Hi there! My name is Kayleigh, but most call me Kay. I write fanfiction and drabbles for mostly AEW and Impact Wrestling, with a heavy emphasis usually on original character interaction. I am open for requests that I feel comfortable for, depending on the character and the universe! Feel free to ask if I write a character if requesting pieces!
MASTERLISTS:
26 Days of Author's Birthday (Complete)
Kinktober 2024 Masterlist (Incomplete)
Whumptober 2024 Masterlist (Incomplete)
Fluffvember 2024 Masterlist (Complete)
12 Days of Christmas 2024 Masterlist (Complete)
Whumpuary 2025 Masterlist (Incomplete)
Fluffbruary 2025 Masterlist (Complete)
I do have a list that I will not write for that includes:
Jimmy Havoc
Jack Sexsmith
David Starr
Sammy Guevara
Joey Ryan
Michael Elgin
Dave Crist
Marty Scurll
Jay Lethal
Jack Gallagher
Jordan Devlin/JD McDonagh
Matt Riddle
El Ligero
Velveteen Dream
Saraya
Austin Theory
Blair Davenport
Brian Pillman Jr
Chase Owens
Kimber Lee
Logan Paul
Logan Stunt
Nia Jax
Rhonda Rousey
Teddy Hart
Tessa Blanchard
Travis Banks
Never in her life did Kelani Johnson think that she would be booked on the sort of independent show where a man would take a straight razor to another's head, but here she sat with her back against a back hallway wall and her knees pulled all the way up to her chest honey brown eyes wide as she watched in abject horror as the shiny metal blade dug straight into the flesh of Matt Tremont. This wasn't the sort of career that Kelani had always imagined that she would have once she started her career in the world of professional wrestling. It was in her last name, after all. Her father had never stepped through the ropes of a company like this, and a part of Kelani had never imagined she would be making these first few steps. She wasn't as strong as her cousin Jacob, nor was she as willing to commit such strong acts of violence. Kelani was only herself, and right now?
Right now, as she watched the straight razor of Otis Cogar carve into the flesh of Matt Tremont, Kelani Johnson felt as if she should have never accepted the only booking she had been offered during WrestleMania weekend.
Kelani scrubbed her hands over her round face, trying not to feel as if she were going to gag. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. She was too soft and squishy for a company like Game Changer Wrestling. Part of her wondered why she had even told her childhood best friend, GCW stalwart Wyatt Foley, yes when he asked if she wanted to take part in a match. Wyatt had promised it was a comedy match, something called The Clusterfuck. The opening match made her seriously doubt what would happen during the course of the supposed comedy match she had agreed to.
"Lani, can I get a few words about…woah…you don't look so good…"
Kelani didn't need to pull her hands away from her face where her palms were pressed so tightly against the area around his eyes that she felt that her honey brown orbs would be pushed violently all the way back into the very back parts of her skull. That voice belonged to Brandon Cutler, her Brandon, as he hid behind the camera that he almost always held in his hands during a show so that he could get the most perfect shots for Being the Elite. It was the preferred shield of her perfect Ser Galahad, a Galahad that she currently wanted to strangle on camera for the BTE fans to enjoy, "I wanna go home…"
"Oh, babe," Brandon sat down on the floor of the hallway with her, his knees pulled up to his chest in a position that mirrored Kelani's. He sat the handheld camera down across from the duo gingerly, Kelani knowing that he hadn't bothered to turn it off before doing so. His thin lips turned into a deep frown, almost hidden in his beard, "You know we can't go home. What's really going on?"
"Did you know if we left the arena and got in the rental car right now, we could be in Anaheim in four hours?" Kelani questioned, meeting Brandon's question with one of her own. Plump hands pulled at one of her thick black curls in an almost nervous way. "If we go now. Right now. Can we please go right now?"
"Nervous, huh?" Brandon reached a hand over to stop her from tugging his hand at her curls, "Not use to being in places like this?"
"Did you not see what happened!?" Kelani sounded exasperated, gesturing towards the curtain with the ring laying just down the steps and short ramp, "That man cut into that other man's head! There were light tubes and barbed wire and…and…"
"And it's a death match, Kelani," Brandon attempted to reassure his partner, one of his hands laying calmly on her upper back, pressing a gentle kiss against her temple. "Those two are supposed to be beating the hell out of each other. Tremont and Cogar can't stand each other. You're not gonna have to worry about it."
There was a moment as Kelani sniffled, trying to get her emotions under control. Even if she wasn't going to be sliced up or cut or maimed by people like the two mad men in the ring, there was still fear pressing against the lowest chambers of her too soft bleeding heart. "Wh…what if they don't like me?"
Brandon shook his head, looking at her with such warmth in his soft eyes, "Whatever could you mean by that? Who could hate you?"
"You know why they'd hate me," Kelani protested with a dramatic sigh, though she leaned into Brandon's side. "I'm a 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏. My dad has been one of the biggest targets in professional wrestling over the last few years, rightfully so. What if…you know what they could chant at me…"
For a long moment, there was a heavy silence between the two. Brandon knew all too well what Kelani was afraid to hear every single time that she headed down to the ring, as if the very words from the audience could break her down into nothing. The words 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒆 had haunted the Johnson family since before Kelani had been born, when her father had been the same sort of bright eyed and bushy tailed face that Kelani found herself as now. Brandon had only ever heard the audiences boo Kelani during one part of her career, when she had joined the Jericho Appreciation Society, but even then they had never gone as far as to chant those three awful words at her. "Babe…I don't think…"
"And what if they do?" Kelani pushed again, brow furrowed in frustration.
"Well…" Brandon thought about it for a moment, "if they want to be awful to you? You give them a reason to be. If they wanna make you into the villain, show them a villain! Beat all of their indie darlings really good."
Kelani looked up at Brandon through thick, long lashes; adoration in her own eyes as Brandon rubbed small circles against her back over the top of her black sports bra like top that was meant to pair with her red shorts to make her look like Mickey Mouse. "I dunno what I'd do without you here with me."
Brandon shook his head almost sheepishly, "Oh, it's not…"
"No, no," Kelani tutted in an effort to admonish Brandon, "you have to take credit for who you are if I have to treat myself with more confidence."
"You know what, fair! That's fair!" Brandon laughed as he picked up the camera, turning its lens to focus only on a shot of Kelani, who had pushed herself into a standing position. Large hands were placed on either side of her hips in an imitation of the typical Wonder Woman power stance, "Now! Kelani Johnson, what do you have to say?! How are we feeling before our GCW debut?"
Kelani beamed at Brandon, wrapping her arms around his neck, face close up to the camera, "All this for content, camera man? Cold. Real cold."
Brandon laughed, shaking his head, "For content, Lani? Nah, I wouldn't do that to you. This is to make you feel as good as you should. One push is all it takes."
Whispers in the hallways mocked Lillie Cueto as she made her way through the winding halls of the Louis Armstrong Stadium. The loss wasn't supposed to happen. It 𝑠𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 have happened. Of all the people that Lillie Cueto had found herself managing over the years, from Adam Cole to Sammy Guevara, the only person Lillie had ever truly believed to be the greatest was Kris Statlander. Seeing the AEW Women's Champion losing on her home turf in New York against a woman so much more inferior like a manager had not been something that Lillie truly wanted to see on the schedule, even if there was a part of her that knew why it had to happen. Kris was supposed to be infallible, strong enough to throw her talents at any opponent. Losing was never meant to happen with her. That was why the whispers followed Lillie from her office to the private locker room that her beloveds used.
The locker room that revealed itself to be in shambles as Lillie pushed over the door told the young woman everything that she needed to know.
The floor length mirror near the door for the private bathroom had been shattered, the reflective shards littering the carpeted floor underneath in a mess that would be a nightmare for janitorial to clean. Their surface only made the flickering fluorescent lights above reflect even more, their low thrum sounding over the otherwise quiet room. One of the rooms benches had been turned over, denting the nearby lockers from the sheer force of whatever- or whoever- had thrown it in their anger. In the center of the chaos, her head in between her forearms as her hands clenched deep in her hair, elbows resting on her knees that had been drawn up to her chest, was Kris Statlander. Her makeup was streaked, the steel blue face paint she had decorated underneath her eyes mixing with the blood-like tears that her kind produced down her cheeks. Her dark lipstick was smudged over her mouth, past the corners of her lips. Lillie could practically feel the rage radiating from her partner, from the woman she loved so dearly.
Lillie smoothed out the skirt of the black dress she wore, kneeling on the floor across from where Kris was having her mental break. One of her hands reached out to take a gentle hold of Kris' arm in an effort to calm her down, "Love…please…"
Kris withdrew from Lillie's grasp as if the fingers on her arm burned her, scooting backward on the carpet until her fingers and palm were splayed in the shards of glass. Lillie recognized the pattern on Kris' knuckles as how the mirror had gotten broken, a shard still lodged in the cut on her knuckles. The skin around the cuts hadn't begun the healing process yet, letting Lillie know that Kris would need to feed to close up the wound. Kris' eyes seemed full of rage, but there was also a hint of fear just beneath the surface, "I lost…"
"I know," Lillie pursed her lips, folding her hands in her lap. Her honey brown eyes didn't break from Kris, referring to look away, "To a flying elbow. Commentary called it the Heartseeker."
Kris downcast her eyes, as if locking eyes with Lillie would bring something to light that she wasn't able to reveal, "I know. I know I could hear them."
Lillie attempted to reach another hand out to Kris, slowly, to try and see if Kris would react just as negatively as before, "You could hear commentary from where you-"
"Heightened senses," Kris reminded Lillie, letting the other woman place her hand on Kris' leg, "I could hear every word they said about me, about that match."
"Your power is growing," Lillie remarked, scooting closer to Kirs until the woman's knees were pressed up against her own chest, "Extraordinary, really."
"I 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡, Lillie," Kris ran the back of her hand across her cheeks, "I lost to a manager. Why aren't you angrier about this?"
That was a very loaded answer. How was she supposed to tell Kris that the loss was what Lillie had been told to plan on? Kris losing was going to lead to the scorched earth for the rest of the industry that had been foreseen by those with more power than she held. Kris losing would lead the woman's champion to becoming the woman that would bring herself so much more fame than anyone could ever imagine. At least that was what Lillie had been told by the expert she had hired to assess the situation. So, on one hand, the reason Lillie wasn't angry about the loss was the fact that the lass was simply necessary.
On the other…
"Because I love you," Lillie gave a simple shrug, a soft smile across her lips. The hand that didn't rest on Kris' leg reacted up to push a strand of Kris' dark hair from her face, fingers trailing along her jaw, "That doesn't change if you win or lose. I love you, mi hermosa estrella."
Kris pressed her cheek, cold as ice, against the warm skin of Lillie's tanned hand. There was a comfort in the skin to skin contact, in the nearness of one another. "I could have won. I 𝑠𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 have won. If I can't beat that twerp then how do I…Devin is worse. You know Devin is worse."
Lillie did indeed know that Devin Heraldry was capable of far worse than Tori Thompson would have ever been able to even begin to fathom. For starters, Devin possessed the same supernatural abilities that Kris did, perhaps even more severe since Devin was her sire. On top of that, Devin was an established death match wrestler. He would always be able to withstand Kris' onslaught far more than Tori should have been able to. With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Lillie gave a shake of her head, "I know. I know. But we don't have to worry about that, si? That's a problem for a later date. Right now, we sit. We wait. We regroup."
"We?"
There was an air of heartbreak to Kris' voice, as if she were seeking some sort of reassurance. Lillie rubbed her thumb across Kris' cheek, "We. Always."
Kris drew in what was a mockery of a breath, pressing a kiss to Lillie's palm before she pushed herself to her feet. She didn't wince or flinch as the palm that was pressed hard into the glass shards created a crunching noise, even as Lillie watched a few more of the shards dig into her skin. Kris glanced down at her palm, brow furrowing as if she were trying to decide how she should feel. Her eyes glanced around the room, taking in the destruction she had wrought to their private room, "I…I did this?"
