Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Aug 12, 2021 2:00:28 GMT -5
I reached for Cassidy’s hand, burrowing my face into his shoulder. We weren’t in the public conscious, surprisingly - clearly, we weren’t keeping a secret. Before every event, we’d march through the crowds, in front of the cameras, knowing that our consorting would soon be subject for ridicule. Any time I’d fraternized with someone new, the headlines would instantaneously materialize; I’d acclimated myself to the backlash. Ironically, I felt more uncomfortable with the support. I knew how to combat the vitriolic castigation; ‘there goes Lissie Hope, fucking another member of the locker room’. John Thomas would never say that, at least not directly. But that was the implication. My enemies would, of course - nothing was beyond reproach; not in this industry. I’ve heard it all, the worst anyone could levy in my direction; from Graham Baker to Max Daemon, from Dandy DiVito to J.C. Keeton, from James Nightingale - God rest his soul. Out of obligation, I made the sign of the cross. My spiritual teachings had required absolution. “What was that?” Cassidy teased. I turned my lips into his neck, moistening the flesh under his jaw. He was surprised by my flirtation as we stood on the pier, and I ran my hand under his shirt, feeling warm skin, hooking my fingers in his belt loop. “Yo, chill. What’s gotten into you?” A sly grin as I positioned myself in front, the scent of pristine waters and rich, opulent forestry flooded my nostrils; invigorating, overloading all of my senses. I moved my ear towards his mouth, feeling his warm breath, and I felt like I could explode. The fact that everyone was watching was even more exhilarating. “Just feeling a little adventurous.”
My brain was performing mental gymnastics, crash-landing on the balance beam when Cassidy adjusted, shrugging me off. “I’m not into PDA,” he delivered, cutting me at the knees. “Bullshit,” I mouthed, under my breath, pulling my sunglasses over my eyes. “Not like you, anyways,” he continued, drawing my attention back in again. “Next time you wanna fuck a Greek whore in an airplane bathroom on her way out of this place, you could at least have the courtesy to invite me.” I don’t know how to feel about the fact that he not only knew, but that he didn’t care. All that was on his mind was how he felt slighted that I didn’t think of him when I did it. “It’s alright,” he continued, noticing my expression sour. “I’m not mad or anything,” and he placated me with a pat on the head. A kiss on the cheek, like I was a pathetic dog begging for his approval. A howl of laughter erupted from his chest. “What?” I asked, nervously but curiously, as he pointed his finger down towards the sloping knoll beneath us. It took me a second to process, but finally, I saw him. “You can’t get away from the dweeb, even if you tried,” Cassidy said with a laugh. My gaze scanned the pedestrians on the bridge, and they were all interchangeable. Slender-built women with porcelain skin and golden manes of varying lengths. Johnny Bacchus’ arm was hooked with the svelte arm of a native. “He seems to have a type,” I uttered. “You clearly don’t,” he quipped. I ignored him; he was just trying to get a rise out of me. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. *** We were back at the hotel for the night, and after watching him knock back a few drinks, he romantically insisted we “lay down the pipe.” I pulled his shirt back over my torso, as I couldn’t drown in the sweat-drenched sheets and under his weight any longer. I needed a reprieve, so I scrolled through Twitter. I’d enjoyed getting to know some of the newcomers; Jason Cain, Aphriya Adler, Cheyenne Walker - it was nice not having their impressions of me poisoned yet. “Oh my god,” I choked out, reading the barrage of overnight tweets Johnny Bacchus had sent. One after another, criticizing my motivations, questioning my culpability, attacking my character. “He just… he won’t stop.” Cassidy leaned over to see who I was referring to. “Who gives a shit? Just go to bed.” “What if Betsy sees this? This is fucking me up, Cassidy,” I cried out. “I can’t lose my focus. I can’t LOSE again.” “Why are you letting this nerd get to you?” “You know what would really…” I said, inching closer. “...be sexy…” ...continuing, even through the tears. “...is if you were to run in there…” ...running my hand up his leg. “...and made sure CJ Phoenix…” .kissing his neck. “...wins that belt…”...playfully teasing. “Please? For me?” “Yeah…” he began, moving himself out from under me. “...no. I ain’t stayin’ for XIII. I gotta get back for Clash so I can wreck that fat fuck.” “...are you serious?” “Besides, y’can do it yourself. These days, you ain’t going for the World Title anytime soon.” A smile as he smacked me on the ass and turned his back. “Turn the light off, would ‘ya?” Completely devastated and feeling infinitesimal, I headed towards the mini-fridge for water, needing to get the remnants of cheap vodka from Cassidy’s mouth out of my own. Before I could close it, my eyes veered to the ouncers on the top rack. “Hey… the light?” CLICK. The click of the lights; The flash of the cameras; What are you doing this for? Pardon me, Betsy, I’ve not introduced myself. I’m Lissie Hope, and I’m a four-time World Champion. Now, two of those were won under these lights, in front of these crowds, and will be etched on my bust in the Action Wrestling Hall of Fame. But the other two? As much as they would’ve liked to revise the record-books, cross my name out and replace it with yours, that’s not an option. I’m a permanent fixture in the annals of their history. But you? You tried to carve your name in the Legacy I’ve created, because I made it easier for you. You stepped in the tracks I impressed in the mountain, much like that Chelsea LeClair broad who was last seen dicking around in the little leagues at Revo-1, but the story remains the same. I was the vestige of hope, a glimmer of possibility; I was the first woman in twenty-years to climb to the summit. I don’t blame you for thinking you could’ve done me justice; in fact, I applaud it. That’s exactly what I want to see. But you couldn’t carry the torch. Hack O’Connor, the “undefeated” sleeping junkie that woke from the alley to compete four times in six-months, the same Smack O’Connor that the sleeping giant sent back behind bars after he was too chicken-shit to stick around; suddenly found courage when the field got a little lighter. When he didn’t have to answer for the shadow I left