I still don’t understand why Lori felt the obnoxious audacity to call him selfish just because he said no to her making him go bring Rick and Hershel back. She didn’t even make it a choice! “I need you to go”. Bitch! YOU go bring them back! If she succeeded in actually getting to them, I think it would have been the first time she’d never done something herself instead of making someone else do it!
So I'm gonna take a break from it. Maybe clear my head and come back to it. May start another story to help clear my head of this story. Hope y'all understand! ♥
Wrongfully Accused Chapter 2 (Jey Uso X Female OC)
Title: Wrongly Accused
Pairing: Jey Uso X OC: Tessa Carver
Summary: Dr. Tessa Carver, WWE’s head physician, knows better than to get involved with talent. So when Jey Uso finally asks her for coffee, she says yes — but she’s already second-guessing it.
She never makes it to Thursday.
The night before their date, Tessa is attacked in the arena parking lot by a man in Jey’s black hoodie and a black ski mask, speaking in Jey’s voice.
Every piece of evidence points to Joshua Fatu. The security footage shows his hoodie. Witnesses heard his voice. His hoodie is found dumped at the scene. And he was the last person seen near Medical that night.
Even Tessa’s own memory is working against him — she heard his voice. She felt his hoodie. But she never saw his face.
Jey swears he’s innocent. Swears someone stole his hoodie and is setting him up. But Tessa Carver isn’t a fan, she’s a doctor. She deals in facts, not feelings. And right now, the facts say the man who asked her to coffee might be the one who left her bleeding on the concrete.
Now she has to decide: Is she being played, or is someone else using Jey’s voice to destroy them both?
Because the real attacker is still out there...
Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination.
Content/Trigger Warnings: Dark, violence against a woman
Chapter 2
The building is empty.
Or it’s supposed to be.
Tessa Carver turns the deadbolt on Medical with a click that echoes too loud. The sound bounces down the concrete hallway, past the darkened trainer’s room, past the supply closet that still smells like antiseptic and latex gloves. It rolls all the way to the loading dock and dies there.
She stands there a second, keys in hand, listening.
Nothing.
Just the low, mechanical hum of the ice machines in catering, three halls over. Just the Coke fridge in the break room cycling on with a whine that sets her teeth on edge. Just the red exit signs painting everything the color of a fresh bruise.
Her shift ran long. Again.
Braun Strowman busted his lip open on the steel steps during a dark match after SmackDown went off air. Fourteen stitches. A lot of blood for a guy who smiled through it. She’d sent him home with antibiotics and instructions he wouldn’t follow.
She’d filled out the injury report, emailed Talent Relations, wiped down the table. By the time she looked up, the crew was gone. The trucks were gone. Even the cleaning staff had cleared out.
Now it’s just her.
Her laptop bag is heavy on her shoulder. She checks her phone as she walks.
Jey: Still good for Thursday, Doc? U pick the place.
Tessa: Still good. Somewhere quiet. Decaf. Don’t make me chart you for caffeine-induced stupidity.
Jey: Yes ma’am. I’ll be good. Promise.
She shouldn’t have smiled. Not in an empty arena. Not after a 16-hour day. But she did.
She’s still thinking about it when she turns the corner toward the staff exit.
Thursday. Coffee. What are you doing, Carver?
That’s why she doesn’t hear him at first.
The footsteps don’t start behind her. They start with her. Matching her pace from somewhere in the dark behind catering.
Slow. Measured.
Tessa’s thumb finds the edge of her keys. She slides the longest one between her knuckles.
She doesn’t turn around.
She walks faster.
Her shoes squeak against the sealed concrete.
The footsteps speed up too.
Still matching her. Still deliberate.
She’s halfway to the door marked STAFF LOT when the overhead lights in the hall shut off.
Automatic timer. 11:45pm.
The hallway goes black except for the red exit glow.
Her breath catches. She breaks into a jog.
