You knew the match was going to go south when you saw the two other members of British Strong Style march down the ramp during the Progress title match between Zack and Pete Dunne.
Marty had tried to get you to stay put, but you had just danced around him and charged out. This was something Zack had been working towards for months and you’d be damned if you let it end like this.
In hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have gone out alone, even with a steel chair as an equalizer. You’d gotten a couple of licks in, before being sent to the mat with a boot to the face. You were dazed, head having just bounced off the mat, but there was no mistaking the shout of rage from Zack’s direction. The members of British Strong Style were smart in clearing the ring and then Zack’s concerned face was swimming in your vision.
Seth was seemingly always stressed out. He was stressed because he never truly got the belt back when he came back from injury and now he wasn’t even slated to get a title match for a while. It bothered him a lot. So he was always pacing around, trying to plan out his next move.
When he had his fatal five way to determine the next number one contender, he was even more stressed than usual. He spent the whole time before his match freaking out in his locker room, pacing the floor. And when a stagehand came to tell him it was his time, his eyes got wide.
“We don’t have more time?” he begged, hair a mess.
“Sorry, sir. We don’t.” The stagehand seemed apologetic as he walked off, leaving Seth with me.
“Hey, hey,” I said, grabbing his face in my hands to keep him from freaking out. “You’ve got this, okay? You’re a great wrestler, you always have been. You can do this. Plus, you got a cute butt. And nobody can beat having that.”
That got a smile from him, and he nodded his head, encouraged. “I got this,” he muttered to himself as he walked away. You heard him add, “and a cute butt” right as the door closed behind him.
i just rewatched aladdin with the roommates and it got me thinking
aladdin wishes to be made a prince, but all genie does is get him a lot of stuff and money. that’s not what a prince is. a prince is the son of the king, someone in line for the throne. someone with a lot of money is just - rich. so what i think is:
genie goes okay, that’s a big one - and i can do it! but not on my own, not if you want to do it right. not if you truly want a chance to marry your princess for real, as a prince. and aladdin is a foolish, moral, kind boy - and he agrees. he’s fallen in love with jasmine, an innocent all encompassing love, and he’ll do anything for this sweet, clever girl he only knew for a few hours. so genie takes him across the desert, far from agrabah, and plops right in the middle of a skirmish and is like okay, good luck! and aladdin is like ?????
but there’s assholes with swords attacking a young girl, and aladdin doesn’t even have to think about that, just like when he stood in front of the whip for those little kids. there are three men against him, but he’s fast and clever and has been against a dozen trained palace guards. so it’s not easy to get out of there alive, especially with the little girl to protect, but he manages it with only a thin slice on his upper arm, and he’s endured worse for less. so he picks up the little girl and says “i think we should get out of here, hmm?” and she’s in a pretty red silk getup with tiny jewels encrusted on her like stars against sunset. and she nods and throws her arms around his neck. she won’t talk, only points in the direction of home, but aladdin’s okay with that, he’s used to quiet, scared kids. so he keeps up a steady stream of stories of agrabah, which seems almost like this other desert land. but there are more men with swords and aladdin is like what the fuck is going on, but he hides the girl in a corner and fights them too. and that’s how it goes all the way home. there’s no one on the streets really, and they all scatter when the men attack, and they keep on attacking, he fights his way all the way through the city with the girl on his hip or hidden away.
and he should have known, of course, but he was tired and bruised and bleeding by the time he realized the little girl is silently guiding him to the palace and he’s like why can’t you princesses stay inside??? but he walks up and the guards get one look at the child in his arms and whisk him through and multiple people try to take the girl away but she won’t budge from him, a stubborn pout to her lips as her hands remained locked behind his neck. and he’s finally tossed into a throne room where a tall old man is sitting in agony and two young men pace in front of him, each at least a decade older than aladdin. “they’ve taken our sister!” one of the younger men hiss, “i don’t care about their power or their connections, they’ve taken esfir, and we must go get her!”
