping that Jinkx doesn’t press the issue.

“It cancels out,” Jinkx shrugs, wiping her mouth.

Dela looks away from her, her mouth downturned. Jinkx reaches for her hand under the table. The most meaning is always in the notes that aren’t being played. Jinkx smiles a little as she runs her thumb up and down the back of Dela’s hand, but her silence is telling. Dela swallows a little of her guilt, idly twirling the spoon in her coffee cup and staring out across the street. She hates it when Jinkx picks up on this shit. It’s embarrassing when she notices that big, dirty heap of shame Dela has been carrying around for most of her adult life. It’s for her to deal with in silence, not to be seen by other people’s eyes.

When Dela had been going through her usual motions of bugging Jinkx to get out of the house as she packed her shit for a training session that morning, she had been surprisingly willing to play ball for once. Miracle of miracles, she’d actually succeeded. The little cafe they’d ended up in was cute - all natural light and warm colors, potted plants on every table. It felt nice to be somewhere with her. Like their life together had been before everything went wrong.

But Jinkx seems a little uncomfortable, like she wasn’t really ready to face the world - wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt that fits her like a dress, and the leggings she’d slept in the night before; continually pulling her sleeves down over her hands like she’s trying to hide herself from the world. She hadn’t bothered to put her contacts in, her glasses resting on the end of her nose; her hair thrown into a bun with her unbrushed bangs poofing out in a directionless mess. Dela had a sneaking suspicion that Jinkx had only agreed on going out to eat somewhere because she’d noticed that she’d skipped breakfast.

Dela had cycled through little bouts of issues like this for as long as she could remember. She had spent most of her life in environments that fostered ruthless self-critique and self-hatred; beauty pageants when she was a young teenager, then acting in college, and now - when her body was constantly on display in the ring, just to be gawked at by a crowd. It was far from constant; she’d be fine for months, and then some kind of reminder that she should be viewing her weight as a problem would smack her in the face. That would be at the forefront of her mind for the next few weeks or so, until she got so sick of depriving herself that she couldn’t keep it up and rationalized herself back into ambivalence. It was waiting for the cycle to repeat itself that somehow hurt the most.

It wasn’t like she ate like shit the rest of the time; the guilt and shame and fear every time she even contemplated eating between meals or ordering dessert was always there. She gained weight every time she tried to quit smoking, so she’d stopped trying. It felt like there was nothing she could do. No matter what she did, feast or famine, her body refused to shrink. She’d tried every potential fix out there - keto, veganism, paleo, meal replacement shakes, intermittent fasting, calorie-counting, carb-cutting, and every miracle weight loss scheme under the goddamn sun - to less than no effect. She never learned, always winding up right back at square one - still miserable, still a size fourteen.

Dela would rather be thinking about literally anything other than food right now. She pushes her plate away, pursing her lips.

“Who are you training with?” Jinkx snaps her out of the downward spiral, squeezing her hand.

“It was meant to be a few of us - but Bianca messed her knee up again, so she’s at home on ice. Since she bailed, Adore isn’t coming either, and apparently Court is busy, so now it’s just me and Trinity.”

“Is Bea okay?” Jinkx furrows her brows.

In miraculously the first major incident of a two-decade career, Bianca had gotten hurt in a pretty bad way a few years ago, in a match against Chad - she’d taken an awful landing off of a shooting-star press; tearing basically every possible ligament and shattering her kneecap. It put her on the shelf for nearly ten months, and any knee problems with her since tended to be a little touch-and-go.

Dela had elected to just not mention that Adore and Courtney were both refusing to come just in case the other showed face; Adore paranoid that Courtney was mad at her, and Courtney too embarrassed by the last couple of weeks to want to be around the other girls. Dela couldn’t deny that she was getting worried about Court; whenever she went MIA like this, Dela couldn’t help but assume the worst. She'd been trying pretty much daily to get ahold of her, to basically no avail, and she wasn't sure what she was going to do about any of it.

Bill had been told that not booking her wasn’t an option, so pulling her from two consecutive shows had pissed Dela off. Not that there was much point in her saying anything - her going up to bat for Courtney would make him more likely to keep screwing her over just out of spite, and probably get Dela herself booked into another dogshit public humiliation feud to boot.

She wasn’t even sure if Jinkx knew, or remembered, that Courtney had dropped the title. She wasn’t about to bring it up to her now.

“She’s fine - her physio checked her out, it’s just bruised and swollen, but she’s in the main event on Saturday so she’s trying to rest up.” Dela says. Jinkx nods, not saying much more. “Manila’s gonna be at the show by the way.”

Jinkx doesn’t respond. Her face twitches a little.

“Mateo’s off TV for a few weeks - they’re taking the kids to Disneyworld. She called me a couple of days ago to ask if we had space on the card for her,” Dela continues, trying to fill the silence.

Manila Luzon was a former two-time tag champ who had left a few years back. Her husband, a luchador who went by ‘El Idolo’, had been signed to a major televised promotion that ran out of Nashville, prompting their move and consequently her departure from Femme Fatale. She’d found her feet since - settling into motherhood with two young daughters, and she’d recently started doing the weekend warrior thing on the side after two years out; wrestling a few times a month for local indies. Dela was excited to see her.

“You guys always got along really well,” Dela starts. “Do you wanna-“

“Dela...” Jinkx purses her lips, averting Dela’s gaze and letting go of her hand. “That’s four days away - you can’t spring this stuff on me. If you’d told me sooner, I maybe could have…shit.” Jinkx trails off - overtaken with a twitchy, nervous energy. She puts her head in her hands.

Fuck.

