Post by “The Better Man” Warren Kidd on May 30, 2024 20:59:23 GMT
Against all the odds, against every single expectation anybody ever had for him, and even against every single expectation he’d ever had for himself, Warren Harper had achieved the fucking impossible. He had finally not only beaten his indisputably better half, clean in the middle of the ring, but he’d done it on the grandest stage of them all, Night of the Immortals. More than that, for the first time in his career, Dean Harper had given up. Dean had submitted. Dean had never allowed himself to be rendered utterly helpless before, Dean was always in control, especially with Warren.
The sheer enormity of Dean Harper’s ultimate concession could not be understated. Dean had given him the match of his life, and in the end it was Warren who had emerged not only as the better man on the night, but also now the best man in the fucking world, and now he had the fourteen pounds of gold and leather to prove it.
The main event contest had taken a hell of a lot out of him, sleep had come to him the easiest it ever had in literal years when he had gotten back to his Imperial room at the Waldorf Astoria. Now he felt worthy of being here, in this five star accommodation. He was the Champion, on top of the world. Nothing could kill his mood on this glorious Monday morning in the beautiful city of Rome.
It had just gone half past six and Warren rolled out of bed, practically bouncing on his feet. Shea was still asleep in the bed next to his, so he did his best not to disturb her as he almost danced into the en-suite shower. He took his time, almost languishing in the luxury of a warm baptism. He felt reborn, swaying under the water to a tune only he heard. His mind replayed the ecstasy of hearing Alison Valance announce him as the new World Champion.
Even the rhythmic monotony of brushing his teeth felt like the best two minutes of his life right now. Before, Warren had always wondered exactly what Dr Griffiths had meant when he had insisted that Warren needed to try and find joy in the mundane and the ordinary. Now he started to get it, life was fucking beautiful. It really was.
After the most rejuvenating shower of his life, a moment of pure insanity gripped him and he stepped out of the shower completely naked, and unzipped the black duffel bag at the foot of the bed. He squatted down and fished out the most precious World Championship he had ever earned in his career, took a moment to caress his beloved’s name which still adorned it. He smiled at his distorted reflection in the metallic shine of it and stood up. He secured the title belt around his waist, took a few moments to revel in the feel and weight of it.
He quickly decided that it was all he needed to make himself feel decent. He grabbed his phone from the bedside, opened up his text messages to Dean and saw the last exchange was a medical selfie with a notification that Dean was being kept overnight for observation, whilst they ran tests on his knee since the pain still hadn’t subsided and he was still limping, apparently.
Warren swallowed past the anxiety that he may well have finally broken the unbreakable Dean Harper, and stepped out onto the balcony and against the gorgeous backdrop of Italian architecture snapped a selfie of himself wearing nothing but the World Championship, complemented by the most confident smolder he could muster. He hoped the camera captured just how hot he felt right now, and there was only one person he wanted to share his peak sex appeal with right now.
He countered Dean’s downbeat medical update with the most baited of any thirst trap he’d ever shared with his loving husband. The accompanying message was simple, elegant.
You: Good Morning. Thinking of you.
Warren’s grin only widened as he imagined the look on Dean’s face. He sent it quickly, and his heart skipped a beat in anticipation of the response. He hoped it made Dean feel a little better about all he had sacrificed for them last night.
Dean’s response was almost immediate.
Sweetness: God, that looks fucking incredible on you.
You: Thanks, it FEELS incredible too.
Sweetness: As it should. I’ll admit it’s a nice present after getting released from the hospital.
You: Least I could do, especially after everything we’ve been through over the last few months.
Sweetness: Want to come to my room and talk about that actually?
You: Hospital room or hotel room? Have you been discharged?
A selfie of Dean in the hotel elevator wearing the same outfit from the night before popped up in response.
Sweetness: Just got an Uber here. Figured Damien can spend the day with the sitter while we talk.
You: Oh okay, don’t come up here. I’ll come to you. Give me ten minutes to get dressed.
Warren knew he’d only get a stern lecture from Shea if he invited Dean up here. At times she sounded more like his mother, fiercely protective. It would be quite a turn on if she saw him as anything more than her best friend, but she didn’t. Warren sighed, pushed down those complicated feelings that would never be returned, and convinced himself that Shea’s loss would be Dean’s gain, especially with how delicious he felt right now.
Dean’s reply pinged and cut off Warren’s thoughts before he strayed too far from home, too far from safety, security, familiarity and dependability. Dean was everything Shea would never be, he conceded with an awkward swallow. Warren barely registered Dean’s message.