“uh,” he clears his throat, “hi?”
and all three men whirl on him and the old man stumble-runs to him. esfir finally lets go of aladdin to picked up and twirled around by her father. the two men are rahim and shapur and they look in wonder at this dirty boy of fifteen who’s returned the girl to them, and he speaks with an accent and clearly is not from here and they get the story from him - he’s traveled across the desert because those in his own country want him dead. “you know,” rahim says as the king clutches at esfir in desperate relief, “you could have held her for ransom. you almost died saving her, and we would have paid handsomely to have her returned safely.”
and aladdin gives him a flat disapproving look, appearing in this moment four times his age, and says “people are not objects or bargaining chips. especially not lost little girls.” and rahim and shapur share an impressed conspiring look and they each grab one of his arms and lead him away. “hey! what are you -”
“do be quiet little brother,” shapur says cheerfully, “we really have to get you out of your rags.”
something about the good days and how they bring nostalgia under your tongue, like slick blood. something about how even winning is losing. how when you hit a high you’re gonna hit the low twice as hard.
the poems stopped coming and was that survival or a form of dying? you don’t know but when it’s late and the night presses in you don’t push back. there’s a weakness in that that makes you sick.
everything feels clumsy. the ink gets clogged in your throat and you forgot how to write the aching kind of poetry. the thick kind of poetry. there’s nothing in it anymore.
there’s nothing in it anymore.
When writing fantasy hierarchies—royal, noble, religious,
etc.—you don’t need to stick to pre-existing titles and hierarchical
If your system allows for same-sex marriage, perhaps there is
a specific title or titling system for the consort (the one who married in). There
may be a King and a Queen Consort or a Queen and a Prince Consort (or King
Consort or Prince), but you could have a specific alternative title for the
Prince Consort when you have a King or the Queen Consort when you have a Queen.
If the King or Queen has multiple official spouses, they can
have different titles that denote different levels of rank, importance, or
chronological joining the family. If there is a harem or are concubines, they
may have different titles, either from each other or from the official spouses.
Appointed nobles can have different titles than those who
are noble based on familial ties to the royal family.
Titles can be based on types of landholding, geographic
location, or other characteristics.
There can be innate titles and given titles, as well as
titles that can be taken away.
Religious titles don’t need to match Christian religious
titles, and religious hierarchies really shouldn’t look Catholic unless you’re
writing about Catholicism.
Just a shout out to one of the most underrated matches in WWE history in my opinion. When it comes to in-ring story telling, there aren’t many that top this one to me. Every time I watch it, even 15 years later, I still get drawn it.
“Arsenal have finished above Tottenham for more than two decades. Have won the Premier League title twice at White Hart Lane and the rivarly is just most intense than ever. Players that have played for both teams make the atmosphere electric when they return to play against their former team. Tottenham fans have never forgave then club captain Sol Campbell for leaving on a free transfer and he went on to become an Arsenal legend. When these players return to their old home grounds, they recieve plenty of abuse from the supporters and they want their team to win to get one over on the player and the other club. This is more than just a derby”.
It’d be a simple thing to answer Anders’s question, if Hawke didn’t know just how he’d make light of it.
Fenris knows things. Many things, about most things. He tells her of Rivain, and Par Vollen and Seheron and Nevarra, of the Fog Warriors and the Fog Dancers, the Orlesian nobility and the Antivan royalty, the Black Divine and the magisterium and the Circle in Minrathous. He tells her of Ashkaari Koslun and enough of the Qun to untwist the contemptuous curl of the Arishok’s mouth when she addresses him. “You hear much when people regard you as little more than furniture,” Fenris replies when she asks how he even knows all that, but that’s just him, she thinks: had it been her, she would have wasted away in idle fantasy, not learned foreign tongues or woven together the web of Thedosian politics from fragments of conversations.
After a lifetime of casting spells first and asking questions later, though, now she tries to understand instead—and when Fenris starts helping himself to her books after learning to read faster than she did the rules of diamondback, she cracks one open of her own for the first time since Lothering.
(Not a picture book and not a book about dragons. And not Hard in Hightown either, as far as Varric is concerned.)