"Never seen anyone create quite a miss," Lillie clicked her tongue as she pushed herself into a standing position, hands on her hips as she surveyed the room, "Janitorial will need a few extra payments for sure."
"Nova and Cass are-"
"Fine," Lillie cut her off with a small nod, "She's walking Cass to the ring for his fight with Gargano tonight. By the time they come back with that title, we'll be ready to go back to the suite."
Kris stretched her fingers out without so much as a wince, even as the very act of stretching created a loud popping sound, "Glass needs removing."
"I don't know if my hands are steady enough tonight," Lillie admitted as she moved to wrap an arm around Kris' waist, "but we can get you to Charlie. For all her faults, she is both adept and discreet. We need her given…everything."
Charlotte James, the head of the medical department, might have been firmly against both Kris and Lillie give her ties to the coward Kris once called a friend in Will Ospreay, but she was the only professional who understood the complexities of what Kris was, "And then?"
"I'm not entirely sure about you, but I'm famished and need to 𝑒𝑎𝑡," Lillie hope that Kris would understand the implications of her statement, "We can get nice and cozy in my office, enjoy a nice meal together."
"Together?" Kris reiterated, one of her hands squeezing one of Lillie's.
"Together," Lillie pressed a gentle kiss to Kris' temple, "After all, there is no me without you."
Cancelled. It wasn't a song that Tori Thompson would have ever seen herself come to the ring to before that moment. It wasn't that she wasn't a fan of Angel Michaels, on the contrary, Tori loved the music of the pop star. It still floored Tori that she actually got to work with the woman on a regular basis. But cancelled? The only sort of cancelling that Tori could have ever seen herself at the center of was by the right-wing who didn't like her social "politics" as an out and proud lesbian woman. But this match with Kris Statlander? The woman who had ruined the life of her fiancé, Carmen Evergreen?
Tori was willing to become the villain in their eyes.
With a gentle smile, Tori let out a deeply held breath as she headed to the ring where Kris Statlander already stood waiting for her. This wasn't her forte. The in-ring side of the business wasn't her forte at all. She had done some training, sure, but she preferred to stay on the sidelines while Turbo and Truth showed their prowess in the ring. 𝑇𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑡𝘩. She would have felt so much better if either one were able to come to the ring with her in the biggest match of her career, but Kris had made sure that the two were banned. The smirk on Kris' lips, her too sharp teeth glistening in the arena light, showed she knew just how scared Tori truly was.
"Last change to back down," Kris sneered as she stood in the center of the ring, toe-to-toe, "I'll even let you lose by count-out. Turn tail and run, Tori. Last. Chance."
Tori was ashamed to say that, for a split second, she considered doing just that. She considered turning around, leaving Kris to stand in the center of the ring by herself. That was until she caught sight of the little girl sitting in the front row with her parents. It was the hot pink leather jacket which mirrored the one that Tori had handed to the referee. It was the OutRunners shirt that she wore, the smiling faces of her friends urging her on. The real deciding factor to Tori deciding to stay was the look of hope in that little girl's eyes. She wanted to Tori to stay, to win, to fight.
"Never," Tori defied, "I've got to take you out."
The hard forearm that crashed against her face was answer enough for her to know exactly how Kris felt about her. Tori knew that even this was Kris only at half of her strength. It was a way for Kris to show Tori that if she kept going on, she would have to face more and more strength. Tori fell to the mat, rolling out of the way as Kris attempted to drop a hard knee on where her chest had once been. Tori pushed herself to her feet, rage boiling in her eyes. This was how Kris wanted to play? Fine, just fine. Tori knew she could play this game, too. Tori spun, catching Kris in the face with the sharp point of her elbow. Had it been a normal opponent she were fighting, Tori knew that errant shot with her elbow would have brought forth blood from a broken nose. The fact that she had heard a crunch should have been proof. Yet all Kris did in reply was reach a hand up, setting her nose back into place with a sharp tug.
Tori knew in that moment she wouldn't give up.
It seemed that every strike Tori dished out to Kris, Kris seemingly had an answer for. Every time Tori tried to gain any momentum, Kris was right there to stop it. Pain wracked Tori's body as every strike Kris delivered packed more and more force behind it. Kris was doing her best to make sure Tori paid for the crime of standing up to her, of daring to question anything that Kris and Lillie had implemented as of late. Yet it seemed that every downing strike Kris delivered, Tori would pick herself up and come at Kris with more determination, with more precision. Every pin attempt from Kris that Tori would find herself kicking out of, even if it was just barely, seemed to infuriate Kris that much more.
And still, Tori refused to give up.
The match had hit the halfway mark, Tori leaning against the turnbuckle as Kris crouched in the corner opposite of her. Tori exploded from the corner just as Kris did, ducking quickly under the lariat that Kris slung her way. Before Kris could turn to face her, Tori had spun to face Kris first. She landed a hard double dropkick, Kris speaking to the mat in the center of the ring. Tori scrambled into the corner and up the turnbuckle as her head began to swim. This was for Turbo and Truth, who had stood by her since the early days. This was for Dalton Castle, her newest friend who didn't deserve to be a target of someone he was considered a friend. Most importantly, though? Most importantly, this was for her Carmen, the first target of Kris Statlander and her friends.
Tori jumped from the top rope, the flying elbow from the top rope hitting Kris directly in the solar plexus of the chest. Had the woman with her back on the mat been human, Tori was certain that it would have taken her breath away. That didn't matter. That didn't matter in the moment as Tori hooked Kris' leg, the referee's hand hitting the mat once, twice…
On the third hit, the hit that secured the win, the crowd erupted into a mass of cheers. it has been a long time coming, another domino falling against the dynasty, that Statlander had been holding for herself. Tori was quick to stand, surprise across her face as referee Bryce Remsberg lifted her hand in victory. Arms wrapped around her from behind, startling Tori until she glanced over her shoulder to see Carmen, her Carmen, resting her head on Tori's shoulder. Love enveloped her, success enveloped her.
"I know you could beat her!" Carmen practically crowed, her embrace tightening as she spun Tori to glance at her. Carmen pressed her lips to Tori's, resting their foreheads together proudly, "Look at you now."
"All thanks to you," Tori beamed back, "All because of you."
The tone in the arena was somber as the theme of Noah Angle, Daughtrey's "Stuff of Legends", echoed over the arena's loudspeakers. It had been over a month since Noah had been seen by the AEW faithful after a very scary spot in which he had been dropped on his neck by the man who would take his AEW Unified Championship, Bridon Nova. Since then rumors had swirled about the severity of the injury, only spurred on by the reveal that a doctor's appointment had led to a sudden revelation by the second-generation superstar. Judging by the tan suit he wore, by the look on both his and tag team partner Ethan Page's face, the news seemed to be something that neither man wanted to share.
Ethan held open the ring ropes for Noah to enter, a ring tech handing the suited man a microphone as he looked out over the crowd. Tears seemed to be not too far away from the steel blue eyes of Philadelphia's native son as he brought the microphone up to his lips, "I made my debut in this city, ya know? Philadelphia is my home, and has been the place I am proud to call my home. So I thought it would only be fair for Philadelphia to be the place where I make this announcement."
The crowd seemed to stall as, without the announcement of their theme music, Matt and Nick Jackson made their way to the ring. It was, of course, due to the fact that Nick and Noah were in-laws, Matt simply there to support his family. Nick squeezed Noah's shoulder in support of his friend. He nodded for Noah to continue speaking, lips pursed together in his sadness. Noah cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over the back of his bald head. "I haven't been here in AEW for very long, and a lot of the time I was…well…it wasn't up to my level of competition. It wasn't that of a world champion. It wasn't even close. I thought I…I thought I had more time. I guess we always want to be remembered for the good we've done. So, I'll leave you with this. My name is Noah Angle and I…I want to be remembered as one of the world's best tag team wrestlers."
With the microphone in hand, Noah whipped around to slam the electronic device square into the head of Nick Jackson. Matt stood there, stunned for a moment as Noah continued to rain blows down on Nick, before stepping forward to try and do something. Ethan was just as quick, however, and took Matt to the ground with a lariat before wrapping his forearm around Matt's throat to stop him from moving. Matt fell to a knee, the energy fading from him as he was powerless to help his brother from the shocking betrayal. Nolee Angle had been halfway down the ramp, on her way to stop the out of nowhere assault from her brother and one of her partners against the other partner and his brother, before McKenna Fleming had caught her around the waist from behind her, hoisting Nolee's feet off of the floor to stop her from making the save.
Noah bent to the mat, grabbing Nick's championship from around his waist as he stood side-by-side with Ethan, the message clear that The North had officially reunited.
Rory Cullen had done a lot of bad things during his long in-ring career. There was a reason he had earned the nickname of the Last Irish Bastard. From hitting people with the shillelagh he often carried to the ring with him to those he consistently double-crossed in order to get the things he wanted, Rory was no stranger to the dirty deeds that often made the world of professional wrestling work. Never before had he been unable to look at the smirking reflection in the mirror. Hell, he was usually vain enough that looking in the mirror came to him naturally whenever provided with a reflective surface. Since becoming a member of the upper brass in a company, however, the man who grinned back at Rory was not one that the Irishman recognized at all these days.
The reflection that stared Rory Cullen in the mirror was starting to look more and more like the corporate side of the industry every time he glanced at it.
A pudgy hand reached up to loosen the black tie around his neck, feeling more like a noose around the meat of his throat. Taking the role of a mentor to some of the younger in-ring talents, of the elder statesman who helped the bookers and the owners connect with the talent, had softened something inside of him. Gone were the days of death matches, blood covered faces and tasting the copper from a knocked out tooth. This Rory, if not booked for a show, still arrived on time dressed in a suit with his hair pulled out of his face. Rory 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 this version of who he had become.
"Bloody bastards cannae even follow the most basic instructions," Rory muttered to himself as he tossed the black silk tie on the beige carpet of the motel room he had booked for the evening, the heavy door slamming behind him. Rory sat on the edge of the bed, slumping forward with his elbows on his black slack covered knees and his face in his hands. The sound of the hotel shower running alerted Rory to the fact that one of his partners had already made it back to the room before the end of the show. The only partner of his that was even in the area was a man who had been part of the show tonight, lucky enough to escape after the show itself and not be kept busy long after.
Rory bent over to start untying his shoes, pulling at the green laces to his black boots. It was one of the few ways he felt like the man he had been since his teenage years, a young punk clinging to a community. In the beginning, before he had even come to the States to start wrestling or before he had started wrestling at all, the punk scene had been what made him feel connected. Then had come the wrestling training, the hard work and sacrifice he had put in just to become a version of himself that he couldn't see anymore. And then had come-
"They finally let you go free, huh?" came the playful voice of Rory's other half, the man who had been Rory's best friend since he had arrived in the states, the man who he had fallen head over heels for the closer they got, Wyatt Foley.
Rory let out a chuckle as he slipped his combat boots off, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands. A small smile took his lips as he watched Wyatt. Water still dripped from his shoulder-length hair, cascading down his scar dappled torso. The scars were how men like Wyatt, like Rory, carried rank amongst their peers in the death match scene. Each scar told a story, and only some of the stories Wyatt bore across his body were by Rory's own hand. "I got time off for good behavior, actually," Rory gave a playful wink.
"Good behavior? You?" Wyatt scoffed as he plopped down on the bed next to Rory, lacing his fingers behind his head as it rested on the pillow, "Try that with someone who doesn't know you."
"I'm bloody honest, Wyatt," Rory got off of the bed, turning so that his partner could read his lips as he slid the black suit jacket he wore off, tossing it on the opposite bed. "I think we may have given Lauderdale too much trouble when we ran in GCDub."