Sweetness: Should be enough time for me to get showered and dressed too. Hate hospitals, the cleanliness makes me gag.
You: Great, see you soon, Sweetness.
Warren’s heart fluttered as soon as he saw Dean again. Freshly showered, a towel draped over his lean shoulders, shorts on, shirtless. A living thirst trap himself, Warren thought. He was so taken by the vision in the doorway, he didn’t notice the knee brace immediately, not until his eyes inevitably drifted downward, taking all of Dean in.
“Let me grab a shirt,” Dean said. “Then we can talk.”
Dean’s devilish smile sent blood pulsing through Warren’s ears. A fresh warmth flushed through his cheeks as he caught himself staring. He blinked to refocus and ground himself. They were just here to talk, he reminded himself.
“Sure, take your time, Sweetness,” Warren quickly stepped into Dean’s room. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Dean dried his hair, walked over to the dresser and grabbed a shirt, “I’m sorry,” he said, earnestly. “I shouldn’t have baited you with such low-hanging fruit. But sometimes, instinct just takes over, you know?” He started to fiddle nervously with his buttons as he rambled an explanation Warren had heard a thousand times before. “I’m not Rowan’s weapon anymore, I don’t need to obey her programming to see every opponent as somebody who needs to be torn down, like she tore me down. I’m better than that. I need to be better than that.”
“Yeah, you do, Sweetness. She’s not here to control you anymore, remember?” Warren reaffirmed as he held both Dean’s shaky hands in his own, with a renewed strength of his own. “We are more than what haunts us, aren’t we? We’ve spent months at each other’s throats. We’ve forgotten how and why we fell in love in the first place, and for that I’m truly sorry, Dean. You deserve so much better from me.”
“You deserve better from me too,” Dean’s face softened, his smile brightened. “God, I love you. I’ve tried so hard not to, but I can’t. I can’t end this, if that’s what you want. Even after everything we’ve done, everything we’ve said. I’m just not strong enough. I never have been when it comes to you. I wish I was, it would be easier to let you go be happy then, happier than I can ever make you, anyway.”
“Honey, stop. You’re rambling again,” Warren said, pressing a finger gently against Dean’s lips. “I love you too, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It felt fucking great to finally get the monkey off my back when I beat you last night, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t second guess the true cost of my victory, after I got your medical update text. I wish you’d tapped sooner, you’d not need the brace then. I’m sorry, I couldn’t live with myself if I’d ended your career. No World Championship is worth that to me. I’m hyper competitive, yes, but I’m not a complete monster.”
Dean laughed softly, kissed Warren’s finger before he withdrew it, “I promise, It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll be fine. See?” Dean put pressure on his right leg to prove it, “Barely hurts at all, this morning.”
“No permanent damage, then? Thank God for that,” Warren breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Lucky break, huh?”
“Very.” Dean seemed nervous, “So we’re good, right? You said some things in your promo, things I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Did you mean any of it, really? Be honest. You owe me that much, at least.”
“I know what I said,” Warren said softly. “You sure you can truly forgive me for pushing the buttons I did? I was stupid, desperate. I needed to beat you and didn’t think I ever would. I didn’t know what else to do, but play a little dirty, like you always do. I never understood why, but now I do. It’s fun to have no filter sometimes. I feel like I understand you more now than I ever have before.”
“Of course I can.” Dean stepped forward, confidently touched Warren’s chest and sent tingles through his shirt. “I’m glad you got a taste of how fun it is being me. There’s so much fucking freedom in it, it’s unbelievable.”
“I don’t fucking deserve you,” Warren whispered, Dean’s shirt still hung off him, unbuttoned. “I’m willing to start over if you are, real dates and everything if you want. Only condition is we stop rage-baiting each other. There’s other healthier ways to get my attention when you need it. I’m not good at punishing you when you act out and get all bratty.”
“I’m willing to try dating again. Really try to go back to where we were before, emotionally.” Dean licked his lower lip, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get a handle on my bratty impulses if you promise not to shut me out again, please? I need to know what you’re feeling. I promise I won’t get mad about it, even if I don’t like it. I’m not John, I love you for who you are, not who I wish you were. My love is completely unconditional.”
Warren was brought almost to tears by the fact that Dean still loved him. The gravity and weight of their mutual emotional unloading pulled them inevitably into a deep passionate kiss that quickly cost Dean his shirt. Warren pulled it off him without breaking their first real kiss in months. Instinct overcame sense as they fell not only backwards onto Dean’s bed, but also into the same old habits that always seemed to drive their entire relationship and bring them back into balance whenever they drifted too far apart.