The door bar is cold under her palm. She shoves it.
Night air hits her face. Georgia in late October. Humid, with the smell of asphalt and the faint metallic tang of rain coming.
The staff lot is half-lit. One floodlight buzzes and flickers over by the dumpsters. The rest is shadows and blacktop.
Her car sits three rows back. Alone.
She digs for her key fob. Hits unlock. The Civic chirps.
She takes two steps toward it.
The attack has no warning.
No voice. No words.
Just a flash of black fabric.
A hoodie.
It comes over her head from behind, yanked down hard. Black. Faded. WWE logo stretched across the chest. The material smells like sweat and cologne. Sauvage.
She can’t see. The hoodie blinds her, the sleeves tangling around her arms.
Hands shove her forward. She stumbles.
A gloved fist hits her stomach. Air explodes out of her lungs.
She goes down hard on the asphalt, the hoodie still over her face. Her laptop bag cracks against the ground. Her keys scatter.
She tries to scream but the fabric muffles it. She claws at the hoodie, trying to rip it off.
A boot connects with her ribs.
Then another to her temple.
Light explodes behind her eyes. White, then red, then nothing.
The last thing she registers is the weight lifting. The hoodie being ripped away.
And then… silence.
No footsteps walking away.
No voice.
Nothing.
Just the sound of her own breathing, shallow and ragged, until that fades too.
The lot stays quiet for three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
Then the staff door bangs open again.
“Yo, Doc! You left your badge in Medical, you gonna—”
Jey Uso stops dead.
The words die in his throat like he’s been choked out.
His duffel bag slips from his fingers and hits the ground with a dull thud. The prescription anti-inflammatories he came back for roll out and stop by his boot.
Tessa is on the asphalt.
Face down. One arm twisted under her chest. The other reaching toward her car. Blood is matted in her hair at the temple, black and wet in the flickering lot light. Her laptop is open, screen spiderwebbed. Case files are scattered like dead leaves, one of them with a boot print right across CONFIDENTIAL. Her keys are five feet from her hand.
And the hoodie.
His hoodie.
Black. Faded. WWE logo. The one he wore to the arena today. The one he took off and left in his locker because it was too hot for the flight to Miami and Jimmy told him he’d sweat through it.
It’s crumpled beside her, half-covering her arm like it was used to pin her down.
For one second — maybe two — he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
His brain refuses to process it.
That’s not her. That can’t be her. Not Tessa. Not Doc.
But it is.
The scrubs. Dark blue. The ones with the little cartoon Band-Aids on them. The dark hair spread out on the concrete. The little silver necklace with the medical caduceus.
“Tessa!”
The name rips out of him. Raw. Too loud in the empty lot.
Then he’s running.
His size 12 boots pound the asphalt. He slides the last few feet on his knees and doesn’t feel the concrete tear through his jeans and into his skin.
“Tessa, hey, look at me. Doc, c’mon. Open your eyes for me.”
His hands hover over her. He’s scared to touch. Scared he’ll hurt her worse.
Her eyes are closed. Her lips are parted, a little blood at the corner. There’s a gash at her temple, already swelling, blood trickling down into her eyebrow and cutting a line through the dirt and mascara on her cheek.
His hands are shaking when he presses two fingers to her neck, right under the jaw.
Please. Please. Please. God, anyone, please.
It’s there.
A pulse. Weak. Thready. Like a bird’s heartbeat under his fingers. But there.
The air punches out of him. “Okay, okay, you’re okay,” he’s saying, but his voice is breaking. “I got you. I got you, Tessa. I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
He’s freezing. Adrenaline and the October night air. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat from running back in here.
He looks at the hoodie. His hoodie.
He grabs it without thinking. It’s instinct. It’s his. He shakes it out once, hard. Then he pulls it on over his head. The fabric is cold. It smells like the lot now — asphalt and blood. But it’s still his.
He needs to be doing something.