Wyatt let out a sharp bark of a laugh, "Well now I really don't believe you're my Rory! Feeling bad? For Lauderdale? What the hell has gotten into you?"
"Listen, Wy, I just-"
"You just nothing, Rory," Wyatt scoffed, no longer feeling as if this was a joke. He sat up, brow furrowed as he looked Rory over. The Irishman didn't like the intensity of his partners gaze, hot under the collar of the white button-up he didn't particularly want to wear. It was a look that made his skin crawl, casting his gaze away from Wyatt's own, "You got soft is what it is."
Rory's eyes shot up to meet that gaze, his ice blue eyes narrowing, "Scuse me?"
"I 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, Rory Cullen," Wyatt started as he got up from the bed, standing toe-to-toe with his partner, "that you got soft. The moment you put on that suit, you lost your spine. You. Got. Soft."
Rory felt the anger building in him with every jab from Wyatt's bony finger into the flesh of his chest just over his heart, "Bother me tomorrow. Today I'll lay no sorrows."
"You gonna become a suit, Ror?" Wyatt continued to press, an almost cruel upturn to his lips, "Step out of the ring for good? Get all gussied up to bend over for-"
Rory felt his hand dart out, taking an almost too tight hold of Wyatt's lower jaw with his hand. His fingers pressed on either side of Wyatt's face, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to keep him in place. "Dinnae talk to me like that, Wyatt. I'm not going tae let ya talk tae me like that, ya brat. Now. I'm going tae let ya go. You're going to apologize. Understand? Nod yer head if ya understand."
Wyatt's eyes were wide with shock as he nodded his head, swallowing hard when Rory let go of his face. There was a moment of silence, before a grin took Wyatt's lips and he poked Rory once more in the chest, "You're getting a little defensive for it not to be true. Accent is thickening up and everything!"
Rory let out a growl, pulling Wyatt in and taking him down to the hotel bed with a little pop of the mattress. He straddled Wyatt's hips, hands placed on either side of Wyatt's head. As much as he wanted to be angry, there was something about the shit-eating grin on Wyatt's face and the mischief in his eyes that reminded Rory exactly why he loved the man whose hands had come u to rest on either side of his button-up. With a quick pull, Wyatt popped the buttons on the shirt to reveal the soft swell of Rory's torso. Wyatt knew who he was, there was no hesitation with who he could be. Rory loved that about his Wyatt. "You're a damned brat, Wy. A damned brat."
"Ah, but I'm your brat, Rory Cullen," Wyatt leaned up to peck Rory on the lips quickly, "Just like you're mine."
The rising sun crested over the hill, its heat creating a mist from the dew-soaked evergreens that rose into a gray sky with rolling dark clouds. The air seemed to crackle with the storm about to come, causing the thick hair on Floyd Bunyan's arms to almost stand on end as he trudged along the walking path ahead of him. It was a tense feeling, as if something big was coming that Floyd couldn't quite explain as anything other than a storm. Physically, mentally, there would be a storm.
His storm had struck last night in the form of Matt Tremont.
Floyd tried not to wince as he pushed his way through the underbrush, the deep cut on his shoulder from the GCW show the night before stinging as the rough wood brushed by. Tremont. Matt 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 Tremont. The bald-headed brute of a brawler had been a constant thorn in his side since Floyd had first come to GCW as a too-tall and too-thin fifteen-year-old with a lie to start his career far younger than he should have been. In retrospect, Floyd knew that Tremont had only tried to stop Floyd from wrestling that first night since he had wanted to make his debut. Matt Tremont wasn't a bad man, not really, but with his effort to protect what he had seen as child had stopped Floyd until he was much older.
Last night had been a more violent way to oppose Floyd.
The GCW Ultraviolent Championship Tremont had recaptured during WrestleMania weekend at the closing show of GCW's Collective, The Immortal Clusterfuck, was the target Floyd had kept his eyes on since before Otis Cogar had managed to win it from Matt Tremont in the first place. It would have proven that all of the hard work that he had put in was worth it, all fifteen years of it. Last night had been the first time that Floyd had actually challenged for it, and if the pain in his body was any sign than it was a match the fans would remember for a long time. Floyd could only recall bits and pieces, as if the very loss had broken some rage filled thing in his mind. The jagged teeth of the broken light tube biting hard into the skin of his shoulder after i had been broken over the top of his head. The feeling of barbed wire wrapped around his throat and pulled taut. The memories of the match came with the marks that he could observe, the scars that his body would bare for the months to follow if not for the rest of his life.
"Son of a bitch has always been ruining my life," hissed Floyd as he found himself at the overlook he had been making his way towards. The dirt path widened at the end into what appeared to be nothing more than a small dirt field. A few picnic tables were scattered around the area, inviting any families who had made the trek along the path. The field ended in what looked like a drop-off, protecting the children of said families from falling with only a wooden section of rotting railing. Floyd sat the black rucksack on his back onto the top of one of the tables, sitting with his back to the table and his eyes on the spanse of forest past the railing.
A rustling sound from the wood line where he had come from wasn't surprising enough to catch his attention and cause him to turn around. He had been followed. Floyd 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 he was being followed, from the moment he had stepped out of the cab of his cherry red pickup truck. It didn't bother him none. The trail was a public one, anyone was able to traverse it. And if there had been any threat? Well, there was a reason Floyd had chosen the nickname of the Beast of Bray Road.
No one knew the forests of Elkhorn, Wisconsin quite as well as he did.
What was to his surprise, a familiar woman sat herself down on the bench beside him. There was no…oh what had he heard it called backstage…cadaver paint? Corpse paint? Whatever the tem, the feminine form usually painted with shades of red and black was devoid of any of those trademarks, though Floyd was not the kind of masculine where he thought she wore no makeup at all. The hue of the lips that were pressed into a tight smirk, a purple so deep it nearly turned black, was contrary to some, not a natural hue to be found. Deep brown eyes shaded with mystery watched Floyd, though he had not glanced over to watch her yet.
"Tremont, hm?" the woman's voice seemed thick with amusement, though it was not joy. Floyd wondered if witches could even feel joy. It was a voice, a tone, that simply marveled at the very nature of things, as if life and all its veritable wonders were just within her grasp and yet she tired of it all.
Floyd drummed his fingers along the metal water bottle in his hand, unscrewing the cap to take a long drink from its ice cool contents, "Little late for you, ain't it, Lavinia? I thought witches were gone by sunrise."
"Jokes, Redwood?" Lavinia arched a perfectly trimmed eyebrow, lips pursed, "I would have never imagined you were the judgmental type."
"Judgmental? Me?" Floyd faked surprised at her own accusation, "Why, I would never, Vin. I'm just surprised you trudged through the woods like…that."
With a noncommittal wave of his hand, Floyd gestured to the outfit that Lavinia wore. Fishnets that would snag on the underbrush. Heeled boots so high they almost made Lavinia as tall as Floyd. A black corset of a top that provided no protection from the elements. Those weren't parts of an outfit that any experienced or knowledgeable hiker would find themselves in, and yet…
"I followed you just fine, didn't I, Redwood?" Lavinia chuckled, leaning forward as if to mock him.
A silence fell over the two for just a moment, the sun now spreading its beams over the landscape. Floyd rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes never leaving the trees ahead of him. It wasn't uncomfortable, the twittering of birds echoing their call over the forest. He winced at the stinging feeling in his shoulder, doing his best to hide the pained wince from his companion. "You got a lot of secrets, Vin."
"I'm not the one hiding my pain," Lavinia was yet again quick to retort.
He ducked his head, grumbling to himself, "Nothin' gets past you."
"Tremont, yes?" Lavinia stood, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the hardwood of the table. One of her black painted nails found its way under the collar of his white t-shirt, pulling it away from the skin to take a look at the spot where he had been bandaged to protect the injury from infection. "When was the last time you changed that bandage?"
"This morning," Floyd grunted as the front collar of his shirt pressed against his Adam's Apple, "Why do you care?"
The pressure against his throat lessened as she let go of the shirt, moving to sit on the edge of the picnic table next to him, "You know, I had my own match last night. Shotzi Blackheart."
There was obvious disdain in her voice for that name, and Floyd couldn't blame her. Shotzi was a thorn in more than just her feminine side. Had it not been for Shotzi, Floyd felt he could have managed a win at this years Immortal Clusterfuck. His eyes traveled up Lavinia's legs, noting a few bruises against the pale skin, "Looks like you got off relatively easy. You fine?"
"Physically? Yes. Mentally? Mentally I am 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 of facing off against challenges alone when, all this while, we could have been working together to get rid of both problems," Lavinia started the pitch that Floyd should have known was coming, "Shotzi and Tremont already have a partnership, yes? Why not-"
"I don't do the whole team thing very well," Floyd tried to brush her off, shaking his head, "I don't think you and me would co-exist well."
"Witches and cryptids go hand-in-hand," Lavinia pressed to make her point, "Aren't you tired of hurting? Of losing? Two heads are better than one, yes?"
"Two heads is one more head to look out for," Floyd protested, the heat rising in his face, "I look out for me. I do the best for me. I'm just fine."
"Just fine isn't thriving. Just fine isn't becoming the Ultraviolent Champion," Lavinia mused, "isn't that the championship you've worked your entire career for?"
"You know damn well it is, Vin," Floyd scoffed, pushing himself away from the picnic table and grabbing his rucksack, "I think we're done here."
"You've been trying, Floyd, and you have gotten nowhere," Lavinia called after his massive frame as the Wisconsin native made his way towards the wooded path. When Floyd stopped moving, weight-shifting heavily from one foot than to the other, Lavinia knew that she had gotten through to the man she thought of as her own personal redwood tree. "You're tired, Floyd. I'm tired. You'll never get anywhere. Not without my help."
He spun, bushy eyebrow raised in his own amusement, "Let me guess. You'd be just fine without me?"
"As much as I hate to admit it, this witch needs a cryptid to help her come out victorious," Lavinia admitted, a true smile coming to her lips, "Let's show the world what we can truly do."
pair of scrubs. Patrick had always chalked it up to Evan's job away from the ring. After all, as a surgeon Evan was almost always on call. It made the connection that Patrick and Evan shared, though their methods varied in how to satiate their predilections, easier to lay claim to. The blue fabric seemed to cling to Evan, his scrubs clinging to him as if it were a second skin.
"You don't plan on going anywhere tonight, do you Patrick?" Evan questioned, his eyebrow raised in a questioning manner.
"My dear doctor, we are going to enjoy some Vegas nightlife," Patrick tutted, his short nails raking over Evan's cheek as if he were a dog. "I intend to eat a nice, juicy, bloody steak and I intend to share the night with you. Come now. Get changed into something better. Something higher class. I had a new suit made for you, hanging in the closet."
"Patrick. This is not up for debate," Evan's voice was thick with warning, his gaze narrowing as he glanced at Patrick. It seemed that the two were at an impasse, until Patrick attempted to push past Evan. Something in the doctor seemed to snap as he took a firm grasp of Patrick's forearm, wrenching it behind his back and using that grip to press Patrick face first into the large hotel room bed. Evan perched on Patrick's back, leaning forward to press all of his body weight against his lover.
"𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙢𝙚," Patrick hissed as he tried to thrash away from the other man, "I mean it, Evan. 𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙢𝙚."
"You are going to listen to me," Evan hissed in Patrick's ear, knee pressing tight into the small of the New Jersey native's back. "Now I am going to let go of you, and 𝒚𝒐𝒖 are going to be a model patient."
The pressure against Patrick's body was lessened as Evan let go of his grip, whipping around to grab his medical bag from the nearby table. Patrick scrambled up the comforter, pushing himself onto his back and watching Evan with narrowed and untrustworthy eyes. He gritted his teeth, nails diffing hard into the meat of his palm. "How 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 you! We may be compatriots, Evan, but do not mistake my fondness for you as complacency. All men bleed, dear doctor. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 at least you should know."