For Warren, Dean Harper was more than good enough, he was the best he’d ever get. Warren now had everything he deserved and everything he didn’t. Life was finally fucking fantastic. They could start over. Everything was right with the world yet again. Dean’s predictability had never been a bad thing, not when there was dependable safety and comfort still to be found in his husband’s eternally warm and loving, endlessly forgiving embrace.
Just like old times.
The sheer enormity of Dean Harper’s ultimate concession could not be understated. Dean had given him the match of his life, and in the end it was Warren who had emerged not only as the better man on the night, but also now the best man in the fucking world, and now he had the fourteen pounds of gold and leather to prove it.
The main event contest had taken a hell of a lot out of him, sleep had come to him the easiest it ever had in literal years when he had gotten back to his Imperial room at the Waldorf Astoria. Now he felt worthy of being here, in this five star accommodation. He was the Champion, on top of the world. Nothing could kill his mood on this glorious Monday morning in the beautiful city of Rome.
It had just gone half past six and Warren rolled out of bed, practically bouncing on his feet. Shea was still asleep in the bed next to his, so he did his best not to disturb her as he almost danced into the en-suite shower. He took his time, almost languishing in the luxury of a warm baptism. He felt reborn, swaying under the water to a tune only he heard. His mind replayed the ecstasy of hearing Alison Valance announce him as the new World Champion.
Even the rhythmic monotony of brushing his teeth felt like the best two minutes of his life right now. Before, Warren had always wondered exactly what Dr Griffiths had meant when he had insisted that Warren needed to try and find joy in the mundane and the ordinary. Now he started to get it, life was fucking beautiful. It really was.
After the most rejuvenating shower of his life, a moment of pure insanity gripped him and he stepped out of the shower completely naked, and unzipped the black duffel bag at the foot of the bed. He squatted down and fished out the most precious World Championship he had ever earned in his career, took a moment to caress his beloved’s name which still adorned it. He smiled at his distorted reflection in the metallic shine of it and stood up. He secured the title belt around his waist, took a few moments to revel in the feel and weight of it.
He quickly decided that it was all he needed to make himself feel decent. He grabbed his phone from the bedside, opened up his text messages to Dean and saw the last exchange was a medical selfie with a notification that Dean was being kept overnight for observation, whilst they ran tests on his knee since the pain still hadn’t subsided and he was still limping, apparently.
Warren swallowed past the anxiety that he may well have finally broken the unbreakable Dean Harper, and stepped out onto the balcony and against the gorgeous backdrop of Italian architecture snapped a selfie of himself wearing nothing but the World Championship, complemented by the most confident smolder he could muster. He hoped the camera captured just how hot he felt right now, and there was only one person he wanted to share his peak sex appeal with right now.
He countered Dean’s downbeat medical update with the most baited of any thirst trap he’d ever shared with his loving husband. The accompanying message was simple, elegant.
You: Good Morning. Thinking of you.
Warren’s grin only widened as he imagined the look on Dean’s face. He sent it quickly, and his heart skipped a beat in anticipation of the response. He hoped it made Dean feel a little better about all he had sacrificed for them last night.
Dean’s response was almost immediate.
Sweetness: God, that looks fucking incredible on you.
You: Thanks, it FEELS incredible too.
Sweetness: As it should. I’ll admit it’s a nice present after getting released from the hospital.
You: Least I could do, especially after everything we’ve been through over the last few months.
Sweetness: Want to come to my room and talk about that actually?
You: Hospital room or hotel room? Have you been discharged?
A selfie of Dean in the hotel elevator wearing the same outfit from the night before popped up in response.
Sweetness: Just got an Uber here. Figured Damien can spend the day with the sitter while we talk.
You: Oh okay, don’t come up here. I’ll come to you. Give me ten minutes to get dressed.
Warren knew he’d only get a stern lecture from Shea if he invited Dean up here. At times she sounded more like his mother, fiercely protective. It would be quite a turn on if she saw him as anything more than her best friend, but she didn’t. Warren sighed, pushed down those complicated feelings that would never be returned, and convinced himself that Shea’s loss would be Dean’s gain, especially with how delicious he felt right now.
Dean’s reply pinged and cut off Warren’s thoughts before he strayed too far from home, too far from safety, security, familiarity and dependability. Dean was everything Shea would never be, he conceded with an awkward swallow. Warren barely registered Dean’s message.