He fumbles for his phone with his left hand. His right hand stays near her back, not touching, just… hovering. Guarding.
He unlocks it with his thumb. Misses the emergency button twice because his hands won’t stop shaking.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
He has to swallow twice before he can talk. “Yeah, I need an ambulance. State Farm Arena, staff lot. South side, by the dumpsters. The WWE doctor — she’s down. She’s bleeding from her head. She’s unconscious. Please hurry.”
“Sir, is she breathing?”
He leans down, puts his ear near her mouth. Feels the faintest puff of air, warm against his cheek. “Yeah. But it’s slow. Real slow. Just send somebody, man. Please. She’s a doctor. She’s… she’s good people. Just hurry.”
He hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket.
Tessa moves.
It’s just a twitch. A little jerk of her head.
Then her eyes flutter.
Not all the way open. Just a slit. Glassy. Unfocused. The pupil is blown wide. Concussion.
She sees him.
Sees the hoodie.
Black. Faded. WWE logo. The same hoodie that was over her head two minutes ago.
Her whole body seizes.
“No—” The word is a broken gasp, torn out of her. “Please… don’t… don’t hurt me again…”
She tries to crawl. To get away from him. Her nails scrape the concrete, breaking. Her breathing spikes into hyperventilation, fast and shallow.
“Whoa, hey—” Jey’s hands go up, palms out. “Tessa, it’s me. It’s Jey. I’m not— I would never— Doc, please—”
“Stay away!” She sobs it. Tears and blood mixing on her face, making pink tracks in the dirt. “Please, Jey, don’t—”
The name guts him.
She thinks it was him.
“Tessa, no,” he says, and his voice cracks right down the middle. “Doc, I just got here. I swear to God, I just— I came back for my pills. I wasn’t— I would never touch you. Never.”
Her eyes roll back.
She goes limp.
“No, no, no,” he’s begging now. He checks her pulse again. It’s still there. Still weak. “Don’t do that. Don’t close your eyes. C’mon, Doc. Stay with me.”
He wants to take the hoodie off now. He wants to rip it off and throw it in the dumpster. But moving means leaving her.
He just kneels there in his hoodie, the same hoodie her attacker used, while sirens start to wail in the distance.
“Stay with me, Doc,” he whispers. “Please. Just stay with me. We’ll figure this out. I didn’t— I wouldn’t— I swear on my kids I didn’t do this.”
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Wrongfully Accused Chapter 1 (Jey Uso X Female OC)
Title: Wrongly Accused
Pairing: Jey Uso X OC: Tessa Carver
Summary: Dr. Tessa Carver, WWE’s head physician, knows better than to get involved with talent. So when Jey Uso finally asks her for coffee, she says yes — but she’s already second-guessing it.
She never makes it to Thursday.
The night before their date, Tessa is attacked in the arena parking lot by a man in Jey’s black hoodie and a black ski mask, speaking in Jey’s voice.
Every piece of evidence points to Jonathan Fatu. The security footage shows his hoodie. Witnesses heard his voice. His hoodie is found dumped at the scene. And he was the last person seen near Medical that night.
Even Tessa’s own memory is working against him — she heard his voice. She felt his hoodie. But she never saw his face.
Jey swears he’s innocent. Swears someone stole his hoodie and is setting him up. But Tessa Carver isn’t a fan, she’s a doctor. She deals in facts, not feelings. And right now, the facts say the man who asked her to coffee might be the one who left her bleeding on the concrete.
Now she has to decide: Is she being played, or is someone else using Jey’s voice to destroy them both?
Because the real attacker is still out there...
Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination.
Content/Trigger Warnings: None this chapter
Chapter 1
The night before everything went wrong
WWE Medical at 9:17pm smells like antiseptic, sweat, and whatever burnt popcorn someone left in the breakroom microwave.
The overhead fluorescents buzz. They always buzz. Tessa swears one of these days she’s going to take a wrench to them, policy or not.