Maybe a month before Manila had left, Raja - her long-term best friend and tag partner - had taken a horrifically botched buckle-bomb from Magnolia Crawford, which had essentially retired her; splitting her head open and giving her a massive concussion that she was still dealing with the aftershock of two years later. A pretty monumental detail that had somehow slipped Dela’s mind.

Jinkx had spent all night in the emergency room with her - and then when Manila’s move had been confirmed and she’d met up with Jinkx to ask to be released from her contract, they’d exchanged some pretty choice words over the fact that Magnolia not only still had a job, but was the current World Champion. She’d won the belt in the same match where she’d injured Raja, and getting it off of her had proven no mean feat, thanks to a barrage of threats to trash the promotion’s name, and the fact that nobody was willing to get in the ring with her. Jinkx had never really forgiven herself for any of it. How it had all ended for Raja; losing Manila under the circumstances they had; or the state of Courtney’s face after the match that eventually got Magnolia fired.

Getting in touch with Dela to ask about a match was the first that any of them had heard from Manila in nearly two years.

“I’m sorry,” Dela says, trying to keep her response to a minimum as she fidgets with her shirt. Jinkx doesn’t look mad - just upset. Dela would rather she was mad. That would be a little less heartbreaking.

Jinkx chews agitatedly at her bottom lip as she waves a waitress over to ask for the check. Dela is kicking herself internally. There’s tears in her eyes as she stands up to leave the cafe.

The car ride to the gym is horribly quiet.

*****

“Finally!”

Trinity shouts over the loud crash as she drops the weight bar, dusting away the grip chalk from her hands against her shorts and taking off her headphones.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Dela says through slightly gritted teeth as she closes the door to the gym behind her. She didn’t want to acknowledge the last twenty minutes of awful, stilted silence. Or that Jinkx had been outside, but didn’t have the mental energy to come talk to her.

Trinity wipes the sweat from her brow, picking up her water bottle and taking a drink. Dela sits down on the bench to get herself ready as Trinity catches her breath.

“It’s all good, baby,” Trinity says with a small smile, tightening her ponytail. There’s got to be nearly 300lbs loaded up onto that bar, Dela notices. Trinity’s level of athleticism frankly kind of scared her. “At least you showed up.”

Dela just nods. Her gym bag is barely-organized chaos, and she has to pull an empty energy gel wrapper out of her shoe. She lays out all of her stuff on the bench beside her - wrist wraps, belt, water, protein shake that makes her gag.

The temptation not to bother had been strong, but by the time she’d talked herself out of it, they were already at the gym. As usual, Dela was the one person not to bail - everyone else got to focus on whatever other crap they had going on, everyone else could take a break and fix their own lives, but not her. She showed up, she was reliable, she was there for other people, she was the shoulder to cry on. It was the only thing she had ever been certain she was good for.

“How’s your day going?” Dela asks as she kicks off the clean gym shoes she’d been wearing, changing them out for the wrecked black Converse she used for weight training. She desperately needs some kind of distraction from the noise and bullshit inside her own brain.

“Pretty good. I’ve been camped out here with my mom since ten. She had shit to do - I think she’s recording a podcast or something? - so she left like, twenty minutes ago. Which I’m not mad at, I get more work done when she’s not here.”

“You let your mom use the gym?” Dela says with wide eyes and a half-laugh.

“Oh, I don’t let her. Crazy old lady does not ask anybody for permission to do shit. She just decided it was happening - her words, ‘why pay for a gym membership when you have keys to a free one?’” Trinity laughs.

“Trinity, we have rules,” Dela says - trying to tell her off out of a sense of obligation, but struggling to keep a straight face. Faking being mad was hard.

Dela had idolized Latrice growing up - a multiple-time champion on GLOW, followed by a poorly-booked stint in WCW and subsequent retirement when she was around forty, thanks to an accumulation of back injuries and having four young kids. She was long-retired nowadays - Dela guessed she had to be in her early sixties - and made the bulk of her living on the convention circuit, doing autograph signings and occasional appearances at indie shows - something that had really picked up in the last few years thanks to a renewed interest in the promotion where she’d made her biggest mark. Dela had been a little starstruck when they first met; turning straight back into that excited six-year old who’d begged to stay up late on a Saturday night and sat glued to the TV watching her with awe.

“What? She doesn’t do much - spends five minutes on the elliptical and then sits around shit-talking people I don’t know and telling me my form sucks,” Trinity smiles with a roll of her eyes, re-chalking her hands and starting another round of reps.

Dela watches as Trinity blitzes through her deadlift set like it’s nothing - barely breaking a sweat. She’s controlled, face focused. Dela hasn’t even finished tying her shoes.

Dela thinks that training with Trinity is, in its own way, kind of relaxing. Bianca was a nightmare in the gym - far too competitive; by contrast, Adore was too laid-back, and tended to just stand around doing nothing until somebody - usually Bea - told her off. Courtney was fine, but she was never on time, and had a tendency to be a little preachy about the benefits of yoga and how caffeine was the devil; and being anywhere one-to-one with Pretty Dope felt like accidentally walking into a party that she hadn’t been invited to.

The occasional workouts she’d done with Bill back when Jinkx was still wrestling and they had been kind-of friends had been hell on earth - he lapsed into this embarrassing, hyper-masculine performance of asserting dominance over her, or whoever else they were with, usually to disastrous effect; always intent on lifting heavier, or finishing a set faster, than the other person. She had, in two separate incidents, watched him shit his pants and tear a quad as a result of feeling threatened and overdoing it.

Trinity was easy-going - focused, but not to a fault. Critical where she needed to be, but never for the sake of being mean; she knew her shit without being arrogant. Pro wrestlers are very seldom the chillest group of people to be around; even within the women’s scene, there was more bitchery and posturing than Dela really cared for. Trin didn’t give a shit, and it was refreshing. If people like her were the future of the industry, Dela figured it would be in good hands by the time she called it quits.