Sweetness: Should be enough time for me to get showered and dressed too. Hate hospitals, the cleanliness makes me gag.
You: Great, see you soon, Sweetness.
~~~
Most probably for the first time in his life, Warren Harper felt invincible, truly untouchable. He was the brand new Imperial Wrestling Federation World Champion, and that meant freedom, pure, unadulterated liberation. He could go anywhere, do anything. The world was his, and nobody was going to tell him how to live his best life. Nobody else was going to put him in a neat little box of expectations anymore and nobody else was going to define his boundaries, his character or his personality again. Only he got to decide which lines he crossed and how far he went against any opponent.
A simple black and white morality would no longer choke the life out of him. He would take each opponent on a case by case basis. If he deemed them worthy of his respect, they would get it. If however, he deemed them unworthy, he’d tell them to fuck right off. He no longer believed in the simple naivety of being good or being bad. Such limited binary principles had always held him back, not just in his career but in his life. Such self-imposed restrictions had kept him from beating Dean before and kept him from seriously applying himself long enough to reach the top of the mountain again, just like his father before him. Rather than be constrained to the purity of black or white, he would float in the murkiest gray, just because it was more fun.
After all, why not? Why shouldn’t he just fucking enjoy himself for a change?
On a whim, Warren had decided to visit the one place in Rome that unsettled him more than any other, the Vatican Museums. His triumph over his beloved husband had fostered within him a brand new unshakable bravery. He couldn’t avoid faith forever, nobody was asking him to embrace his Catholicism again, but he could at least accept God’s place in his fucked up life, couldn’t he?
He was about to find out.
He stood uneasy directly before The Baptism Of Christ painting in the Sistine Chapel. He wore a black Dean Harper tank top, altered to read ‘MY Favorite Bitch’ instead of ‘Everyone’s Favorite Pyschopath.’ Warren’s hair and beard was trimmed and neat. For the first time in years, he both looked and felt like a Champion at the top of his game. Warren adjusted the most comfortable and precious fourteen pounds he’d ever had the privilege to carry over his right shoulder - the World Championship, and winked at the camera, which loved him almost as much as Warren loved himself, right now.
Best of luck in the Heir to the Throne, Sweetness. Maybe if you make it through, we can do this waltz again.
Couldn’t resist, but then that’s our relationship in a nutshell, isn’t it, honey?
I told you months ago that it really didn’t matter, you were mine and mine alone, and last Sunday, I not only proved it to you, but the entire fucking world on the biggest stage ever in our industry. I said you couldn’t kill me, and I said I couldn’t quit you and now, I stand before all of my peers, an undeniable man of my word. As professional wrestlers, the very best of us are conditioned to leave everything in that ring anytime we step between the ropes, and I’d say that after the main event match you gave me, you and me honey, we did exactly that and so much more.
And for that Dean, sugar, I just wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for baiting me, and for beating me so decisively in every other one on one match we’ve ever had, that you left me with no choice but to push myself to the next level, personally and professionally. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but now I know without all your needling and without all your cajoling, I would have never gotten exactly the fire lit under my ass to truly meet you as an equal in that ring. I have a new love and appreciation for why you do what you do to unsettle your opponents, in many cases having beaten them already, well in advance of the opening bell.
I was a fool to ever condemn such obviously effective psychological manipulation.
It’s gratifying to know that you’re not immune to your own silver bullet, lover.
For years, I’ve blinded myself to the subtle art of the mind fuck. I thought I could offset any disadvantage I had by playing by the rules religiously, with sheer athletic prowess and honour. For years I convinced myself that I was beyond muddying the waters, and could succeed without a few key plays from my dearly departed father’s playbook. What a fucking fool I was, to stubbornly ignore the litany of knowledge he was trying to impart just because his wisdom was in conflict with my sense of binary morality. Fuck the absolute mundanity of black and white, especially when there’s objectively so much more fun to be had languishing in the grey.
I look around with fresh eyes now and it’s readily apparent that you can’t make an impact in this business without a certain willingness to colour outside the lines every once in awhile. I mean, in over 11 years, how many truly good guys became megastars in this company? How many are still active? How many succeeded by staying that way throughout their entire career?
Not a single fucking one.
Even the absolute best Boy Scout this business has ever seen, Andrew Jacobsen had a brief turn to the dark side as Alex Jones’ head cheerleader in Body Count, and where is he now? For years, he held the record as the longest reigning Men’s World Champion in this company, yet is he truly regarded as one of the all time greats around here? Is he hailed in the same breath as Angel Blake or Dean Harper?