Evan ruffled through his medical bag as if he had never heard Patrick in the first place, removing a container of sterile thread and a sterile needle from it's contents. Slowly, calmly, he made his way to the side of the bed where he had slept just the night before in Patrick's warm embrace. He produced a new pair of gloves from the pocket of his blue scrubs pants, removing the first pair before putting them on quickly as he could. As if a switch had been pulled inside of his brain, Evan's right hand darted out to press itself against the wound on Patrick's cheek. The tips of his fingers wriggled deep into the wound, slipping underneath the flap of skin that needed to be sewed back in place. Pain shot across Patrick's face, blinding his sight in its intensity. From the heat of his cheek to the coolness of Patrick's chin where the heel of Evan's gloved palm rested, Evan's hand held Patrick's face firmly into position where he needed to be. "I told you to be a 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕," Evan hissed angrily, a quiet rage beneath his eyes as he positioned himself onto the bed, one knee on Patrick's chest and the other at his side, "Does this behavior seem like that of a 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕?"
A gurgle of pain left Patrick on a strangled cry, tears leaking from his eyes as he tried to struggle away from the ferocious grasp on his cheek. Ragged breaths tore from his chest as he tried to form sentences through the pain, the sound tearing through the otherwise silent hotel room, muffled cries underneath the latex, "Doctor…"
"Does that hurt, Patrick?" Evan mused, a squelching sound emitting as he wiggled his fingers even deeper into the wound. "You know, the good ones never wait. I should have expected you to be a poor patient. I don't particularly like poor patients."
With another disgusting squelch, Evan pulled his bloody fingers out of the wound on the face of the man he loved. There was a cruel, but triumphant gleam in his soft gray eyes. With his clean hand, Evan reached into the opposite pocket of his scrubs pants and produced two alcohol wipes. He used the first to wipe his own fingers off, cleaning the blood from them. The second was torn open with Evan's teeth, before he took a tender hold of the cloth to dab at the torn flesh, eliciting another cry of pain from Patrick as his cheek began to burn. It was a cleansing pain, necessary for the next step of securing the wound. There was no numbing agent, no cream, as the needle plunged into the flesh of his cheek, pulling taught to press itself into place. The needle pierced itself into the pale flesh again and again and 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, Evan seemingly taking a sick pride in how each press of the needle flitted in and out.
For the first time, a new emotion wormed its way into Patrick's mind. It wasn't pain. No, no, Patrick was used to the feeling of pain. In his brain, pain equated to pleasure. The line between the two was so very thin that each sensation crossed the line and blurred into the other. For the first time, as Evan pressed his knee into the center of his chest, Patrick felt real and true fear. It was thrilling, exhilarating to know he was capable of such a feeling.
With one final tug, Evan finished the stitches on Patrick's cheek. He pulled the thread tight, and instead of cutting it with a pair of scissors, bit it short enough for his liking. A free hand stroked the back of his fingers down Patrick's uninjured cheek, smirking down at his captive partner, "That's much better, isn't it? Now no one could ever harm you in the way that I did."
Patrick blinked back the final remnants of tears that had formed with every piercing stab through the flesh of his cheek, the rest of his face still covered in the blood of Noelle Webb. Torn between two choices, Patrick did the one thing that felt most natural. Patrick pushed himself into a sitting position, his hands darting out to either side of Evan's face. His thumbs dug into the upper part of the cheekbones, just underneath the orbital socket. Forcefully, fiercely, Patrick used that grip to pull Evan's face close to his own, crushing his lips against those of the man who had driven such animalistic fear into parts of him that he didn't even know existed. It was a craving, a base urge Patrick didn't know how to contain.
"You evoke something in me," Patrick murmured breathlessly, "the closest emotion I have ever felt to true love."
The cracking of bone grating against the metal of his pliers made Cal Finlay's upper lip curl upwards in disgust. After all his time working with bones for his art, Cal thought he would have grown used to the sounds that came along with it. Pliers moving against teeth wasn't even a new sound, he was used to working with teeth specifically. A remnant of the last time that he had done so still hung around his neck, a coyote tooth bleached white and wrapped in wire at the very end hanging from a thin black leather strap. It was supposed to be a symbol of brotherhood, matching the similar ones that his former tag team partners wore around their own necks and pulled from the same skull that he had meticulously claimed as his own.
Cal wasn't sure that brotherhood existed anymore.
Before Cal could contain the surge of anger that rose in him at the thought of being abandoned by the men who had once stood by his side, the plies clamped too tightly around the base of the tooth, and with a sickening snap it splintered under the force of his squeeze. Cal cursed under his breath, slamming the plies down on the wooden desk his art supplies currently sat on. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Nothing was supposed to be fractured like this. Not the tooth he was trying to extract. Not the team that he had made his name alongside for years. Everything was supposed to stay in one place. The tooth was supposed to stay in the firm grasp of the pliers so he could pull it. David and Leon and Clark were supposed to stay with him in Japan as the War Dogs.
His chest heaved with every angry breath he took, rage clouding his mind as he shoved his art supplies off of the desk and clear to the other side of the room. The skull crashed into the paint splattered wall, splintering in in so many pieces that Cal knew from just one look that it was unsalvageable. Cal knew he would have to replace it with another. Thankfully deer skulls were easy enough to come by. More importantly, Cal knew he would have to investigate his red toolbox of supplies, its metallic contents scattered all over the beige carpet. Clark had always referred to it as his Dexter Morgan box, a reference that had always made Cal just a little uneasy, especially after his mess with a man who was the closest that Cal had ever known to be the real thing had called Cal a like-minded friend. Cal didn't like to hurt people. He would never like to hurt people like that. He knelt down on the carpet, wincing when one of his bare knees landed on a screw from the now empty box.
"Cal? Everything alright in here?" came a cautious feminine voice from the doorway behind him, and Cal couldn't help the sigh that left his chest. He had been working in silence for so long that he had forgotten his partner was home, having been sequestered in the room that both members of the partnership affectionately called The Workshop.
Cal stood, the indent of the screw still against his leg. His eyes were clouded over with his anger, only deepening the russet brown orbs until they were almost black. His voice was tinged with his anger, his hurt, but not deeply enough that the 𝖔 𝖙 𝖍 𝖊 𝖗 had come out to play, "They weren't supposed to change. Things weren't supposed to change."
"Oh, Cal…" Delaney Cullen spoke softly as she crossed into the room, her hardened golden-brown eyes boring a hole into his soul. Delaney had stayed. Delaney had stayed when the rest of the team had left. Cal's eyes traveled to the low neckline of her top, not to catch a glimpse of something he shouldn't but to calm himself with a glance at the coyote tooth she still wore around her neck. "Did you hurt yourself? Your knee…"
"What?" he raised an eyebrow before glancing down at his knee, "That? I'm…I'm fine…"
There wasn't much of a difference in height, Cal certainly didn't have to crane his neck back and his head upward to look at Delaney, but the woman was taller and as she crossed into the room, the difference was noticeable. She wrapped her long arms around Cal's broad shoulders, resting her forehead against his, "We both know this isn't about whatever went wrong with your work, right?"
Cal's breath left him with a shudder, "I…I said I'm fine…"
"And I know you better than that," Delaney pressed a quick kiss to Cal's forehead, "Now. Why don't you tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"
Cal blinked back the hot, angry tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes, sharing a breath with Delaney, "They left. You'll leave too."
"Oh, Cally boy," she tutted with a click of her tongue, "we both know that's not the case. I promise you that."
Cal shook his head and pulled away, turning his back to her as he knelt to clean up some more of the rubber gripped tools from where they had landed on the floor. "David promised nothing would change either. David promised that nothing would change when he left the company. Even gave me the title of the new leader of the War Dogs. What good did that do?"
Delaney lowered herself next to Cal, hands resting on her cream-colored thighs as her black cloth shorts rode slightly up her thighs, "David's always been a right tosser. He might have been a leader, but he was a shit one. You're worth more than he ever was."
Cal ran a hand through his short black hair, finger running against his scalp, "And Clark? Leon?"
"Leon still texts you every day, doesn't he? Clark might be a little wishy-washy, but he tries," Delaney tried to calm her lover down, even if she wasn't sure that he was entirely wrong.
"It…it is what it is…" Cal tried to sound less hurt than he truly felt, "I don't need nobody else…"
Delaney gave a playful pout as she gently elbowed Cal in the side, "Don't need nobody else? Are you sure about that?"
Cal turned his head to glance at Delaney, his darkened gaze lightening slightly as he turned his attention towards the tooth that hung around her swan-like neck. It was the symbol of just how much he had trusted Delaney as a stablemate in the beginning, but their relationship had grown so much since Cal had been a shy tagalong who listened to David for every bit of advice in how to live his life. The rest of the War Dogs might have followed David to the other side of the world, but a part of Cal had started to believe that maybe was worth so much more. Delaney had helped him through so much.
He reached a hand out in front of him at the same time as Delaney to grasp at the broken skull, her nimble fingers pressed against the back of his head. Cal leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, "I need you, Del. I'm always going to need you."
Whispers had started from the moment Jackson Flint had appeared in the ring with the black skull and bones flag wrapped around his broad shoulders. He couldn't exactly blame them. The Progress faithful had not seen hide nor hare of the Bardsey native since he had willingly cost his partners in the Sunshine Machine, Chuck Mambo and TK Cooper, the Progress Tag Team Championships. There had been no matches in other promotions after Jackson had hit TK with a hard boot to the New Zealand native's jaw, no exact explanation of why. Just a terrible betrayal of a man who Jackson, despite everything, still loved.
That didn't mean the whispers weren't heard, pressing on the inside of Bardsey Bay's favorite son like a massive weight.
"Oi! Wait up!" came a voice from just over Jackson's shoulder as he reached for the handle to the heavy door that led from the arena to the world that was waiting outside. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵. He had almost made it to the freedom of a starlit sky and the inky blackness of shadows until that voice stopped him dead in his tracks. Jackson's hand dropped from the handle of the door, sea blue eyes closing for a moment before he slowly turned around to see the one person whose opinions did still matter.
"Chucky," Jackson let out a breath as he turned to glance at the Sunshine half of the Sunshine Machine. Seeing the blonde again was like the first plunge into ice cold water, a sting he couldn't take spreading like a chill through his bones. Chuck looked good. Chuck always looked good. HIs once short hair was starting to grow back out, the dirty blonde hair pulled into a small ponytail on top of his head, save for a few loose strands near his angular face. The dark hazel eyes that were usually full of mirth and excitement looked softened, sad almost. The two stood across from each other, at least five feet apart as the rest of the world seemed to slow around them. "It's been a minute."
"Gods…" Chuck sounded breathless, as if he had sprinted to catch up with his partner, "…you're so handsome."
Jackson couldn't help but let out a snort, "That all you think about?"
Chuck's nose scrunched up as his mouth deepened into a frown, "Of course not…"
The hustle and bustle of backstage was what filled Jackson's head as he searched for the words to tell Chuck exactly how he felt, thoughts drifting to how he had felt on that otherwise warm August morning. Seven months. Seven long months since the day Jackson had woken up to their home on Bardsey island empty save for his own soul. No Chuck. No TK. There was no one save for the quiet sobbing of his own breath and the crashing of waves on the dock outside. The sadness built in his chest until it had turned into a rage with as many fathoms as his beloved sea. His sea blue eyes swirled like the tempests, black boots hitting the ground with as much force as the tides against the shores as he crossed closer to his partner. "Not one word. Not one word since I woke up to the fact you left Bardsey with 𝘏𝘐𝘔."