The weight bar crashes to the floor again.

“You wanna try it?” Trinity asks airily, taking another drink of water with one hand on her hip.

“I would die,” Dela says matter-of-factly.

“Pussy,” Trinity teases with a smile on her face, racking the bar up and removing the weights.

Dela stands up; bending at the waist and grabbing her calves, stretching her back out. She’d designated this session as leg day - they were her favorite part of her body to work, and the one that she defaulted to when she was feeling crappy about herself. Most of her strength had always been in her lower half, earning her the nickname ‘thunder-thighs’ as a teenager - that had specifically made her life hell when she’d still been doing pageants, the other girls barely bothering to conceal their giggles behind a hand during the swimsuit category. But said thighs were practically made of steel, and they had served her well in her wrestling career; she couldn’t bring herself to hate them that much.

She moves onto her quads, steadying herself on one foot and grabbing the other, pulling it upwards to stretch out the band of muscle at the front of her thigh. She feels an uncomfortable and irritatingly familiar twinge in her ankle. Figures. She wasn’t sure how much of it was in her head, but it always seemed to pick its moments - like when her mind was at odds with itself, the rest of her body felt the need to contribute something to her general suffering too. As she puts her foot down on the floor, the twinge becomes a steady, uncomfortable ache. Dela purses her lips, returning to her gym bag and rummaging around for her athletic tape.

“Fuck - that’s gnarly.”

Trinity is kneeling on the ground to scribble the details of her last set into her training log, and she grimaces as Dela slips her shoe over her heel and pulls her sock down, inadvertently showing off the six-inch scar to the side of her leg. She wasn’t wrong. Every wrestler Dela knew past a certain age had their one particular crappy master-stroke of an injury - Jinkx’s neck, Bianca’s knee, Raja’s head. That was hers; a nasty tib-fib break about twelve years ago that had never felt totally right since.

Funnily enough, it was Bill’s fault. Just like every other problem in her life. Back in the days before Femme Fatale, she and Jinkx had worked a mixed tag match against him, and some guy he’d met on the night, at a fairly high-profile show in Memphis. Their original opponents had bailed on the night - their car had broken down three hours away from the venue - and Jinkx and Dela had been supposed to wrestle each other. Dela had been more than okay with that prospect; they’d had enough matches together that they could call one on the fly in their sleep, and there was something about sex after a match when they’d been across from the ring from one another that was specifically really hot…

And then Bill stepped in and ruined everything. He’d been booked to lose to one of the promotion’s comedy jobbers in the curtain-jerker, so he’d jumped at the opportunity to be pushed up to the semi-main, grabbed the nearest guy to him in the locker room, and graciously volunteered to step in and fill the hole in the card

Once they got to the ring, the match had been clunky and unrehearsed - the crowd had popped off for her and Jinkx, seemingly because they were the only team with actual chemistry. Pissed off that they were getting all the attention and desperate to pull something impressive out of his arsenal, Bill had attempted to lift Dela up for a jackhammer, despite being told that the move was a bad idea. Dela was taller than him, and fairly bottom-heavy, two things that were already working against the potential success of the spot; they hadn’t had time to run it in training, and he wasn’t great at pulling it off at the best of times.

As predicted, he’d screwed it up in spectacular fashion, landing on top of her with her leg bent the wrong way under her. She remembered hearing something snap; the pain white-hot and immediate.

She really didn’t award him many points for ring awareness, given that his next move had been to put her in an ankle-lock - refusing to let up, despite the fact that she’d tapped out before he’d even cinched in the hold; apparently convinced that she was just selling. She didn’t think it had been malicious - he was just stupid. And a crappy wrestler. How he and Jinkx had been trained by the same people was beyond her - but it had no doubt made the injury worse. If he hadn’t done that, maybe she could have had a few weeks in a cast, rather than the titanium plate, six screws, and five months out of action she’d finished up with.

To this day he’d never really apologized. Jinkx had been incensed by the whole situation, and resolved that the two of them were finished. Dela had made her patch things up with him.

“I know, right?” Dela says through partly gritted teeth as she finishes taping up her leg “You’re looking at your future here, Trin - wrestling sucks.”

“Mm, sure,” Trinity says skeptically. Very recently twenty-three, and with all the promise in the world, she was still kind of in the ‘I’m going to live forever’ honeymoon period of her wrestling career.

She’d come from a general athletic background - varsity track and field, lacrosse, softball - which she’d been freakishly good at; six feet of insane strength and stamina. Latrice had started training her when she was still in high school. She’d worked her first match for Femme Fatale at eighteen - as soon as she legally could - and Jinkx had been umfathomably hot on hiring her as soon as possible; aware that she was going places, and intent on snapping her up in case those places got ahold of her before they did.

“Your turn - quit slacking,” Trinity says with a grin, nodding to the squat rack. Dela pulls a face.

She stands up somewhat reluctantly - resetting the squat rack to her height, loading up the barbell with an easy 150lbs. She feels like a robot as she goes through the motions; her head is floating six inches above the rest of her body, and her midsection feels hollow with guilt and worry. Trinity is half-watching her between glances at her phone. How soon is too soon to throw in the towel and go home?

Dela inhales deeply as she rises to a standing position, barbell behind her shoulders, and drops into a squat. When she pushes herself back up, her knees are already shaking - shit, her head really isn’t in this today. She tries to force her way through another couple of reps, but her body is reluctant to let that happen. Her hands are in a dumb position, and her feet are offset, and her ankle is killing her, and it doesn’t feel right. She bails on her fourth attempt, dropping the bar. Trinity jumps as it crashes against the floor

“Girl, come on. You can do better than that - and stop locking your knees.” Trinity says. Dela doesn’t respond, her hands covering her face as she tries to pull her thoughts together - her brain is making too much noise for her to concentrate. “Hey, are you okay?”