Hell no, nowadays he is just another cog in the machine that got utterly spent.
That won’t be me, I bloody well promise you that.
When the curtain finally falls on my career, I will be remembered for so much more.
~~~
Most probably for the first time in his life, Warren Harper felt invincible, truly untouchable. He was the brand new Imperial Wrestling Federation World Champion, and that meant freedom, pure, unadulterated liberation. He could go anywhere, do anything. The world was his, and nobody was going to tell him how to live his best life. Nobody else was going to put him in a neat little box of expectations anymore and nobody else was going to define his boundaries, his character or his personality again. Only he got to decide which lines he crossed and how far he went against any opponent.
A simple black and white morality would no longer choke the life out of him. He would take each opponent on a case by case basis. If he deemed them worthy of his respect, they would get it. If however, he deemed them unworthy, he’d tell them to fuck right off. He no longer believed in the simple naivety of being good or being bad. Such limited binary principles had always held him back, not just in his career but in his life. Such self-imposed restrictions had kept him from beating Dean before and kept him from seriously applying himself long enough to reach the top of the mountain again, just like his father before him. Rather than be constrained to the purity of black or white, he would float in the murkiest gray, just because it was more fun.
After all, why not? Why shouldn’t he just fucking enjoy himself for a change?
On a whim, Warren had decided to visit the one place in Rome that unsettled him more than any other, the Vatican Museums. His triumph over his beloved husband had fostered within him a brand new unshakable bravery. He couldn’t avoid faith forever, nobody was asking him to embrace his Catholicism again, but he could at least accept God’s place in his fucked up life, couldn’t he?
He was about to find out.
He stood uneasy directly before The Baptism Of Christ painting in the Sistine Chapel. He wore a black Dean Harper tank top, altered to read ‘MY Favorite Bitch’ instead of ‘Everyone’s Favorite Pyschopath.’ Warren’s hair and beard was trimmed and neat. For the first time in years, he both looked and felt like a Champion at the top of his game. Warren adjusted the most comfortable and precious fourteen pounds he’d ever had the privilege to carry over his right shoulder - the World Championship, and winked at the camera, which loved him almost as much as Warren loved himself, right now.
Best of luck in the Heir to the Throne, Sweetness. Maybe if you make it through, we can do this waltz again.
Couldn’t resist, but then that’s our relationship in a nutshell, isn’t it, honey?
I told you months ago that it really didn’t matter, you were mine and mine alone, and last Sunday, I not only proved it to you, but the entire fucking world on the biggest stage ever in our industry. I said you couldn’t kill me, and I said I couldn’t quit you and now, I stand before all of my peers, an undeniable man of my word. As professional wrestlers, the very best of us are conditioned to leave everything in that ring anytime we step between the ropes, and I’d say that after the main event match you gave me, you and me honey, we did exactly that and so much more.
And for that Dean, sugar, I just wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for baiting me, and for beating me so decisively in every other one on one match we’ve ever had, that you left me with no choice but to push myself to the next level, personally and professionally. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but now I know without all your needling and without all your cajoling, I would have never gotten exactly the fire lit under my ass to truly meet you as an equal in that ring. I have a new love and appreciation for why you do what you do to unsettle your opponents, in many cases having beaten them already, well in advance of the opening bell.
I was a fool to ever condemn such obviously effective psychological manipulation.
It’s gratifying to know that you’re not immune to your own silver bullet, lover.
For years, I’ve blinded myself to the subtle art of the mind fuck. I thought I could offset any disadvantage I had by playing by the rules religiously, with sheer athletic prowess and honour. For years I convinced myself that I was beyond muddying the waters, and could succeed without a few key plays from my dearly departed father’s playbook. What a fucking fool I was, to stubbornly ignore the litany of knowledge he was trying to impart just because his wisdom was in conflict with my sense of binary morality. Fuck the absolute mundanity of black and white, especially when there’s objectively so much more fun to be had languishing in the grey.
I look around with fresh eyes now and it’s readily apparent that you can’t make an impact in this business without a certain willingness to colour outside the lines every once in awhile. I mean, in over 11 years, how many truly good guys became megastars in this company? How many are still active? How many succeeded by staying that way throughout their entire career?
Not a single fucking one.
Even the absolute best Boy Scout this business has ever seen, Andrew Jacobsen had a brief turn to the dark side as Alex Jones’ head cheerleader in Body Count, and where is he now? For years, he held the record as the longest reigning Men’s World Champion in this company, yet is he truly regarded as one of the all time greats around here? Is he hailed in the same breath as Angel Blake or Dean Harper?