"Jackson…" the blonde was unflinching as Jackson stood close enough to feel Chuck's warm breath on his face. Chuck wasn't afraid of his beloved, though there was a gentle look of remorse sitting in those deep hazel eyes. "You're right, I did. I've barely spoken to either of you."
"Lies, Mams?" Jackson's gaze flashed, lip upturning into an angry snarl. He knew better. He had seen Chuck and TK's work together in RevPro, which proved that Chuck had indeed been lying about whose side in the conversation he had taken. "That what we telling now?"
Chuck didn't seem to look any more upset than before, reaching a hand up to place in on Jackson's chest, "I haven't…"
Jackson stepped backwards, shaking his head. One hand ran through his reddish brown hair, which had been pulled into a tight top knot, trying to keep his anger pressed down. "You chose a side, Mams."
"I didn't choose a side!" Chuck protested with a shout, dropping his hand back to his side. The hurt was palpable in his eyes, and no matter how badly Jackson wanted to reach out to comfort the man he loved, he abstained.
"You left with him!" Jackson shouted just as loudly. He knew TK Cooper had to be around and, selfishly, a part of him wanted the other man to know what was being said. He wanted that confrontation.
"I left on my own," Chuck tried to stand up for himself before a rueful gaze took his eyes and he turned his line of sight to his feet, "The fact that he left had nothing to do with me."
"You. Left."
There was a silence between the two, before Chuck glanced back at Jackson, "How did it feel?"
Jackson felt like the entirety of the backstage area was closing in around him. In all of his anger it had never occurred to Jackson that the anger and the hurt that he currently felt was the same anger and hurt Chuck must have felt the day that he woke up to their empty London flat all those years ago when Jackson had abandoned Chuck for the bright lights of the biggest wrestling company in the world. There was a sadness welling up in the back of his head, hands shaking as he hoarsely accused, "You did this on bloody purpose."
Chuck's hand came up to cup Jackson's bearded cheek, "I did this because I can't take the two most important people in my life fighting over me like I'm a doll in the toy box."
Jackson felt the flesh of his cheek press tighter against Chuck's hand almost subconsciously, "This feeling is tearing me up, Mams. I can't…we can't keep doing this…"
"Shh, shh," Chuck whispered as he pulled Jackson in close, wrapping his arms fully around his partners body, "I got ya, Jacksy. We got each other, Jacksy."
"Will we? At the end of all of this, will I still have ya?" Jackson murmured against the cotton tie-dye shirt Chuck wore, "Or will this all turn sour with you and I over Teeks? I can't do this…"
"We'll figure it out, Jackson," Chuck promised yet again, pressing a kiss to the top of Jackson's head, "It'll all turn out right in the end."
The sun felt warmer than it had any right to feel against the skin of Jeremiah James as he adjusted the thick-rimmed metal glasses sitting on the end of his nose, pushing them back up his face. The sun shouldn't have shone so brightly on a day like today. The box of personal items that once sat on the desk in his office now sat on the black coffee table in his apartment, almost mocking him with its presence. There had been no mistaking what would happen the moment Kris Statlander and her flunkies had even a modicum of power behind the scenes that Jeremiah would lose the one thing he had been good at in this world. He had just never expected that day to actually come.
"Get out of your head, Jeremiah," the former general manager of Collision whispered to himself as he sat down in front of the bay window in his home away from home, a small farmhouse that some would call a cottage that served as a private place where he could do his painting. He wasn't very talented at it, but that had never mattered much. It was something he could do to take his mind off of the world when it all seemed to get to be too much. In front of him sat the easel he had brought specifically for the day he woke up to the less than kind text revealing that he would be looking for a new place of employment.
Kris hadn't disappointed when sending the middle finger emoji and the 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑠𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 text, even if her partner Lillie who had taken official control had been more professional in tone when sending the email that guaranteed the change in power dynamics.
The brush in his hand, it's bristles dipped in a cadmium yellow to reflect the petals of the sunflowers against the large wooden window, its face turned toward the sun and the large field that led up the driveway before it turned into woods did not have a particular weight to it that his soul did not already feel. The sunflower had always been his favorite flower. Warm. Radiant. Hopeful. It was that hope that led Jeremiah to hold on now, the hope that he would be able to land on his feet with an independent company. Maybe he could return to GCW as an announcer, either in-ring or at the commentary desk. Either way, it would be just as well, so he turned his own face to the driveway just in time to see a black SUV pull down the gravel path.
Jeremiah was quick to stand, resting his brush against the wooden tray that held his paints and the glass cup of water he used to clean his brushes. He wasn't expecting visitors. In fact, as far as he knew, no one else was even aware of the place. A sickening thought spread throughout his head and then down into chest, making it feel as if a hand had wrapped its fingers tightly around his heart. Could it be Kris or one of her cronies? It wouldn't be against type for the end of his story to come in a violent way at her hand. His cold gray eyes glanced quickly around the room for something to use as a weapon. His hand darted out for the blue handle of his double-ended scraping tool, one of its ends coming into a very fine point while the other curved into a sort of hook, as he watched the car door open up. It wouldn't do much damage should it come to down to a fight, but then again, Jeremiah knew he wasn't much of a fighter in the first place.
The moment a warm, bearded, familiar figure made it down the pebbled pathway that led to the front door, Jeremiah forced his hand to let go of the pointed painting tool.
The curiosity was still there as Jeremiah quickly crossed the dark wood flooring to the pale green door, opening it up just as his former co-worker was about to knock on the door. Jeremiah couldn't suppress the smile that crossed his lips from ear to ear. Atticus Malone had always been a welcome and very handsome sight for sore eyes. It wasn't a typical handsomeness, certainly not of the male model variety. Be it the chestnut brown hair always pulled into a top knot, even after the warrior's loss to his former teammate, or the sea green eyes that held a stoic sort of knowledge, there was a classic and woodsy air to the handsome elder statesman of the business. Even now as he stood leaned against the door frame, Atticus seemed to be completely in his element in a home he had never been to.
"Your Helianthus Annus are gorgeous."
"What are you doing here?"
The two statements came out at the same time, two differing tones for the leading conversation. It wasn't that Jeremiah wasn't glad to see Atticus. No, on the contrary, Jeremiah had missed the man terribly. It was a massive growth of character from the days where Jeremiah had viewed Atticus as a rival simply because they ran two different brands. One of Atticus' calloused hands came up to rub at the back of his neck, "I guess I should explain myself, huh?"
"It would be a start," Jeremiah pressed his lips together tightly.
"Do you wanna come out here or do you want me to come in there?" Atticus asked gently, as if he wasn't sure Jeremiah was going to extend the invite. When Jeremiah didn't immediately answer, Atticus gave an assuring smile and leaned further into the doorway in order to provide Jeremiah with the evidence he was too afraid to ask for. "It's just such a nice day out here. Thought you might wanna come on out."
Jeremiah nodded enthusiastically, stepping through the door to stand on the stone step, "How'd you find this place?"
Atticus smiled, his fingers reaching out to touch one of the petals of the nearest sunflower with a tender reverence that Jeremiah had never seen anyone regard a flower with. Atticus' attention was fully on the plant, even as he answered, "I think we both know."
It felt foolish to even ask in that moment, and Jeremiah felt his face grown hot with a blush. Jeremiah was fully aware of what Atticus could do, the dreams of things that were to come and memories of things that had not happened yet playing in the legends mind. The answer to the first question was that Atticus had seen the little cottage that Jeremiah used as a home away from home in one of those moments. That, of course, raised other questions about what exactly Atticus had seen. It was an answer that Jeremiah wasn't entirely sure that he wanted.
Jeremiah closed the door behind him, sitting on the stone step and leaning against his legs, "How many offers have you gotten from other companies?"
"About as many as you, I imagine," Atticus claimed as he turned towards the stone step. Jeremiah expected the man to sit on the step next to him, legs pressing gently against legs. Instead, Atticus sat on the dirt path in front of Jeremiah, the front of his black combat boots touching the front of Jeremiah's black tennis shoes. It was a charming statement to act as if he was as in demand as Atticus, and Jeremiah couldn't help the scoffing laugh that left his lips, "You disagree?"
"All the things you've done in this business, and you think I'm even a quarter of a fraction as talented as you?" Jeremiah shook his head, "Atticus, you're gonna get so many more offers than I am."
"And yet the inbox remains empty," Atticus shrugged as if it were a simple answer, "I acted like such a prick for so long that it looks like it burnt me."
Jeremiah drew in a slow, breath, trying to get out of his own head. If Atticus Malone, a multi-time champion in numerous promotions around the globe, wasn't getting offers than what hope did he have when only one company other than the one he had just left had ever been interested? "I wasn't ready to leave AEW yet, but I knew it was coming. Well, I knew it was a possibility that it was coming. I planned it out for weeks now, but it's finally sinking in."
"A change is coming," Atticus spoke, his voice sounding farther away than it should as he sat directly across from the stone steps. Though their eyes met, Atticus was not looking at Jeremiah. Not truly. It was as if his gaze was somewhere else, boring a hole directly into Jeremiah's very soul. "The time is coming. Kris will meet hers."
"Atticus are…are you good?" Jeremiah waved a hand in front of Atticus' unblinking gaze, "Earth to Atti?"
It took another moment, another beat, before the haunted look in Atticus' eyes was replaced with slight confusing in a shuddering breath. He glanced at Jeremiah, brow furrowed either in thought or confusion. The question that left his lips made Jeremiah realize it was both, "Where…how…"
Jeremiah didn't want Atticus to worry, instinctually leaning forward and taking his hand, "You came to give me some advice on my sunflowers. Something about anuses?"
Atticus let out a little laught, though he pinched the bridge of his nose, "Annus, Jeremiah. Annus. You got any other flowers than these?"
Jeremiah squeezed his hand, standing and pulling Atticus up to his own feet as well. They stood pressed close together, Jeremiah's other hand pressed to the chest of the man who seemed to have driven out to his cottage on a whim of a vision, "I have an entire garden, and we have plenty of time on our hands. Maybe you can show me exactly how to bring it to life."
Nolee Angle knew as she pushed her way past the mass of people wanting to wish her well and check in on how she was that she looked like a mess. It was par for the course after wrestling even the most basic of matches. No one, man or woman, came back from a match looking their best. The blonde hair that she sleeked back into a high and tight ponytail had been pulled from its elastic halfway through her very first world title match, curling the way it always did in the heat and humidity of action. That was to say nothing of the state of her makeup. The black streaks down her cheeks weren't from war paint, no, that was the mascara running down her cheeks from the tears that had spilled from her eyes the moment a pair of dual superkicks had hit her now throbbing jaw.
The sting of her chin didn't hurt near as badly as the sting of who had delivered those superkicks.
Nolee's shoulders squared back as she stood outside of the door to the private locker room where her things had been stored at the beginning of the show. It was her locker room. It was supposed to be 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 locker room. The past few months had been filled with locker rooms like these, quiet rooms away from the rest of the roster who didn't particularly care for the interlopers who had brought themselves into the company. It was always nicer than Nolee believed she had any right to occupy with champagne on ice and any snack the group could have wanted. At the time it was everything she could have wanted backstage, comfort coming with camaraderie. Now? Now it stood as a palace of rot and hedonism to remind her of everything she had lost.
She drew in a long breath to try and calm herself before pounding her fist against the door to the locker room, "I need my bag! Open the door!"
The sounds of people talking, however muffled, were heard on the other side of the door and Nolee could only imagine the conversation going on behind the polished wood. The Impact Champion, a man not even on the Impact roster, was behind that door celebrating and gloating with his co-conspirators. Had she won, it would have been a smile on her face and the Impact World Championship slung over her shoulder. She could practically smell the fresh champagne, though she would never imbibe in the alcohol herself. The championship had been something that she wanted for so, so long. It had been presented to her as a championship that her father held in his own legacy, a lofty goal that she had always dreamed big of. The only problem had been dreaming too big, wanting too much to have the acclaim and the glory that came along with the championship reign. The champion, a man who had presented themselves in her life as a mentor and someone she could trust, had taken offense to the hubris of her challenge.