him under. Reemerging when the World Championship was around the waist of one… James Raven. And a month after I was banished for being sick, I was still the focal point of their showdown. I was still lodged in their minds, still deep-dicking their insides. That was my legacy. And James, as pretty as he is, just couldn’t figure out how to beat the coward who looks less a champion and more the swollen tip of a freshly-circumcised dick. But you had a chance to correct his failure - you could’ve learned from his mistakes - you should’ve rewound back to Heat Wave to see how it’s done. You chose love over success. XWF is another organization that’s been around for two-decades; thankfully, they’re a little lighter on the historical misogyny. Women have made their marks, they have climbed to the top of the mountain; and still, you’ve failed to deliver. You might have been their Shooting Star Champion, but do you know what happens to those rapid-flying meteorites that we see on a crystallized night? They don’t travel to impossible destinations, “Impossible Traveler.” Cute nickname, by the way. They evaporate. They vanish. That momentary symbol of a wish granted; yet disintegrating and disappearing into ether. Corey Black - you remember him, don’t you? - isn’t the only one who challenged the world. Who wanted the best in the industry to bring the fight to him. I wanted to give women the chance, to set the example, and - despite the detracting words of a few - I did. I inspired a college student to throw herself into a ring, caution to the wind - no matter the danger, the disregard - and she did the impossible. She won the Cruiserweight Championship, the first woman to hold that belt in two years. I brought the best out of Regan Voorhees, who not only has channeled her victory over me into three Cruiserweight Championships, but has been granted opportunities at the top two belts in this organization. She’s doing the impossible. I fought Bonnie Blue, a three-time World Champion, in one of the most iconic dream matches in the history of this industry. We busted through every ceiling, we shattered every glass window - our groundbreaking performance necessitated another first: an announcement of her Hall of Fame induction, which is still a year away. We... did the impossible. Kat Hastings. Cheyenne Walker. Aphriya Adler. Jill Park. Addy Ainsworth. Even Ash Blake. They owe the success they’ve already had, and the hype they’re generating now, to me. I don’t resent them for it, not by a long-shot. Again, this is what I’ve always wanted; to represent something bigger than myself. To be the first name on the tips of your tongues - just like I was back in December for a championship I would never win again. I inspire the impossible. Is that why you accepted this match, Betsy? Do you finally understand it now? I didn’t set the pace - I didn’t break records - I didn’t sprint laps so you could lightly jog with a mirror in one hand and a White Claw in the other. You are the third crack at #QueensDoingQueenShit, but after further consideration, I don’t think you’re cut out for the challenge. You’ve been a fucking black-eye on everything I’ve ever wanted to bring to this sport, mostly because you don’t care. That Transcedental-who-gives-a-fuck, “Miami Vice”-looking bullshit you’re carrying around in OCW? You’re about to lose that shit to the same albatross that’s been hanging around the perfect couple’s neck since December. It’s fucking sickening, Betsy, that the same Corey Black who neutered your beau two months ago - the same Corey Black who’s crying into his fucking Cheerios every morning because I cost him the World Championship - this same Corey Black decided to blow up your phone to set me up against a Desperate Housewive whose only claim to fame is diddling goat balls every night before bed. The Final Girl Battle Royale was a staple at XIII - until now. Until Action Wrestling finally delivered a female icon who could carry this company on her fucking back. You think this match was signed on account of you? No, honey - you could continue playing grab-ass with Atara Themis or having pillowfights with Vhodka Black and it wouldn’t make a fucking difference. If you hadn’t batted your pretty-little-eyes at Corey Black, do you think you’d still be called for this show? You wouldn’t. I would. This is my turf. You might carry a torch in a company of half-pint bitches like Ciela Luiz and Dolly Waters… but you’ll never hold a candle to Lissie fuckin’ Hope. I’m the fucking trailblazer, never letting any man dictate what I do and how far I go. I may not have the perfect boyfriend, but I strive for perfection regardless of him. I’m here to be fucking extraordinary; you’re here to stroke his fucking ego. I once wondered what it was like to be married. If you’re the future example, I’m fucking disgusted. You’re a sideshow. The pretty face to parade in front of the lens because the man needs a fucking trophy. You’re an accessory, on-par with the dozens of championship belts he’s won - and lost. Why am I going in on James Raven so hard? You might be asking yourself that question. I fucked James Raven once. Hard. Raw. I fucked James Raven in a way you couldn’t even fathom. Because he knows, deep down, that he’s always going to depend on the safety of being the great man standing in front of the unfulfilled woman. You give him that purpose, that validation, with your antiquated mentality and your husky housewife name. But he expected more of me - he knew an icon when he saw it. I didn’t offer him the satisfaction. He needed the formula - I deprived him of it. He needed the dark cloud emptied - I poured water on hot oil. You could never deliver the recipe to winning a World Championship, and bitch, I ain’t Martha Stewart. I’m not here to show you what’s missing. You can keep that fucking boat-show that he placated you with. You must do fabulous things with his asshole. But you don’t get to piss on my turf. These are my stomping grounds. I’ve made XIII my bitch, winning a tag-team barbed-wire ropes match two editions ago, and chipping four of my ex-partner’s teeth after I punched through her fucking jaw last November. James should be so lucky that I never got in the ring with him - with that anger in my soul, you wouldn’t have had a dick to play with after I was finished. I wanted to respect you, Betsy, I wanted to welcome you to Action Wrestling. I hope you enjoyed your time on the red carpet. All your getting from me is a fucking ambulance ride.
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