Hell no, nowadays he is just another cog in the machine that got utterly spent.
That won’t be me, I bloody well promise you that.
When the curtain finally falls on my career, I will be remembered for so much more.
~~~
Warren’s heart fluttered as soon as he saw Dean again. Freshly showered, a towel draped over his lean shoulders, shorts on, shirtless. A living thirst trap himself, Warren thought. He was so taken by the vision in the doorway, he didn’t notice the knee brace immediately, not until his eyes inevitably drifted downward, taking all of Dean in.
“Let me grab a shirt,” Dean said. “Then we can talk.”
Dean’s devilish smile sent blood pulsing through Warren’s ears. A fresh warmth flushed through his cheeks as he caught himself staring. He blinked to refocus and ground himself. They were just here to talk, he reminded himself.
“Sure, take your time, Sweetness,” Warren quickly stepped into Dean’s room. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Dean dried his hair, walked over to the dresser and grabbed a shirt, “I’m sorry,” he said, earnestly. “I shouldn’t have baited you with such low-hanging fruit. But sometimes, instinct just takes over, you know?” He started to fiddle nervously with his buttons as he rambled an explanation Warren had heard a thousand times before. “I’m not Rowan’s weapon anymore, I don’t need to obey her programming to see every opponent as somebody who needs to be torn down, like she tore me down. I’m better than that. I need to be better than that.”
“Yeah, you do, Sweetness. She’s not here to control you anymore, remember?” Warren reaffirmed as he held both Dean’s shaky hands in his own, with a renewed strength of his own. “We are more than what haunts us, aren’t we? We’ve spent months at each other’s throats. We’ve forgotten how and why we fell in love in the first place, and for that I’m truly sorry, Dean. You deserve so much better from me.”
“You deserve better from me too,” Dean’s face softened, his smile brightened. “God, I love you. I’ve tried so hard not to, but I can’t. I can’t end this, if that’s what you want. Even after everything we’ve done, everything we’ve said. I’m just not strong enough. I never have been when it comes to you. I wish I was, it would be easier to let you go be happy then, happier than I can ever make you, anyway.”
“Honey, stop. You’re rambling again,” Warren said, pressing a finger gently against Dean’s lips. “I love you too, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It felt fucking great to finally get the monkey off my back when I beat you last night, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t second guess the true cost of my victory, after I got your medical update text. I wish you’d tapped sooner, you’d not need the brace then. I’m sorry, I couldn’t live with myself if I’d ended your career. No World Championship is worth that to me. I’m hyper competitive, yes, but I’m not a complete monster.”
Dean laughed softly, kissed Warren’s finger before he withdrew it, “I promise, It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll be fine. See?” Dean put pressure on his right leg to prove it, “Barely hurts at all, this morning.”
“No permanent damage, then? Thank God for that,” Warren breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Lucky break, huh?”
“Very.” Dean seemed nervous, “So we’re good, right? You said some things in your promo, things I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Did you mean any of it, really? Be honest. You owe me that much, at least.”
“I know what I said,” Warren said softly. “You sure you can truly forgive me for pushing the buttons I did? I was stupid, desperate. I needed to beat you and didn’t think I ever would. I didn’t know what else to do, but play a little dirty, like you always do. I never understood why, but now I do. It’s fun to have no filter sometimes. I feel like I understand you more now than I ever have before.”
“Of course I can.” Dean stepped forward, confidently touched Warren’s chest and sent tingles through his shirt. “I’m glad you got a taste of how fun it is being me. There’s so much fucking freedom in it, it’s unbelievable.”
“I don’t fucking deserve you,” Warren whispered, Dean’s shirt still hung off him, unbuttoned. “I’m willing to start over if you are, real dates and everything if you want. Only condition is we stop rage-baiting each other. There’s other healthier ways to get my attention when you need it. I’m not good at punishing you when you act out and get all bratty.”
“I’m willing to try dating again. Really try to go back to where we were before, emotionally.” Dean licked his lower lip, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get a handle on my bratty impulses if you promise not to shut me out again, please? I need to know what you’re feeling. I promise I won’t get mad about it, even if I don’t like it. I’m not John, I love you for who you are, not who I wish you were. My love is completely unconditional.”