She’s at the corner desk, charting.
Patient: Braun Strowman.
Complaint: “Table felt loose.”
Treatment: Denied request to deadlift said table to prove structural integrity.
Notes: Prescribed ice and common sense. Patient non-compliant.
Tessa caps her pen and rubs her eyes.
Pale skin, dark hair shoved into a knot that’s been falling out since 6am, blue eyes gritty from staring at laptops. She’s been here since noon. Three tapings, one live show, and a catering cart incident that involved both glitter and blood.
She’s logging out when the door cracks open.
He doesn’t knock.
Jey Uso never knocks.
Just pokes his head in, hood up, one hand rubbing the back of his head like he’s trying to press the pain back inside his skull.
“Yo, Doc? You got a sec?”
Her first thought is of course. Because it’s always Jey when she’s two seconds from leaving.
Her second thought is he’s hurt.
No limp. No blood she can see. But he’s moving like his head is made of glass. Careful. Controlled. The way men move when they don’t want you to know they’re dizzy.
“Jey.” She doesn’t smile. She’s too tired to fake it. “You’re either here for the good ice packs or you did something unwise. Which is it?”
He grins, sheepish, and slips inside. Closes the door behind him with a soft click.
That’s new. He usually leaves it open, lets the noise of the arena leak in.
“Might be both, Uce.” Then he catches himself. Winces. “Sorry. Doc. Not Uce. Sorry.”
Tessa sets her clipboard down. Slowly. “You’re not my Uce. You’re my patient. Sit.” She points to the med bed with her pen. “What happened?”
Jey peels his hood down.
The arena’s warm, but there’s a cold sweat at his temples. And at his hairline — a goose-egg. Already purpling, angry, the size of a walnut. No split skin. No blood. But it’s going to be a mess by morning.
Tessa’s stomach does a weird, quiet flip. Not medical. Something else.
“Jimmy,” Jey mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed. The paper crinkles under him. “We was messing around at the hotel earlier. Play-fighting. He ducked, I didn’t. Caught an elbow. Hard.”
“At the hotel,” Tessa repeats. “Hours ago.”
“Yeah.”
“And you waited until now?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Wasn’t that bad at first. Then TV started and the lights—” He cuts himself off. “Anyway. I’m here now.”
Tessa pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves. The snap is loud in the quiet room.
She steps into his space.
He goes real still.
Jey Uso is 6 foot 2, 240 pounds, and takes up half the med bay just breathing. But when she’s working, he shrinks. Makes himself smaller. Like if he doesn’t move, she won’t see him as a threat.
She’s seen him do it for three months. Since Philly. Since she stitched his arm and told him to “stop bleeding on my table, Uso, I just mopped.”
She tilts his chin up with two fingers. Clinical. Impersonal. Her thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. Stubble. Warm skin.
“Look at me,” she says.
Blue eyes meet brown.
Pupils: equal, reactive. No nystagmus. No slur when he walked in. No nausea yet. But he’s holding his breath again.
“Breathe, Uso,” she says, dryly. “I’m checking for a concussion, not making promises.”
That breaks it. He laughs — quick, startled, real. His breath hits her wrist.
“Yes, ma’am.” He exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Sorry, Doc.”
Her fingers are cold against his skin. She parts his dark hair, careful around the bump. It’s hot. Swelling fast.
“You gonna tell me why you didn’t go to the trainers?” she asks, voice low. “Why’d you walk all the way across the arena to Medical? Trainers are 20 feet from Gorilla.”
Jey’s quiet a second too long.
The fridge hums. Someone yells in the hallway — “Where’s my tape?!” — and it fades.
“…Like the ice packs better here,” he mumbles.
Tessa snorts. “Not true.”
She drops her hands and turns to the mini-fridge. Pulls out a cold pack. Cracks it. The chemical hiss fills the space between them.
She presses it to his head, gently.