That hubris had cost her everything, even when Nolee had only believed her challenge to be one that proved just how far she had come.
After a moment, the locker room door clicked and cracked open, revealing the one person that Nolee wanted to see the least. Long blonde hair hung down onto spray-tanned shoulders slick with the sweat brought forward from the in-ring activity. In his hands he held her black dufflebag, the pink and zebra print heart charm that he had given her no longer attached by its gold clip to the zipper. The symbolism of a heart being ripped away from her was not lost on Nolee, considering the in-ring actions of the man who had sworn he loved her.
"Here," Nick Jackson murmured, hand thrusting forward to hand Nolee the strap of her black bag. His soft blue eyes refused to meet hers, instead his head was turned to the side so he didn't have to look at her.
"Nicky…" Nolee started, the tears thick in her throat, "…what's going on? Tell me what's going on."
"You made a mistake," Nick snorted with a shake of his head, "thinking you were good enough to challenge the god of pro-wrestling was a mistake. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 was a mistake."
Her mouth felt dry and she struggled to get her thoughts together. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 was a mistake? As badly as she wanted to believe that Nick meant the mistake was the twin superkicks that he and older brother Matt had delivered in the ring right before Kenny had scooped her up for the One-Winged Angel, a part of her knew better. "You…you mean…you didn't mean to betray me. That was the mistake, right? Turning your back on me?"
"No! 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠! You…you in The Elite was a…" Nick seemed to stumble over his words, as if they weren't his own. His eyes had yet to meet hers. "Us."
"Look at me, Nicky," Nolee's voice was soft, pleading as she reached out to try and take one of his hands, "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me."
"Love? Nolee…I…"
"I said look at me!" Nolee shouted, pulling her hand back towards her side and balling it up into a fist.
The moment Nick's line of sight met hers, Nolee could tell two things. The soft blue eyes that always seemed to regard her with such devotion and dedication that she had felt a heart turned by the first man to leave without warning thaw from its frozen state were red and puffy from crying. She wasn't the only one hurt by the events that had taken place. There was something else just under the surface, a jitteriness that spoke volumes. Nick was 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 of something with the way his eyes darted from Nolee's face to over his shoulder and back again. "Us, Nolee. 𝑊𝑒 were a mistake. You shouldn't…you shouldn't have trusted…"
The door behind Nick opened again, and through the door stepped the architect of Nolee's demise, the man who she had fought for the Impact World Championship in the main event. The adage about the devil being beautiful had to be true if the devil was anything like the man who the fans touted as the god of professional wrestling, Kenny Omega. Though he had just put his all into the main event, or at least Nolee had thought that she had brought Kenny Omega's best out of him, he did not look a hair out of place. The title shone on his shoulder, mocking Nolee with its presence every time the light caught its golden facade. A hand came up to squeeze Nick's shoulder, and though she wasn't sure if it was a trick of her mind or not, NOlee swore she saw the look of fear deepen in Nick's expressive blue eyes. "The riff-raff giving you trouble, Nick?"
"No, no I was just making sure she got her bag," Nick tried to sound braver than Nolee knew he must have felt in that moment.
"Did you take that stupid little charm off of it? You spent good money on that thing!" Kenny chuckled with a wicked grin, steel gray eyes meeting hers.
"I took her heart," the words were whispered, almost as if Nick did not quite want to say them.
"What was that, Nicky? The celebration for the Impact World Champion makes it a little hard to hear!" Kenny mimed cleaning out his ears with a finger on his free hand, wanting Nick to say the words that Nolee wasn't entirely sure hadn't been fed to the youngest Buck.
"I said I took her heart," Nick's voice sounded a bit louder, his line of sight dropping to his feet as his head drooped.
The wicked gleam in Kenny's eyes seemed to darken as he made direct eye contact with Nolee, "Good. Maybe she'll give up now."
"Give up?" Nolee sniffled, rubbing at her tear and mascara streaked cheeks with the heel of her hand, "You think I'm gonna give up so easily?"
"If you had a single braincell in that pretty blonde head of yours, Angle, you would," scoffed Kenny.
"You…you may have ruined my life, Kenny, but that's just gonna push me harder," Nolee denied with another sniffle, her resolve stronger than before. She took another shaky breath, determination in her eyes, "See, I have not begun to fight. I am going to make sure you pay for this, one way or another. I am gonna be the one to take that title off of you."
A long, tired groan left the lips of Wade Barrett as with a slow and measured push he lifted the metal weight bar in his hands to place it on the rack above his head. The workouts to keep himself in tip-top shape were starting to become fewer and farer between as the days since his last match slowly turned into years since he had lost to one of his partners in revenge for an attack after a bout of madness from losing the only world championship he would ever call his own. That did not mean he could stop entirely, no, some part of his brain that believed he was still in his glory days of his in-ring activity refused to believe his position was now simply as an analyst and an owner in the sport he loved so much and insisted that he keep working in the gym at the same level he always had for a match that was seemingly never going to come.
Hence the current ache in his bones and the burn of his muscles underneath his skin.
"Look at you," came the teasing Scottish lilt from the doorway of the home gym, only barely audible over the thrum of Oasis in the black earbuds Wade wore for his workout. He sat up with an undignified huff, legs slightly spread as he sat on the edge of the weight bench. Standing in the doorway, her hands resting on her hips, stood his wife of many years, Isadora Ainsley. Gods how he loved her. Even though this wasn't the version of her that the rest of the world saw, no perfectly polished makeup or gothic clothing to hide behind, this was the Isa that Wade loved the most. The sunlight from the dual egress windows along the outer wall shone a brightness to Isadora's pale skin, her red hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. If anything, he should have been the one looking at her and admiring the wonder that was Isadora, "perfection, aren't you?"
Wade let out a chuckle, pulling the earbuds from his large ears before placing the palms of his large hands on the black gym shorts that covered his thick thighs, "Come now, I am nothing of the sort. Simply an old man attempting to not feel as old."
There was no audible click of high heels as there would be if Isadora were prepared for work. There was no sound from the black satin house slippers she wore as she crossed to the weight bench with Wade. He expected Isa to sit next to him, side-by-side as they did everything in their lives. Instead, Isadora sat astride one of his meaty thighs, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, "Old? Are you believing all the lies told by your enemies?"
"I no longer feel like the young man I was, Is," Wade mused as he watched her with a charmed eye. The way that the sun caught in her fire-red hair made sure to make it burn even brighter. Her emerald eyes that regarded him as if he hung the moon and sun itself twinkled so brightly, "Besides, you are the one in the relationship who is utter perfection. Truly, Isadora, you could have any man on this planet. I am so incredibly lucky that, for some bloody reason, you have chosen me."
Isadora's sharp pointed nails ran through Wade's salt and pepper hair, scratching pleasantly along his scalp, "Perhaps it's only that the broken in me sees the broken in you."
The statement took Wade by surprise, and his normally chatty demeanor was shocked into silence. It wasn't that he was surprised at being called broken. Wade knew, fundamentally, that he was a broken man. Be it from a childhood marred by abuse or from the mistake he had made as young man who found just as much of an escape in between the sheets as he did in a fight, Wade had found himself made colder and crueler by such experiences than he knew others of his same age had been marked. Isadora had been the factor for his change of heart into someone who believed that the life he lived now could have been possible. His large fingers splayed themselves over the upper part of her back, brow wrinkled in his displeasure as his cold blue eyes narrowed to reveal the crow's feet at their edges, "What could you ever possibly mean by that, love?"
Isa chuckled, "You cannot be surprised that I'm calling you out as-"
"No," Wade cut Isa off with a shake of his head, fingers drumming gently against her back, "tell me what you meant by the fact that you think you're broken. Why would you say such a thing?"
"You know as well as I do, Stuart, that I'm a broken woman," Isa tutted as if she were speaking about something as simple as the weather, "Since the day I met you, you've known. If I'm being honest, you've known since the moment Andrew told you of me."
"I didn't see a broken woman," Wade's voice was gruff as he denied her, "I never once have thought of you as broken. I saw you as having suffered through a hard life, but it did not break you. No, you saw hardship and you fought through it. You did not sink under the waves of disparity. You rose like a phoenix from its ashes."
There was a silence between the two as Isadora moved her hand from his hair, tracing her nails down the sides of his head to cup his jaw in both hands. It was a moment of comfort, despite the silence. Their eyes met one another in warmth, before Isadora leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, "You are so good with words, Stuart. You truly know how to make a girl feel special."
"Not feet, Isadora," Wade tutted his displeasure at the thought, "you 𝑎𝑟𝑒 special. You are so bloody special. I don't know what I would do without you, love. This whole world? I would burn it to the ground just so you could bask in its warmth."
"We both deserve that warmth, Stuart," Isadora leaned down to press a kiss gently to Wade's lips, "We both deserve each other."
The sun hung high in the sky, its last rays just barely visible from above the horizon as it turned the sky shades of orange and pink. It had been a long time since Edmund Dyer had shown up to an arena for a show so early, but the Ring of Honor taping required such an early arrival from himself and his long-term partner, both in the ring and out, Richie Cotton. Had it not been for the cream sufficiently applied to their skin, arriving at this time would not even be possible due to the curse of their kind. There were such beautiful creations for their kind in the years since he had lost his Lorna, Edmund could scarcely believe it. In some ways, given the circumstances in which he had lost her, Edmund was almost remorseful for using such things.
"You think we'll be mixing it up with Top Flight, tonight?" the voice of his beloved Richard cut through the din of his own mind and that of the chaos of backstage. For the last few weeks the duo of Dante and Darius Martin had been thorns in their sides, only aided by the fact that they were joined at the hip by Zayda Steel.
"No doubt about it," Edmund huffed, pulling his black rolling suitcase after himself through the crowded hall. He longed for the secluded nature of a private locker room, given only to those who were in possession of championships. It was not for the elevated paycheck, he had plenty of money amassed from his years on the Earth, nor was it for the glory, though that would be a bonus. No, the main reason he wanted a private locker room was purely so he did not have to hear the cacophonous thrum of several heartbeats in such a small room. The bountiful buffet that surrounded Edmund while he was in the ring was so much easier to ignore as compared to when he was in a confined space. "Either that or they'll set us loose against locals."
"The monsters let loose against the frightened townsfolk seems a little cliche, Eddie," Richie snickered with a shake of his head and a chuckle, "Either way, I'm sure I'll get a good meal out of it. Zayda is enough to sustain me."
Edward snorted, "You think I'll be able to get something out of this? Not all of us can feed so freely."
It was the truth of the matter Richard fed unlike any other member of the Kindred that he had ever known. Not even his research on the matter yielded any results in what made his feeding methods so unique, save for a book by some prolific horror writer who fashioned himself after royalty. Instead of blood like Edmund needed, Richie fed on the energies of a person. The more hyper, the more upbeat, the more Richard was well-fed. Wrestling in front of an arena was enough to feed his beloved, yes, but there was no substitution for the hunger that flowed through Edmund's own veins.
"Do you hunger, Eddie?" Richie gave a lopsided grin, side-eyeing his friend, "Did you not have a bag before we left the hotel?"
"Half," Edmund let out an annoyed sigh, "but it was 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅. It never tastes right when it's 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅."
"You know it's what we have to do sometimes," Richie pushed a strand of his straw blonde hair behind the shell of his ear, as the duo came to a stop just outside of the busy locker room. Unfortunately, Edmund knew that Richie was right. In order to preserve the code by which all Kindred were supposed to live, the masquerade, sometimes a hunt was just not feasible. A blood bag was the only option to quench that insatiable hunger and it never tasted quite right. "If you need to feed that badly, my love, I suggest you do so before entering the locker room. Find an intern or someone, a new kid on the chopping block."