Dela doesn’t really have an answer for her. She pushes her hair out of her face, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I’m fine,” she eventually settles on. “Crappy morning - my focus really isn’t here.”

“I can tell,” Trin observes. Dela slumps down on the bench. Trinity flinches at the sound of ripping velcro as Dela tears her wrist wraps off, throwing them down on the floor and pressing her hands into her face. “Okay, fuck the workout for five minutes - talk to me.”

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” Dela shrugs, still agitatedly messing with her bangs. Her hair is at a fantastically annoying in-between stage where it’s too short to stay tied up, but long enough to be a pain in her ass. As much as she’d hated it, at least when it was shaved, it wasn't in the way. “I just…everything feels weird.”

Trinity sits down by her side. She smells like fresh sweat and Monster Energy - that weird sugar-free lemon one that Dela tries to force herself to like, even though it tastes like battery acid.

“Weird how?”

That was a big fucking question. Having to run a show with someone who was permanently at odds with her for no apparent reason and being the one to take the fall for all of his shortcomings; feeling like she was watching her life’s work take its dying breaths as the quality of shows deteriorated and more and more people quit, but not knowing what to do about it. Feeling permanently alone without Jinkx by her side in wrestling, and a different kind of alone at home where she was there at home, but notedly different. Knowing that Jinkx was suffering, but not knowing what to do about that either, and her every attempt seeming to make it worse. Feeling like a foreigner in her own body - a feeling she knew well, but still couldn’t stomach. Hating wrestling, hating dragging herself through matches without any kind of long-term goal - and yet in too deep to get out, with no exit in sight. But she couldn’t say all of that. Dela sighs.

“I don’t know. I just feel…I don’t know. Kind of over it.”

“‘Over’ what?”

“Wrestling. It’s just…I feel like it’s causing more stress than it’s worth. I’m struggling with my own matches - I don’t know how to be a singles wrestler. Nothing works, nothing’s fun - I don’t think I wanna do it anymore,” Dela says with a heavy sigh. It felt like the words had just fallen out of her mouth - no real thought behind them, but far too much truth for her linking.

“No - fuck that. You quit, I quit. And so do half of the roster, Dela. You’re the only person left that’s on our side.” Trinity shakes her head, clearly trying to shut down any level of doubt that Dela was expressing. All it’s really achieved is making her feel guilty - and a little selfish.

“I mean…” Dela stumbles over her words. Trinity’s response really caught her off-guard. “Look, this isn’t out of nowhere. Us winning the titles was meant to be our last big run before we started winding down. We were gonna retire when Jinkx turned forty.”

“Seriously?”

“Except we never got a title run, so we never got that. And now everything is such a goddamn mess, and I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going.” Dela says - anxiously fidgeting with the waist-tie of her shorts. “I’d already made my peace with being done within the next couple of years. But I still have goals, I still have shit I want to do. What I don’t have is the person I’d planned to do it with.”

“Shit, Dela.” Trinity breathes, putting a hand on Dela’s knee. “Is everything okay with you guys?”

“It’s as good as it’s been for the last year. She’s struggling - a lot.” Dela admits. She keeps chewing over their conversation in the restaurant in her head - agonizingly aware that it was entirely her fault, and mad at herself for somehow not having learned yet. “I’ve never done anything without her. I nearly quit last year, back when she had to retire. There's nothing left for me that’s possible without her.”

“Look, I get it. Well, I don’t, but like…Bill won’t book me for anything long-term. I don’t think he fucking likes me. And training, and showing up, and putting yourself through all that shit when you don’t know what it’s for sucks. So if it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here either.”

“I’m sorry,” Dela frowns. Trin is yet more collateral damage in this whole ridiculous situation, and she feels horrendously guilty about that too. This time last year, she’d been lined up for a world title run. “It’s bullshit, and believe me I’m trying my best to do more for you. You’re incredible in the ring - he’s wasting your talent.”

“I suck at cutting promos,” Trinity says, her voice deflated. “He keeps telling me that’s why - he says I talk like I’m stupid. I’m never gonna get anywhere - if I quit Femme Fatale, I’m done. Nowhere else is gonna hire me.”

Something about that really isn’t hitting Dela’s ear right, and the frustrating thing is how easily she can picture those words in his voice. She’d heard similar things during the conference call she’d had with Vixen and the other girls when they’d walked out; insulting their intelligence had been one of his personal favorite means of shitting on their self-esteem.

The rest of what she’d said was flat-out absurd - they’d been pretty solidly convinced that they wouldn’t even have Trin a few years from when they’d hired her. She knew that other promotions would be paying attention - Impact had shown a shit ton of interest in her after she’d debuted, and the only reason they hadn’t picked her up at the time was because she was only nineteen, therefore not allowed to compete on TV. She’d turned down an offer from World of Stardom two years ago; she hadn’t particularly wanted to move to Japan, and Latrice had agreed that a few more years of indie experience before jumping to TV would serve her well. If she walked out the door, she’d be guaranteed other offers - better offers, really.

“He’s talking out of his ass,” Dela says. “Trin, do you have any idea how hard we have to try to keep our hands on you? You being here is gonna be a footnote in your career one day - and your promos are fine. I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have to be nice - it’s true,” Trinity’s face falls. “I mean, shit - my mom offered to drop all of her convention stuff so she could be my manager. That’s how I know I fucking stink.”

“Sweetie, there are plenty of people who’ve been mega-stars that don’t do their own talking. There’s no shame in it.”