Warren was brought almost to tears by the fact that Dean still loved him. The gravity and weight of their mutual emotional unloading pulled them inevitably into a deep passionate kiss that quickly cost Dean his shirt. Warren pulled it off him without breaking their first real kiss in months. Instinct overcame sense as they fell not only backwards onto Dean’s bed, but also into the same old habits that always seemed to drive their entire relationship and bring them back into balance whenever they drifted too far apart.
For Warren, Dean Harper was more than good enough, he was the best he’d ever get. Warren now had everything he deserved and everything he didn’t. Life was finally fucking fantastic. They could start over. Everything was right with the world yet again. Dean’s predictability had never been a bad thing, not when there was dependable safety and comfort still to be found in his husband’s eternally warm and loving, endlessly forgiving embrace.
Just like old times.
~~~
A weaker man and a lesser Champion may well resent the fact that he has to defend the World Championship so soon after winning it. A weaker man and a lesser Champion may well worry about being beaten and exposed as a transitional World Champion. Hell, the timid idiot I was a couple years ago would have worried himself sick about developing too much of an unearned ego, and would have undoubtedly played right into the hands of an unfiltered egotist like Caleb Cannin.
But my personal life has been so drastically overturned in these last couple months that now I realise, for better or worse there’s absolutely no way I can feel fulfilled, going back to how things used to be for me. I am no longer the naive deer in the headlights, held hostage by some vastly overvalued moral virtues. If breaking the virtually unbreakable Dean Harper already didn’t make absolutely clear how much I’ve changed, I don’t know what will.
Last Sunday was so much more than another World Championship win for me.
Last Sunday I did the fucking impossible. I made the man I love my bitch.
I made the only man in this company with a superhuman pain threshold tap the fuck out. I made the only man the Devil herself handpicked as her Most Loyal give in. Idiots might choose to believe that the only reason he did that was to save our relationship, but that’s only because they don’t know Dean Harper as well as I know my beloved. The man has no sense of self preservation, and I know because I remember watching it being beaten out of him in Centralia. Dean Harper was conditioned to be almost impervious to physical pain and to ignore every flaming synapse that told him to spare himself the pain of every punishment Rowan MacDonnough ever subjected him to.
So many men over so many years have tried to humble Dean Harper. Hell my father went to his fucking grave trying to teach him a lesson in pain and humility, and in the end, it was I, Warren, not Spike who finally succeeded, and etched my name forever in the annals of professional wrestling history as the man who indisputably introduced the world to the man behind the reputation. I exposed Dean Harper’s humanity once and for all, I killed his mystique and frankly after doing something as monumental and career redefining as that, the idea that a one note loud mouth like Cannin can stop my momentum before it’s even really started is laughable and insulting.
I’m sorry but I really don’t see why I should respect a man whose greatest talents include yelling about “THE FUTURE” when he’s got nothing of note to say, and letting the clock almost run out on a golden ticket that he’s dawdled on for the better part of a whole fucking year.
Tell me Caleb, what exactly about your remarkable ability to sit on your ass and wait for your perfect moment should concern me? What exactly were you waiting for? I mean Christ, you already have an unfair advantage in that shaved gorilla of an associate of yours, Kilgore, so what exactly was the fucking hold up?
Why have you resigned yourself to being the least proactive Joker in the Pack since Mike fucking Laszlo? The only reason I can figure is that somewhere deep down you know as well as I do that you’re nothing but your own hype man. You may well have all the tools to one day be a World Champion in this company, but you’re not ready or willing to apply them or yourself in any way that matters. I’m not much of a betting man Caleb, but I’m willing to wager that had your hands not been tied by your contractual obligations, you’d have been quite content to just coast on that one moment for at least another year.
Who the fuck is Caleb Cannin without the Joker in The Pack?
Fuck if I know. Guess we’ll both find out this weekend, won’t we?
There’s only one Joker In The Pack contender who interests me and excites me as a potential challenger to my crown, and if fate is half as ironic as it is cruel, he may well join me in playing spoiler to your wildest pipe dream of becoming the man around here, and that is Allen Chaney. Let me assure you Allen, that I fully intend to be a World Champion of considerable merit and integrity, and as such should you manage to secure this year’s briefcase and cash in immediately to turn my match with Cannin into a triple threat, I won’t bitch and moan about it.
No, instead I’ll just applaud your moxie and relish another opportunity to show you once again exactly what you saw at High Stakes in the Roulette a couple months ago, and that is a brand new breed of World Champion and an indisputably better man.
The odds have been against me my whole fucking life, gentlemen.