"You know how dangerous that is, Richard," Edmund's voice left him in a huff, hand leaving the plastic handle of the rolling suitcase as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Especially during a show, I risk breaking-"
"𝑰𝒇 someone finds the body," Richie moved in close enough to whisper in Edmund's ear under the guise of helping his lover fix his tie, "we 𝒅𝒐 have a scapegoat we can blame."
A wicked gleam took over Edmund's eyes, an amused smirk taking his thin lips. Oh, yes, there was another of their kind who was currently refusing to follow any sort of rules that the masquerade presented, and while Edmund absolutely despised the woman for it, the fact did make for an easy blame if he needed to break the rules a little on his own, "I do love the way your twisted little mind works."
Richie pressed a gentle kiss to Edmund's lips, "Go on, Eddie. Get full."
With a gentle pat of his partner's hip and a return of the kiss, Edmund turned to head back into the fray of fragile human bodies that was the production area. It was easier to feed from someone in the back who worked production, even if there was more of a thrill to hunt and feed from one of the talent. The truth was that a member of the production team would be missed, and possibly even looked for during the show, far less than if Edmund was to choose a roster member to feed from. It was why he allowed his eyes to wander over the ones taking orders in the back, eyes focusing on one woman in particular.
It was a personal matter that Edmund did not feed off of women. It reminded Edmund of his early days in his turn, the early hunger that had rid the streets of White Chapel of five young women. He wouldn't feed on the red-haired member of the fairer sex in front of him, her back to Edmund as she focused on the task at hand, even if his ice blue eyes drifted towards the pale skin of her slender neck. As his gaze intensified, Edmund wasn't sure that he could feed on her even if it was a necessity. There was no show of breath, no pulse quickening like all of those around her.
It seemed as if another of their kind had taken up residence in the company.
The moment Edmund saw a clear look at her face; it was as if he had been transported to the lamplit English pub all those years ago. The noise of production crew hustling to get the show in working order was replaced by a raucous drinking song that the patrons had sung that night, unaware of the monstress who stalked among them as a lioness moving amongst gazelles. The emerald green and bedazzled tumbler with stickers of…was that Ring of Honor Champion Archie Harrison…held in the woman's small hand was replaced by the tankard of alcohol that Edmund had bought his soon to be sire that night. It was as if a ghost of the past had invaded his mind to dissuade him from his hunger. It wasn't until she spoke that Edmund was pulled from those memories, her voice was not full of the crisp lilt that the only woman that he had ever truly loved once spoke to him with.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she gasped, shocked by his sudden arrival at her side. It gave Edmund an even better look at the young woman he stood next to. Her slender face held two deep green eyes that seemed emboldened, as if she were the one seizing Edmund up and not the other way around. From just past her full lips painted pale with a Cupid's Bow Edmund could make out the sharp pointed teeth that marked their kind, "You startled me, sir!"
"My sincerest apologies, madam," Edmund chuckled, mustering up a warm smile that did not match the coldness in hie eyes, "You simply looked as if you were floundering in whatever it is you are attempting to do."
"Oh, please! Call me, Lorna, madam feels too formal," she waved Edmund off with her free hand as if it were nothing to even be mentioned.
To Edmund, hearing that name was as if a hunter had plunged a stake directly into his chest. 𝙇𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙖.ᐣ No, no there was no way that this woman who looked so close to the woman who had given him this curse of life shared even her name. "I…Lorna…that is a beautiful name. Scottish, if my memory serves me correctly."
"It's a family name," she sipped her drink. Edmund could see the red liquid through the clear lid of the cup. To the untrained eyes around her, it would simply look like a red juice, but Edmund could smell better. "I'm not even sure what it means."
"Forsaken," Edmund murmured, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. Was there a tremble to his hands? He searched for a comment, a quick-witted remark, only to find himself repeating, "Lorna means forsaken."
It was a cruel irony that Edmund had considered every day since Lorna, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 Lorna, had chosen her own fate in the light of her final sunrise. The creams and ointments that now existed for the Kindred had not even been considered all those years ago, which did not mean that 𝙝𝙞𝙨 Lorna would have used it on that final day in the first place. Lorna had, indeed, forsaken him. The new girl placed a gentle hand on his arm, "Does it?"
"You…you look…" for a man who valued both his wits and his words, stumbling over them tried to unlock a feeling deep within him of weakness. He refused to glance at her, as if hiding from the feelings that were threatening to pool over, "It does."
"That's interesting," she beamed, cocking her head to the side, "Mr. Dyer, right?"
"Edmund," he denied, "call me Edmund."
"Edmund, my apologies," Lorna gave a warm smile as she turned back to the task at hand. Edmund allowed his gaze to follow her actions on the table in front of them, noticing the black three-ring binder she was flipping through. It was used mainly by those with some modicum of power in the production line, and suddenly the appearance of the newcomer who bore a name and face so familiar and yet stood as a mockery of all that he believed in.
"Kristen hired you," Edmund felt the anger rising in his chest, eyes flashing red for just a moment. Oh, that was well-played. It was a power play from the woman he had such a tense…well…he would not go as far as to call what he and Miss Statlander had a friendship. It was a relationship that would one day result in a fight between the two. He ran his tongue against the inside of his pointed teeth, temples throbbing in anger. Oh, Kris would feel his anger soon enough.
That anger only burned brighter as the girl gave a giggled response of, "Yes, sir. I'm her assistant."
Edmund could feel his anger growing by the minute. This was meant as a threat, a rich warming to stop Edmund from stepping a toe out of line. His fingers curled hard enough around the edge of the table in front of him, the sound of slowly cracking wood audible over the group setting. Edmund couldn't focus on his hunger anymore, that would have to wait as he wordlessly excused himself without another word from the situation. There was a war coming between those who stood steadfast by the masquerade like himself and his Richard and those who willingly chose to break it like Kristen and her coterie.
Edmund would be damned if he allowed himself to lose it.
Gene Munny looked good with gold around his waist. Maybe it was the way his skin seemed to radiate the golden glow that all champions seemed to radiate. Maybe it was the way his mood seemed to improve when he was a champion, that ever-present smile growing wider and the ever mischievous glint in his soft baby blue eyes deepening. Whatever the reason, Alyssa Stevely was able to see the change in the man that she loved so much. Now that he was a double champion, holding both the Progress Atlas Championship and the North Wrestling Championship? There was just that much more of her beloved's happiness spread throughout the small apartment that the two shared.
The smell of freshly baked pastries was the first thing that Alyssa Stevely woke up to that morning, the warmth of the kitchen radiating throughout her soul as her bare feet padded down the plush carpeted hallway. Her tongue darted out over her bottom lip before she let out a tiny little yawn, rounding the corner from the hall to the conjoined living room and kitchen, separated by a low wall divider to give a view into the kitchen. She wiggled her toes into the carpet, hands on her hips as she watched the man who was clanging around in the kitchen.
Gene's phone was recording his current actions as he whisked up the mixture for whatever pastry he was making, judging by the smell one of the pans already done while another seemed to be in the oven. The platinum of the Progress Atlas Championship gleaming on the shoulder of his white 𝐵𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝐼𝑛 𝑆𝘩𝑜𝑤 shirt as he filmed himself. She wasn't sure what he was talking about, her gaze instead pulled towards the thick dog collar with the silver bone dog tag bearing his name and the slight bob of his Adam's Apple as he spoke. After he finished talking to his phone, which she had picked up the words to know that it was an open challenge for the defense of the championship he carried with pride, she cleared her throat, "Genie pooh?"
Gene spun to look at her, setting the championship on the ledge of the wall divider and replacing it with one of the kitchen towels from the counterspace, "Lys! I didn't wake ya with all my noise, did I, love?"
Love. It was a simple pet name, but that pet name let Lyssie feel the love that her prior relationship had ever shown her. She shook her head, her blonde hair swishing with her, "No, no. Wish I would have woken up in your arms, though. What is all this?"
Gene planted his hands on his wide hips proudly, beaming as he glanced over his shoulder at the first tray of food he had pulled from their small oven, "That, Lys, is bait for big beefy boys!"
Alyssa almost choked on air, sputtering out in confusion, "That is 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭?ⵑ"
"Big beefy boy bait," Gene beamed again as he watched Alyssa cross into the small kitchen, sitting at one of the rotating stools positioned at the center island, "Coffee?"
"Explanation!" Alyssa countered as she tried to pry more information from the man making such a bizarre statement.
"Well," Gene crossed to the coffee pot near the countertop by the oven, opening the wooden cabinet directly above it to pull the white coffee cup decorated with purple wisteria that he knew Lyssie drank from almost every morning, "it's simple, really! Big beefy boys like food, yeah? And these egg tarts, oh, wait til you try these egg tarts, Lys!"
She propped a fist under her chin, elbow resting on the countertop as she watched him, "Right, right, no I get that. I get that the egg tarts look, and smell by the way, amazing! I'm…ah…I'm simply trying to figure out 𝑤𝘩𝑦."
"Big boys like food," Gene reiterated with a wide grin, foraging inside the fridge for the milk to add it to her coffee. The fact that Gene knew exactly how she took her coffee, a splash of milk and two packets of artificial sweetener, was something that made Alyssa's heart as warm as the cooking had made their kitchen. He carried the cup to the counter before setting it in front of her, continuing as he began to make a plate for her of two of the muffin sized pastries, "and if I'm going to have the best challengers in the world for my Atlas Championship, I need to lure in big beefy boys."
Lys watched him lean against the counter, unsure if he ever saw in himself what, if she was honest with herself, she had always seen. Did he see himself as just a goofball doing something silly for his social media accounts and the company that he loved? That certainly wasn't what she saw. There was the goofball, yes, but there was so much more to the man who was pulling another tray of custard bits from the oven using the towel he had slung over his shoulder. She picked up one of the muffin-sized tarts from the paper plate in front of her, lightly blowing on it before taking a small bite. Even before the flavors had danced on her tongue, the custard tart so good she swore it sent shockwaves down her spine, Alyssa Stevely knew how deeply and utterly in love with Gene Munny she was.
The egg custards certainly didn't harm how she felt, however.
"Genie," she let out a little sound of approval that she was acutely aware could be mistaken as a moan, "where the hell did you learn to bake!?"
Gene beamed proudly yet again, chin jutting out as he answered, "My nan! She taught me when I was little. Are they really that good?"
"Best I've ever had," Lyssie confirmed around the second bite of her first tart, "though I could have sworn you told me that you couldn't bake!"
"Oh, I can't! I'm right daft when it comes to it actually," Gene put two of the tarts on a plate for himself, settling onto the stool next to her with a chuckle, "this is just the one thing I have any clue about."
Lyssie brushed her bare knee against Gene's as they sat together, taking a sip from her cup, "Well, Mr. Munny, you are certainly going to attract so many big beefy boys with how good these tarts are. You might have to beat them off with a stick!"
"Did I win you over, little Lys?" Gene questioned, playfully nudging her lightly with one of his elbows, "That's more important to me than anything else. Especially for this damned dirty animal, given you're so…cultured."
She rotated the stool so that she was staring directly at Gene, who was hunched over the counter shoveling one of the pastries into his mouth, "Gene Munny…you don't truly think you're an animal, do you?"
Gene shrugged his shoulders before letting out what was supposed to be a chuckle but equated to little more than a huff of air, "I know what I am, Lys. You ain't got to spare my emotions."
"You listen to me, Gene," her brow wrinkled with her worry at his self-image, "I don't want to tame your animal style. I don't want to change you from the man you are at all. You have no idea how much you opened my heart back up to the possibility of love. You dunno what you mean to me, Genie."