“I can do it on paper,” Trinity says, sharply defensive. “I know what to say, and how to say it - it just never goes right in front of people. I had a really fucking bad stutter when I was a kid - I got the shit bullied out of me for years. And every time I try to get on the mic, I freeze up. I’m right back there; I’m still that scared little girl getting laughed at cause she couldn’t get her words out right.” Trinity explains. She’s wringing her hands as she talks.

“I understand - it’s nerves, it happens. I could try and coach you a little? I was a manager for years, I used to write all of Jinkx’s promos - talking is my thing. If there’s anything you think I could help with, I’d be happy to.”

Trinity gives a slight nod, not seeming to have taken in much of what Dela just said. Dela can tell she’s thinking about something.

“Dela, I think I have an idea. You can say no if you want, I get it, but…” Trinity pauses for a second. “If you’re looking for a new tag partner, I’d be down.”

“Are you sure?” Dela raises her eyebrows; caught off-guard by the question and unsure how to feel about it. From where she was standing, it looked a lot like Trin voluntarily kneecapping herself. Dela can’t see herself being worth it. “I mean like, we work really different styles - I’m old enough to be your mom.”

“That doesn’t matter. We could be like, the Rock ‘n’ Sock Connection with better boobs.” Trinity says, a laugh playing about her voice.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Dela laughs, rolling her eyes. “Because it’s obvious that you’re The Rock in that analogy.”

“I’m serious, Dela - please,” Trinity looks at her, her gaze firm. “I know it’s been a minute since we last had a match together, but I like working with you. I don’t wanna see you quit, and I need a mouthpiece. It would help both of us out.”

Dela turns the offer over in her mind. The idea of a partnership between the two of them felt doomed to be a comedy deal. Trinity had nailed it with the Rock n’ Sock comparison - young megastar in the making meets chubby outcast, the brains and brawn in one while the other stood cheering at the sidelines. But they had been a brilliant team. Maybe she was selling Mick Foley a little short.

Dela had a lot more control over what she did and didn’t do in the ring than the other girls. Maybe Trinity wasn’t tying herself down with her, but securing herself an ally. She deserved better than the lot she was getting, that was for certain.

Dela nods quietly to herself.

“...Okay.”

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artificialqueens · 2 years

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❤️ Love Profusion, 2/2 (Adorney) - Veronica

A/N: Alllright, here’s the actual point of the fic, which is the protest section. I didn’t bother putting all the emojis into the header because it would get ridiculous: protest ❤️ (of course), as well as hurt/comfort 🧡, found family 🤎, joy 🙋‍♀️, and lust 🌸. (There are more if you stretch, but let’s not be greedy.) Thank you again to @artificialcandycane for being such a fantastic beta and cheerleader and all-around angel.

TW for discussion of the Pulse nightclub shooting, the 2016 election (and allusions to the asshole who won although his name isn’t mentioned).

Summary: When shit falls apart…we fight back.

***

She took way too much for granted. That’s clear now. Just a few weeks after her amazing weekend with Adore in Austin, the shooting at Pulse in Orlando sent shockwaves through their community, and mere hours later, a man was arrested who appeared to be planning a copycat attack in LA. Courtney still watched the parade, from the relative safety of Willam’s rooftop terrace, but it was a somber day. Nothing like the celebrations she’s used to. Nothing like what pride is supposed to be.

She thought that would be the worst of it, until November.

After the election, she felt positively numb. Even up until the last moment, she didn’t believe that it was really happening.

“Okay so…this is what the electoral college is for right?” she’d asked everyone all throughout last November, “I mean that’s what people who defend it always say. So they’re gonna do something, right? They’re gonna stop this? Because he’s obviously unfit for office. Anyone can see that. Right? Right?!”

Her American friends just sighed and shook their heads, already defeated. More tired than angry, like they’d already lost. It was infuriating, and made Courtney more and more depressed as the months wore on. Even worse was trying to explain the whole mess to friends and family back in Australia. They didn’t get it. It didn’t make fucking sense. And all Courtney could say was, “I know, I know.”

She didn’t attend the Women’s March in January. She wanted to; so many people she knew went. Even Adore, who was on tour, managed to drag her hungover ass to the one in Seattle. But Courtney was just so angry, to the point where she felt sick, and depressed, and she worried that it would infect the vibes of everyone around her—that it would take a day meant for solidarity and ruin it, make it all about her own anxiety.

Looking at the photos, she regretted her decision to stay home. It was huge, much bigger than she thought it would be: not just here, where they said it was the biggest protest in LA history, but all over the world. There’s so much support, so much love, so many people who are on their team. Adore FaceTimed her from Seattle, and for one day, at least, Courtney thought that things were looking positive. She almost felt like her old self again.

But then, within a week, everyone went back to their lives, and those hopeful feelings dissolved once again. She was back to square one, the miserable dullness that’s been pressing down on her since the night of the election.

So, at the beginning of February, she cancels her trip home for Mardi Gras. Tells Vanity that a work conflict has come up. Tells her parents sorry, but maybe she can rebook in a few months, and there’s always next Christmas. Would they even want to see her when she’s surrounded by such darkness? She’s not sure.

Vanity tries to convince her to make it work, excitedly sharing all about the show she’s in, the events that are planned, but Courtney can barely muster up the enthusiasm to listen.

“Yeah, sounds nice,” she says on the phone, after Vanity tells her that the Veronicas are going to be performing at the party.

“Wow, don’t get too excited,” Vanity laughs.

“I’m sorry. I think I just…I’m bummed I can’t come, so…” She doesn’t want to ruin Vanity’s mood. She knows that this mess isn’t her fault, and she has every right to enjoy Mardi Gras like she always has.

But for Courtney, this is the first year in her adult life that she can’t get excited for pride anywhere, even in Sydney. The rainbows themselves seem to have lost some of their color, some of their magic. But how can she say that, especially to Vanity? Why should her horrible frame of mind ruin anything for other people? So she keeps her mouth shut, for the most part.