Fenris never lies. He lied to Hadriana, if that can even be counted as such, but it’s because he broke his word that once that Hawke realises it’s only ever held true otherwise. Fenris only says what he means and always means what he says, and though his honesty has the sharp, serrated edges of rashvine nettle sometimes, once the welts have worn off she’s most often left having to admit that he has the truth of it—and when the entire Kirkwall nobility turns into lickspittles, trying to simper their way into the Champion’s good graces (or into her leathers), she comes to think of Fenris’s forthrightness as an uncut gem: perhaps not as pretty as a stone cut and set, but worth that much more.
Hawke, though? She’s—well, not a liar the way Varric is, but she skirts and shirks and twists the truth, maims and manhandles it, has perhaps even left it for dead a few times. At least with Fenris, though, truth comes to her a little easier.
(Anyway, she’d rather not suffer the smug look on his face whenever he pokes holes in her attempts at deceit.)
Fenris tempers her. With the city-wide revelation of her magic—now the Maker’s grace and not His curse—comes something that no title could ever match: the elation of being a known apostate yet untouchable, the unspeakable relief of the first breath after staying underwater a little too long, an intoxicating rush that she has to swim against lest it carry her too far from herself. It’s little things at first: her reveling in Cullen’s stammers and stutters, a casual mention of her magic to sway the nobles of the Keep her way, a misdirection hex cast to make some arsehole bumble off the pier for calling Merrill “knife ear.”
But when treading the line between freedom and excess becomes a balancing act worthy of an Antivan tightrope walker in the storm, when the line all but vanishes—then she has but to look at Fenris, branded with the hubris of mages, to be stirred away from the Void that sings to her.
(Alright—she can’t quite keep herself from teasing Cullen just to watch his nug-wheel brain run.)
The answer to Anders’s question is simple: Fenris makes her a better woman—perhaps even a good woman, when she wouldn’t be otherwise. “By being the perfect example of what not to do?” Anders would say, though, and it’s not that she doesn’t want to argue with him well into the next age—she just doesn’t have any breath left to waste when a certain elf keeps taking it away.
(She’d complain, but nowhere are her breaths, her heart and the truth of her answer safer than in Fenris’s hands, so she lets him have them.)
So—the sex, she jests instead. She’s with Fenris for the sex.
A/N: Yayyyy, happy Finn Fridays!!! So since I’m new to writing for the WWE fandom, I need some suggestions on who people would like me to write about and what! I’m thinking on giving a go at Seth Rollins next since he’s my cute puppy son who I adore. Also, if you’re into Game of Thrones or Teen Wolf, I also write stories about them as well. You can find them all on my masterlist!
Summary: When Finn asks Y/N who her favorite WWE wrestler is, he’s not too happy with her response, leading to their first fight as a couple.
Was it really something that needed to turn into a fight?
It was just an honest answer.
What was she supposed to do?
Lie? Make him feel good about himself?
She never had to do that for him before. He was the absolute best at everything he did; and there was no one that could tell him otherwise. Why was it that all of a sudden, he needed for her to tell him that?
They were sat on the couch when he first brought it up. Y/N had her head resting in his lap while Finn drew lazy circles into her bare shoulder. Both were quietly watching a UFC fight on the television in Finn’s condo per usual given the fact that Y/N lived farther from the city and gym they would both be at, at the crack of dawn.
Knowing their comfortable and happy routine by now, after this fight was over, the two of them would either turn on a movie or Y/N would head to the bedroom while Finn sat at the dining table and added a bit more to the Lego set he’d been working on. This time around, he was halfway through the Tower Bridge Y/N had gotten him for Valentine’s Day as a reminder of the city Finn had first met her in. When Y/N felt like she had waited long enough, she’d tip toe back out into the kitchen with nothing but one of his shirts and slide her hands from his shoulders down his hard chest. She’d always stand like that for a moment, letting him put a few more pieces on before finally tugging him out of his seat and leading him towards the bedroom. Not once did he ever argue, he knew well enough that she’d always win. Y/N was his weakness and he’d walk through fire just to please her.