He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch into her hand. Just takes it.
“Hold this,” she says. “20 minutes. If you get sick, dizzy, see stars, lose time — you tell me or Jimmy immediately. No ‘toughing it out.’ You feel anything weird, you wake me up. I don’t care what time it is. Got it?”
“Got it, Doc.” His voice is quieter now.
She steps back, peels the gloves off, tosses them in the bin. “You’re clear for now. Mild concussion protocol. That means no ring tonight. No gym. No flying off anything. You go back to the hotel and sleep. Jimmy gets night duty. You argue, I bench you for a week.”
“Aye.”
He holds the ice pack to his head, but he’s not getting up.
Just watching her.
Tessa turns back to her desk. Starts packing up. Laptop in the bag. Clipboard away. She can feel his eyes on her back.
Blue eyes meet his over her shoulder, and he suddenly finds the floor real interesting.
She sighs. Crosses her arms. “You need something else, Jey? Because you’re doing the thing where you hover. You only hover when you want something or you’re about to pass out. Which is it?”
That’s when it happens.
He stands.
All 6 feet of him, ice pack in one hand, hoodie hanging off his shoulders, sweats slung low.
And he’s nervous.
Jey Uso, who dives off steel cages and talks tough on live TV, is shifting his weight like a kid at a school dance. Like if he moves wrong, the floor’s gonna swallow him.
“Yeah. I, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. The one not holding ice to his head. “I been meaning to ask you something, Doc. For like… three months.”
Tessa stops packing. “Three months?”
“Yeah.” He laughs, no humor in it. Just air. “Since Philly. Since you stitched my arm and told me to stop bleeding on your table. I went back to the hotel that night and told Jimmy I was in trouble.”
The room goes quiet.
Only the hum of the fridge. The buzz of the lights. The sound of her own heartbeat picking up for no medical reason.
Tessa’s face doesn’t change. But her fingers tighten on the strap of her laptop bag.
“Jey—”
“No, wait,” he says fast. “Don’t answer yet. Just— lemme ask. One time. Then you can say no and I’ll leave it alone forever, I swear on my kids.”
He takes a breath. Sets the ice pack down on the med bed. Uses both hands now, like he needs them to be steady.
“You wanna get dinner with me? This week. After TV. No cameras. No Uce. No Jey. Just… Joshua. Asking Tessa.”
Joshua.
He said it. His real name, out loud, for the first time in her med bay. Not Jey. Not Uso.
Joshua.
Like it cost him something to dig it out.
Tessa studies him.
The bump on his head. The way his hands are shaking now that they’re empty. The way he said Joshua like he was handing her a piece of himself he doesn’t give to anyone.
She should say no.
Fraternization. Power dynamics. He’s a talent, she’s medical. HR has a 6-page policy about this exact thing.
But he walked across the whole arena with a concussion for her ice packs.
And he’s been carrying Joshua in his mouth for three months, too scared to say it.
“I get off at 11 on Thursday,” she says finally. “You have a concussion. So it’s coffee, not dinner. Decaf. And if you fall asleep at the table, I’m calling Jimmy to carry you out and I’m charting it.”
For a second, he doesn’t breathe.
Then Jey’s whole face breaks open.
That grin, but softer. Realer. The one she’s only seen when he’s with his kids on Facetime.
“Coffee,” he repeats, like she just handed him a title. “Yeah. Coffee’s perfect, Doc. Thursday. Coffee’s perfect.”
He grabs his hoodie, still grinning, and heads for the door. Hand on the handle, he pauses. Looks back.
“Hey, Tessa?”
Her name. Not Doc.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the ice pack. And… you know. For not saying no.”
Then he’s gone. Door clicking shut behind him.
Tessa stands there for a full minute.
Her laptop bag is still half-zipped. The room still smells like antiseptic and his cologne. The crinkled paper on the med bed still has the imprint of him.
Thursday. Coffee.
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