Adore’s the only one who knows how she really feels. At night in bed, when there’s no hiding, no pretense, Adore holds her and lets her whisper all her fears into the darkness.

“I’m scared.”

“I know, baby…me too.”

“I’m…scared for you more than me,” she confesses, voice breaking.

“I know.”

She feels so guilty, all the time. Why hadn’t they worked harder when they could? Donated more money, made more calls? In her mind, it was preposterous to think that he had a shot—she truly didn’t take his campaign seriously until it was all over. And now, she knows, no matter what lip service he’s paying to allyship, that he’s full of shit. This is a hate movement. Queer people will be targets, without a question. She’s terrified of what’s coming, how long it is before Adore is in literal danger.

When she cries at night, Adore comforts her. She feels guilty about that, too. Adore shouldn’t have to make her feel better about this.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she can’t help sobbing.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay,” Adore soothes, pressing a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair. “I know you’d do the same—you have done the same.”

“But it’s not fair, you’re the one who-”

“Shh…” Adore rocks her. “How many times have you kissed away my little chillona tears?”

She can’t even laugh at that, instead curls into her, unable to fully rid herself of the guilt, but still warm in her arms. Safe in a way that she’s not sure she deserves.

***

A month later, the LA pride organizers announce that the parade this year will be a protest instead, with rallies bookending a march from Hollywood and Highland to Santa Monica and San Vicente. That spark of hope re-ignites in Courtney’s chest when she hears about it. No Bank of America floats or contingents of NBC employees this year, which would feel empty and hollow.

So, in spite of the generally oppressive atmosphere of the new presidential administration, she’s able to breathe a little bit, maybe even look forward to June. She brings it up at brunch with her friends, cautiously wondering if they feel the same way.

“Yeah, it’s great!” Jinkx enthuses. “I’ll be there for sure!”

“Awesome,” Courtney says, reaching out to squeeze their hand. She should have known to count on Jinkx—frankly, she’s a bit surprised that they’re simply planning to attend instead of volunteering. They’re by far the most politically active of all of them, sometimes making Courtney ashamed for not following the news closer—but never on purpose. “We should go as a group!”

“Fuck yeah,” Adore agrees, and Courtney snuggles closer into her side, feeling grateful for Adore’s unwavering stance for about the billionth time since November. “I’m in.”

“Pass,” Bianca deadpans, and Darienne chuckles, toasting her quietly. It’s disappointing, but not a shock. Bianca had been one of the first ones, early in the year, to announce that she’s ‘all out of energy for these dumb shit protests that do nothing, ever.’ She and Darienne often say that things are out of their hands, proclaiming that they’ll let the ‘youth’ handle this, talking as if they’re in their 80s instead of their 30s.

Courtney knows it’s just a joke, but it bothers her anyway. They can’t check out, not now. She’s starting to feel that usual helplessness once again, when Willam surprises her.

“I’ll come,” he announces, and Courtney’s eyes light up.

“Really?!”

“Yeah. Protest pics are all the rage on Grindr right now,” Willam explains.

“Well…okay, cool,” Courtney says with a chuckle. Honestly, whatever motivates him is fine with her.

“I’ll be there too,” Trinity adds, and Adore gives her a fist bump. “This is gonna be so much better than that shitty parade. We really need it, you know?”

Trinity is one of the most laid-back people Courtney’s ever met, but she’s still engaged and fired up, especially when it comes to queer issues. They could all learn something from her.

“Yeah, exactly!” Courtney says, and then nudges Adore with her elbow, gesturing to Bianca and Darienne and whispering, “Work your magic, babe.”

Adore turns to them both, mouth turned down in a pout, eyes big and glassy, and says, “Won’t you please come? For us?”

For all her big talk, Bianca cracks first. “Ugh, I’ll think about it,” she grouses, and Adore gives her a happy flutter of lashes as thanks. “But I’m not wearing one of those stupid pussy hats!”

“Well yeah, it’s June, we’re not gonna be in knitwear.”

“Aww, I love those hats,” Willam says.

Courtney leans back in her seat, happy that her friends are on the same page.

***

The morning of the protest is a little chilly, but Courtney’s dressed for the day, knowing the fog will burn off soon. The nerves she feels make it hard to joke with Jinkx when they arrive—even their joke about how she’s a “real lesbian now” in her cargo pants doesn’t make her giggle like it normally would. Even when Adore joins in, telling Jinkx not to make fun of her since she’s got granola bars in one of her many pockets.

“And sunscreen,” she reminds them both, handing over the tube as they wait on the sidewalk for their Uber.

“Awww, you’re the best mom,” Jinkx tells her, giving her a big hug.

She checks the group text a few times to make sure that the others are on their way, still planning to meet before the first rally. She knows that she can count on Trinity and Laganja, but worries that maybe Darienne or Bianca will back out, and Willam is always a question mark. As incentive, she’s invited the whole group back to their place after the second rally for a barbecue. (The bonus being that preparing all the food gave her something to do yesterday when she was stressing out, besides biting her nails down to the quick.)

She slides into the car with the signs, not really listening to Jinkx debating with their Lyft driver about whether to take Fountain or Sunset. (She’s fairly certain that the whole conversation is just an excuse for them to break out their infamous Bette Davis impression, anyway.)

As Courtney sits in the back seat, she can’t help thinking: this is pride weekend. It’s supposed to be a celebration. It’s supposed to be uplifting and joyful. So why does she feel so anxious, her stomach a tight knot. Adore seems to understand without her saying anything, and reaches over to lace their fingers together.

She really doesn’t know what to expect from today. Will it be a bunch of people like her, people who cry everytime they think about the number of people who had to actively hate them in order to vote the way they did? Will they be like Adore—angry and defiant, ready to defend their rights by any means necessary?