The odds were against me at High Stakes, and they were against me yet again last Sunday. Nobody expected me to beat twenty-nine men to win the Roulette and yet I did. Nobody expected me to submit Dean Harper for the first time in his career and yet I did. Nobody ever expected me to become the World Champion for the second time in my career, and yet I am.
So by all means continue to define me by your expectations.
I live to fucking defy every last one of them.
And I always fucking will.
A weaker man and a lesser Champion may well resent the fact that he has to defend the World Championship so soon after winning it. A weaker man and a lesser Champion may well worry about being beaten and exposed as a transitional World Champion. Hell, the timid idiot I was a couple years ago would have worried himself sick about developing too much of an unearned ego, and would have undoubtedly played right into the hands of an unfiltered egotist like Caleb Cannin.
But my personal life has been so drastically overturned in these last couple months that now I realise, for better or worse there’s absolutely no way I can feel fulfilled, going back to how things used to be for me. I am no longer the naive deer in the headlights, held hostage by some vastly overvalued moral virtues. If breaking the virtually unbreakable Dean Harper already didn’t make absolutely clear how much I’ve changed, I don’t know what will.
Last Sunday was so much more than another World Championship win for me.
Last Sunday I did the fucking impossible. I made the man I love my bitch.
I made the only man in this company with a superhuman pain threshold tap the fuck out. I made the only man the Devil herself handpicked as her Most Loyal give in. Idiots might choose to believe that the only reason he did that was to save our relationship, but that’s only because they don’t know Dean Harper as well as I know my beloved. The man has no sense of self preservation, and I know because I remember watching it being beaten out of him in Centralia. Dean Harper was conditioned to be almost impervious to physical pain and to ignore every flaming synapse that told him to spare himself the pain of every punishment Rowan MacDonnough ever subjected him to.
So many men over so many years have tried to humble Dean Harper. Hell my father went to his fucking grave trying to teach him a lesson in pain and humility, and in the end, it was I, Warren, not Spike who finally succeeded, and etched my name forever in the annals of professional wrestling history as the man who indisputably introduced the world to the man behind the reputation. I exposed Dean Harper’s humanity once and for all, I killed his mystique and frankly after doing something as monumental and career redefining as that, the idea that a one note loud mouth like Cannin can stop my momentum before it’s even really started is laughable and insulting.
I’m sorry but I really don’t see why I should respect a man whose greatest talents include yelling about “THE FUTURE” when he’s got nothing of note to say, and letting the clock almost run out on a golden ticket that he’s dawdled on for the better part of a whole fucking year.
Tell me Caleb, what exactly about your remarkable ability to sit on your ass and wait for your perfect moment should concern me? What exactly were you waiting for? I mean Christ, you already have an unfair advantage in that shaved gorilla of an associate of yours, Kilgore, so what exactly was the fucking hold up?
Why have you resigned yourself to being the least proactive Joker in the Pack since Mike fucking Laszlo? The only reason I can figure is that somewhere deep down you know as well as I do that you’re nothing but your own hype man. You may well have all the tools to one day be a World Champion in this company, but you’re not ready or willing to apply them or yourself in any way that matters. I’m not much of a betting man Caleb, but I’m willing to wager that had your hands not been tied by your contractual obligations, you’d have been quite content to just coast on that one moment for at least another year.
Who the fuck is Caleb Cannin without the Joker in The Pack?
Fuck if I know. Guess we’ll both find out this weekend, won’t we?
There’s only one Joker In The Pack contender who interests me and excites me as a potential challenger to my crown, and if fate is half as ironic as it is cruel, he may well join me in playing spoiler to your wildest pipe dream of becoming the man around here, and that is Allen Chaney. Let me assure you Allen, that I fully intend to be a World Champion of considerable merit and integrity, and as such should you manage to secure this year’s briefcase and cash in immediately to turn my match with Cannin into a triple threat, I won’t bitch and moan about it.
No, instead I’ll just applaud your moxie and relish another opportunity to show you once again exactly what you saw at High Stakes in the Roulette a couple months ago, and that is a brand new breed of World Champion and an indisputably better man.
The odds have been against me my whole fucking life, gentlemen.
The odds were against me at High Stakes, and they were against me yet again last Sunday. Nobody expected me to beat twenty-nine men to win the Roulette and yet I did. Nobody expected me to submit Dean Harper for the first time in his career and yet I did. Nobody ever expected me to become the World Champion for the second time in my career, and yet I am.
So by all means continue to define me by your expectations.
I live to fucking defy every last one of them.
And I always fucking will.
Well howdy there pardner.