Gene sat there for a moment, looking down at his plate as if he wasn't sure how to process her admission. He turned, the twinkle in his eyes soft but warm. He reached a hand over, covering hers with a gentle but affirming squeeze, "So…if I asked ya to go out with me tonight? Would you be free later?"
"You're absolutely hopeless, Genie," Lyssie blew a strand of hair out of her eyeline before she playfully rolled her eyes, "you're my boyfriend. Of course I'll go on a date with you, ya big lug."
He leaned over, pressing a warm and gentle kiss to her cheek that made Lyssie blush the same shade of pink as the nightie she wore, "You mean so much to me, Lys. I hope you know that."
There was a swell of pride inside the chest of Josef Belmont that rose with the swell of the music that signified that Progress World Champion Elijah Bennett had been able to successfully defend his championship against a threat like former champion Cara Noir. There were few people in the world who held a special place in the once blackened heart of the hunter who made his trade in the world of professional wrestling. Former teammate Wheeler Yuta was like the son he had never had, yes, but Elijah was like the other half that he did not know was still out there for him. Any amount of success that there was for the champion of the small company across the pond made Josef's heart soar.
"Elijah! Mein Liebe!" Josef beamed as the Englishman pushed himself through the thick black curtains that separated the stage from the backstage area in the Electric Ballroom. He leaned in to press a kiss to the top of his beloved's head, pressing his lips tightly together when Elijah pulled away before contact could be made. "Have I done wrong to you, mein lieben?"
"You don't want to kiss me right now, Josef," Elijah denied as he made his way through the group that made the backstage techs who kept the show running smoothly, "I'm covered in sweat and what I'm hoping is Noir's greasepaint."
Josef was not going to ask what else Elijah thought the substance could be, instead moving next to Elijah as he matched the young man step-for-step, "You know that does not matter to me. A little sweat never hurt anyone. It certainly wouldn't hurt me."
Elijah didn't look at Josef, eyes still trained ahead, but from the corner of his own gaze, Josef could see the feintest traces of a smirk upturning Elijah's thin lips, "You are incorrigible, Josef. A complete rake."
Josef pressed the flat of his hand against his own chest in mock surprise, "Me? A rake? I wouldn't call myself that, now. I would simply call myself…amorous."
Elijah rolled his eyes playfully before the duo came to rest in front of the door of their destination, which elicited a small huff of breath from Josef. The name Bennett hung on the door in a plate that was fancier than the one that signified the private locker room of the Progress World Champion. No, there was no way that this was a locker room. This was the door of the man who backed the show financially, who booked each and every chapter with precision, who ran the company. This was the office door of Elijah's father, former professional wrestler in his own right, Wade Barrett. The champion didn't bother to knock on the door, instead barging his way into the office. The salt and pepper gray head of Wade shot up, eyebrows arched as he sat down the pen with which he was writing, "Ah! Our beloved champion! How may I-"
"Cut your bullshit, old man," hissed Elijah, hands slamming down on the desk in front of him, "I didn't come here to hear your pleasantries."
Barrett gave a bemused smirk as he tented his hands on his desk, leaning slightly forward. For the first time, Josef could see Elijah in his father's face. It was in the slope of the brow when both men were deep in though, the way his eyes narrowed. It was in the size of the ears and nose, the smirk that crossed their lips. Wade's steel gray eyes glanced at Josef before he glanced back in the direction of his son, "Well? Go on then."
"I won't fight your little former boytoys anymore," Elijah gritted his teeth, making his anger well known, "I won't keep fighting YOUR battles. Get yourself under control, get your affairs under control. Or. Else."
Wade licked the inside of his teeth, trying not to look as angry as he felt, "Point taken. Though, I wouldn't be so quick to use that term in present company."
"Oi! He's not…" Elijah's anger seemed to grow in him, knuckles white on the desk, "You aren't allowed to refer to him as-"
"I am not ashamed of my relationship with your son," Josef stepped forward, a large hand on Elijah's bare shoulder, "Our relationship is what our relationship is. You should be less harsh on your son for the mistakes you seemingly still make."
"How dare you," Wade tensed as he stood, less tolerable of Josef's comments than he was of his own sons, "What gives you the right, Mr. Belmont, to-"
"I give him the right," Elijah's tone was haughty as he stepped back into Josef's side, one of his hands lacing its fingers with Josef's own. He jerked his head towards the door with a smirk, "C'mon, Josef. Let's go."
"I believe that would be best," Wade seethed, sitting back down in the black rolling chair behind his desk and waving towards the door absentmindedly, "off with you."
Again, Elijah was the first to turn to leave, leading the way out of the room. This time the trip to their destination was not filled with mirth and conversation. Both men were sullen, quiet, as Elijah pushed the door open before letting out an almost primal sounding grunt and tossing the championship that rested on his shoulder across the room. The leather and silver landed with a clatter in the corner, having reaching up and tugging through his long black hair. Elijah's breath tore through him in ragged pants until Josef wrapped his arms around Elijah from behind. It seemed as if Elijah began to relax, sagging backward into the embrace that enveloped him so completely. "I told you that you didn't want to do that," Elijah murmured.
Josef pressed a kiss to the thick tangle of black hair that Elijah had yet to wash, "And I told you that it did not matter. You deserve to feel loved, appreciated."
There was a silence to the room and for a moment, Josef could not tell if it was something comfortable or uncomfortable. The conversation, however brief, in his father's office had clearly left Elijah shaken about something that had been said. Josef had never particularly been close to his own father. Florian Belmont has been a man hardened by both his own upbringing and the duty that their family line was called to fulfill. To have a father so open with his feelings had caught Josef off guard, even more-so when Elijah had snapped back. "You shouldn't have stood up for me like that," Elijah protested, turning in Josef's embrace, even if he made no effort to leave it.
"My father often told me when I was just a lad," Josef began, his voice slow and measured, "that a man should stand up for the things he values in life. I hope I have proven, so far, that I care deeply for you. That…that I love you."
There was that silence again, leaving Josef feeling slightly more uncomfortable than the last. Elijah's steel gray eyes seemed clouded, as if there was something brewing just underneath the surface. He pursed his lips, the flat of his hands resting on Josef's broad chest, "He called you…Josef if you've ever thought of yourself as my boy toy…"
Josef laughed, pecking Elijah on the lips, "Boy toy? No, no. There is no fear of me being known as your boy toy. I am secure in our relationship amongst your others. I am secure in my love for you."
Elijah rested his face against Josef's chest, letting out a dep sigh of contentment as he seemed to settle even more into the hug. They stood pressed together, a comfortable silence between the two as Josef held him close. This was all that Josef had wanted from their day, a win for Elijah in the ring against a savvy opponent and the company of the man whose love had changed his life. Elijah gave a warm smile as he glanced up at his partner, "I should get cleaned up."
"Hm," Josef mused with a waggle of his eyebrows, "I should join you."
"Careful," Selene Bishop let out a sharp hiss of breath from between her teeth as the cold compress was pushed against her warm skin, head resting on her hands as she sat facing the back of the hotel toilet. The spot on her back that had been punctured with glass only hours before in a match against Toni Storm still burned when her partner, her Leon, pressed the alcohol swab to the cuts. A battle always had a way of leaving its mark, at least the ones worth remembering did. "You don't want to harm me any worse, my dearest."
Leon Statlander let out a slightly bitter laugh as he pulled the alcohol swab away from Selene's bare back, knelt behind her on the cold tile flooring of the hotel bathroom. He smirked as he looked up at her, admiring the curves of her body. "Do you always complain so badly when you're hurt? My god, Selene."
Selene's ponytail moved as she turned her head to glance at the man who had done such a good job of looking out for her over the last few months. There was something in her soul that recognized his, something in the violence that both were capable of that pushed them together, "Are you mocking me, Leon? Are you mocking my pain?"
Leon chuckled, shaking his head as his large fingers unwrapped a gauze pad, though his eyes never left the expanse of smooth skin that was Selene's back. He knew better than to ask how she had gotten the scars that littered her back. He had been around those who considered themselves warriors for long enough to know that not all battles were against external forces. The back should have been fair game to ask about, but Leon wasn't willing to test anything with Selene. Instead, the tips of Leon's fingers danced over the faded white marks with a tenderness he rarely even showed himself, let alone anyone else. "You've always been a fighter, haven't you?"
Selene's attention turned back to the white painted wall in front of her, eyes closing at the sensation of Leon's fingers against her sensitive back, "Hm. I have had no other choice but to fight."
"I know what that's like," Leon tore the plastic off of the gauze pad that he held in his hands before placing the cotton over the freshest of the cuts, "Always been one myself."
Selene stood, gingerly pulling on her black tank top that rested in her hands before she turned around to face Leon. She remained seated on the toilet seat, face unreadable as she asked a very simple question, "Your first one. Your first scar. Do you remember how you got it?"
Leon leaned against the wall behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched her. There was something in Selene's face that he couldn't quite place. She had never been the easiest person to decipher, Selene tended to keep most of her emotions to herself. Leon wasn't sure if he should humor the question, but he touched the scar on his temple. It was barely visible against the side of his head, faded with time but never with the memory of the Aerial Assassin who had given it to him, "See that? Fought Ospreay back when we were both in RevPro, right before I was locked up. Fucker dropped me on my head with a brainbuster on an exposed turnbuckle."
Selene stood, crossing to Leon and letting the tips of her fingers dance over the white scar, "It makes you look distinguished. It tells the story of a battle. It suits you."
Leon chuckled as he leaned his head away from her red-painted nails, "I know I shouldn't ask, but you did first…"
Selene chuckled, letting her hand trail down to cup Leon's bearded cheek. The fuzz against the palm of her hand tickled, but she kept it there, "Are you sure you are ready for such a story?"
Leon pressed his cheek against her palm, "I want to know about you. I told you that from the beginning."
Selene brought her foot up to rest of the lid of the toilet with a smile, gesturing to the knee that was exposed by the sleep shorts she had changed into as soon as she had gotten into the hotel room that the couple were sharing. The otherwise smooth skin was marred only by a small crescent indent directly on her kneecap that Leon was almost certain he had never noticed before. He pushed himself away from the wall, going down to one knee on the bathroom tile again. His large fingers reverently touched the raised skin. Selene gave a small smile as she glanced down at her fighter with a small admission of praise, "Beautiful. Simply beautiful."
Leon grinned up at her, "So. This is your first?"
"From when I was young," she smiled gently, trailing her fingers over his scar yet again, "are you sure you want to know the story?"
"I want love you any less," Leon whispered gently, and for the first time in a relationship, Selene believed those words to be true. Leon had never given her any reason to believe anything else. There wasn't any doubt in her that Leon loved her more for who she was, warts and all, than for the things she could give him.
"I was eight," Selene started as she attempted to suppress a smile, "and I was riding bikes with my friends. I attempted to skid my bike. On a gravel road."
Leon withdrew his hand from her scar, looking up at her with an eyebrow raised incredulously, "Really? That's it?"
Selene chuckled, "You were expecting something else, my love?"
"The way you made it sound there was some sort of mystique with it, some tragic backstory," Leon rolled his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet. He reached an arm out to wrap around Selene's waist, pulling her closer to himself. Their bodies connected as he rested his forehead against hers, "And it was a childhood accident."
"I asked because it was so mundane," a small giggle left her lips, "I didn't want to ruin your perception of me."
"You could have lied," Leon pointed out, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, "but you didn't. Why?"
"I have no reason to lie to you," Selene shrugged, looking amused before she returned the kiss, "You drew stars around my scars, Leon. Mentally. Physically. You have been there for me in ways that no partner ever has. I do not feel as if I have to hide behind my mystique, my secrets. With you, I am not a woman who has to hide. I am simply Selene Bishop."
"Well, Selene Bishop," Leon grinned back at her, lips lingering against her own, "there is no honor I love more than being yours."