Will there be counter-protesters? Will there be violence? Her thoughts keep returning to Pulse, to that asshole with the stockpile of weapons they caught last year, and she grips Adore’s fingers tighter.

It turns out to be nothing like her fears. There are a couple of counter-protesters, for sure, the same ones who are always there at every pride, every Halloween, anytime anyone tries to have fun, and they’re corralled in a tiny area as usual, behind a heavy-duty barricade. She forgets all about them within minutes.

Plus, everyone is there. Bianca and Darienne even brought signs of their own: simple statements that make Courtney laugh because it’s so them. Bianca used the side of an Amazon box, painting a big red hand with the middle finger sticking up. Darienne’s is more elaborate, white decorated with hearts and rainbows, with colorful glittery letters spelling out: ‘If Hillary was president, we’d all be at brunch.’ Willam didn’t make a sign, but he looks incredible—decked out in drag, with a rainbow tinsel wig and skimpy outfit made of army fatigues. Courtney’s heart soars as the whole group of them heads towards the rally stage, practically skipping.

There are a bunch of great speakers, and as Courtney stands beside Adore listening to them, what strikes her most is the love that every one of them expresses. How every speech is about caring for one another, protecting one another, being a family. Standing in that crowd, hearing the cheers and applause, the laughter and defiance, the sheer energy of everyone around her, Courtney feels like she’s part of something truly special.

More than once, she has to wipe tears away with the back of her wrist. But unlike the tears she’s cried so many times in the last year, these aren’t tears of helpless fear or overwhelming sadness. These are tears of gratitude, for the beautiful, diverse crowd, the speakers, but mostly for her friends, who’ve shown up today because they care. And them caring, as simple as it is, feels like enough of a reason to have hope again.

When the march begins, she lifts up the picket sign they made last night: it’s pretty basic, given their limited artistic skills, just a black outline of a heart over a trans flag background. She and Adore agreed to share the responsibility of holding it up so their arms wouldn’t get tired.

“Pussies!” Bianca teases, playfully swatting her on the ass with her own sign, and all Courtney can do in response is grin.

The route they’re taking is longer than the parade, and one of the most surprising things to Courtney is how many people show their support along the way. Waving from windows, rooftops and stores, even along the sidewalk. She knows it’s not the most representative sample of America (hell, she already knew that, had been painfully aware of it since even before the election, but it’s still pretty fucking cool to see everyone calling out support, passing out water bottles, and working together to make this as exuberant as the parade would have been. It’s certainly not the party she’s used to, but it feels better, in some ways—more important.

Some people along the way actually join in, and maybe that’s the most thrilling thing of all. A young dark-haired man comes running down the steps of his building. He sees the sign in Courtney’s hands and gives her a shy smile, asking, “Mind if I join?”

“Sure!” Courtney says, noting the very small trans flag pin on the strap of his messenger bag.

“I wanted to come earlier, but I couldn’t convince my roommates and I was kind of freaked to go alone,” he admits.

“We’re really happy to have you here,” Courtney tells him, and the beaming smile he gives her in return makes her feel warm all over.

They scream themselves hoarse, chanting along with the crowd. By the time they reach the second rally in West Hollywood, Courtney’s voice is completely gone. (Podcasting this week will be a nightmare, but she doesn’t care.)

She wraps her hands around Adore’s arm and rests a head on her shoulder, only half paying attention to the speakers. Between standing around listening to so many speeches, the march, the relief of how beautiful the day has been, and the summer sun beating down on them, Courtney’s starting to feel rather sleepy.

She manages to get through it, though, and even be a pretty energetic host for their friends later (including their new friend, Kade, who they’ve all but adopted into the family). She’s standing in front of the grill, turning the Mexican street corn and veggie sausages when Adore comes up behind her, wrapping her arms around her.

“Hey babe…do you want some help?” Adore asks, pressing a kiss just behind her ear.

“Hmmm…I don’t know, do you think anyone wants their food burned?” Courtney asks, head tilted in mock befuddlement.

“Shut up!” Adore laughs, hugging her tighter.

Courtney giggles, relaxing into her embrace, sighing deeply.

“Pretty good day, huh?”

“A great day,” Courtney agrees, eyes closing as Adore’s mouth trails along her neck. Courtney breathes in deeply, enjoying the softness of her lips, holding off on turning around for as long as she can before spinning to face her, arms twining around her neck to pull her in for a long, searing kiss.

Adore wraps her arms tighter around Courtney’s waist, practically lifting her off the ground.

“Hey!” Bianca barks, interrupting with her usual perfect timing. “Can y’all please wait until we leave to fuck?”

“Chill out, B,” says Trinity. “Some of us like a show with our dinner.”

“Gonna have to agree with my angel here,” Kade giggles.

“Fucking gross,” Bianca grumbles, sitting down heavily in a lounge chair.

Courtney laughs and turns back to the grill, wielding her tongs like a weapon. Adore stays right where she is, arms around her, a cheek resting against her hair.

It’s a perfect moment, as Courtney looks around at all her friends, the people who’ve become her family here in LA. They drive her crazy sometimes, but she wouldn’t trade a single one of them.

Later, once everyone is gone, Courtney starts to clean up, gathering empty bowls and plates. She looks up to see that Adore is stretched out on a lounge chair, just grinning at her.

“You could help me, you know,” Courtney tells her, a hand on her hip, pretending to be annoyed, although her spirits are still too high to pull it off very convincingly.

“Mmm…I could,” Adore agrees. “Or, I could be a bad influence and tell you to leave it all for later.” She punctuates her statement with a charming grin, arms outstretched.

Courtney barely hesitates for two seconds before dropping everything and joining her, a smile pulling at her lips as she slides into the space beside her, tucked under her arm.

“What if the raccoons come back?” Courtney asks.

“So? Raccoons need to eat too.”

Courtney giggles, snuggling against her. Adore’s still in her protest clothes: cutoffs so worn that the denim has turned soft, and a black sleeveless top with ‘BORN IN THE U.S.A.’ emblazoned across the front. Courtney had changed once they got home, replacing her cargo pants with a light cotton sundress. Adore’s fingers find the hem, slipping underneath to trail up her thighs, and Courtney’s lashes flutter. It’s been a long, wonderful day, and once she’s truly relaxing, her limbs begin to feel heavy.

“You sleepy, babe?” Adore murmurs, lips trailing down her jaw.

“Mmhmm…”

“Too sleepy?” Adore asks, a familiar, sexy note in her voice that wakes Courtney right up, eyes wide as she grins, shaking her head. She is tired, but it doesn’t matter right now.

She reaches up languidly to play with Adore’s hair. Over the years, she’s gone through many color changes. At the moment, it’s a vibrant blue that makes her eyes look even more otherworldly-beautiful than usual. She tightens her hand into a fist, closing around the thick, silky strands, and bringing her face in close.

She can feel Adore’s hot breath on her face, sending a shiver through her before their lips meet. The night air is warm and fragrant, almost sticky with the fog rolling in, but that doesn’t stop Courtney from pulling Adore on top of her, from enjoying the weight of her pressing down.

“You’re so beautiful,” Courtney breathes into her mouth, and Adore lifts her head to gaze down at her, eyes soft and smiling. Her own eyes fall closed again as Adore’s mouth begins to travel down her neck, hands easing her dress up.

She arches up into her touch, hands buried in her hair as a tongue finds first one nipple, sucking it to a stiff point, then the other. She gasps with pleasure as Adore’s mouth continues down. By now, Courtney’s body is moving of its own accord, hips rolling, panties damp, whimpers getting caught in her throat.

Adore nibbles at her thighs, waiting until Courtney tugs impatiently at her hair before sliding her panties down her legs, spreading her thighs. A cool breeze blows, and Courtney shudders with pleasure, feeling it against every part of her wet pussy, now open and pulsing with anticipation, ready to be devoured. Adore blows gently, mimicking the breeze, watching her hips strain upwards. She brushes her lips every so gently against Courtney’s trembling skin, light as a whisper.

“Adore,” Courtney moans, hips jerking up once again, desperate for contact.

“Yes, my love?” Adore asks, voice feigning innocence, fingers trailing up and down her legs. Courtney lets out an indignant scoff and she laughs. “Wow, she’s impatient tonight.”

“Adore,” she repeats, this time even more pathetic, a whimpered plea.

Adore takes pity on her, pressing a hot, wet tongue up against her before swirling it in figure eights, around and around her clit.

“Oh, god,” Courtney moans. Between her utter exhaustion, the heady floral scent in the air, and Adore’s perfect, hot mouth, she finds herself falling apart quickly. She pinches at her own nipples to speed things along while Adore’s tongue works its magic.

“Baby, baby, baby…” Adore murmurs against her, as Courtney’s hips roll faster, grinding against her tongue.

Courtney moans again, a broken sound that their neighbors surely hear too—but whatever, it’s pride, after all, and in this moment, Courtney can’t bring herself to feel the slightest bit of shame or self-consciousness.

“Come on, baby,” Adore urges, now slipping a finger inside her, working her quickly while still sucking on her clit. “You got more in you, I know it.”

Courtney’s whole body shudders as the waves hit her, one after the other. She loses track of how many as she gasps for air, as her moans become whimpers. As Adore goes from biting and sucking to soft, warm kisses up her body.

She’s still gulping for oxygen when Adore’s lips meet hers once again, wrapping her into a protective embrace, stroking her back, slick with sweat. Courtney sighs against her, exhaling the entire contents of her lungs.

Adore chuckles softly, nuzzling her cheek. “Not how I thought today would end, but I couldn’t resist. Sorry.”

Courtney turns toward her with a grin. “I’m not complaining.”

Adore’s grin grows deeper, holding Courtney tighter.

“So, um…I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh oh,” Courtney teases, eyelids still heavy. “Hope you didn’t strain anything.”

“Shut up!” Adore laughs. “Do you want to know or not?”

“Yes please.” Courtney cuddles closer.

“So…I know things are pretty fucked here right now, and they’re probably gonna try and take away the few rights we have, but…uh, while we can, do you wanna like, get married?”

Courtney’s eyes pop open and she stares at Adore, mouth agape, to see if she’s serious. She’s met with a sheepish smile, eyes gazing down shyly. She certainly looks sincere, but even so, it’s hard for Courtney to believe.

“Do you mean it?”

“Well…I mean…it would be a really cool political statement, doncha think?” Adore asks, mouth twisting into a wry smirk.

“Hmm…well, yeah, now that you mention it...” Courtney bites her lip.

“Plus, you know…I love you so fucking much…”

“Me too,” Courtney says, throwing her arms around Adore’s shoulders and pulling her close.

“So like…is that a yes?” Adore asks, and Courtney takes her face in both of her hands to look straight into her clear blue eyes.

“It’s a fuck yes,” Courtney tells her, both of them grinning like idiots before going in for a long, deep kiss. It’s not as heated and passionate as they were mere minutes earlier, but somehow it’s even better now.

Courtney has always loved pride. She loves the parties, the color, the parades and the fun. She loves celebrating with a community, the reminder that they’re not alone. She loves being part of something bigger than herself, making an impact, pushing the world towards justice and equality. She loves being seen and heard, lending her voice and spirit to something that matters—and she especially loves that soon, she’ll be able to share all of it with her incredible wife.

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