A/N; Hello, all. This is my first Wrestling fic, but not my first in general. This story does not follow a cerain timeline, nor will it necessarily include present or recent storylines. I kind of just had this idea and it needed to be written, regardless of the state of the WWE. Lol. :)
The Royal Rumble was nearing its end. Sweaty, bloody wrestlers passed by me as they were eliminated, some of them wishing me luck on my outing, most of them not speaking for the pain they were enduring. Sure, what we do is what a lot of people consider to be fake, but what they don't know or care to learn is that we take those hits, we know what it feels like to have a chair slam against our backs, we fall off the top rope and land on the ground that may be padded, but doesn't save our insides from being jarred and becoming inflamed. My adrenaline pumped overtime and I started bouncing on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The crowd erupted in cheers as another wrestler was cast out of the ring, and I knew my time was coming shortly. I spread my feet wide apart and bent over, keeping my legs straight, touching the ground with my palms and moving back and forth to stretch my muscles. One could never stretch enough.
"Ready for ya, Melody," one of the stagehands called.
I jogged toward the entrance, maintaining the springs in my feet, keeping my energy level up. I wouldn't be doing a whole lot; my bit was considered light compared to most Royal Rumble scripts, but there was always a great risk of injury no matter what you were doing. Also the hype usually got to me; the excitement of being on stage in front of a live audience, on live television, during a PayPerView show! The stimulation was always there, and it was almost enough to keep me going twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year, though sometimes I needed a little extra help.
The buzzer droned throughout the arena, the stagehands gave me the go ahead, and I pulled my black hood up over my head. I stepped out onto the platform to an eruption of hollers, whistles, applause, and boos. Personally, I never liked being liked. I was way better at being a Heel than a Face because a lot of times people assumed I was the same person as my character of Melody Lane: arrogant, prideful, vengeful, hateful … and any other negative adjective ending in ful, all of which kept fans at a distance, save for the few diehards, whom I always granted an autograph, picture, and a hug. I appreciated and loved my fans, but I did not appreciate nor love anytime when I couldn't walk down the street without being noticed or go to a damn McDonald's without kids begging for my attention. The lights landed on me as the final opponent to enter the Royal Rumble, and I stood at the end of the ramp, hands on my hips where I wore a pair of spandex shorts that left nearly nothing to the imagination, listening to the mixed reaction my presence gained.
Damn, I loved my job. If it could be described as a job. I showed up, wrestled around with friends, got paid an obscene amount of money, and was told to look glamorous while I did it. In my opinion, what we did couldn't be called a job or work. Occupation was probably the correct term, but who cares? I loved what I did and I wasn't going to give it up anytime soon.
The several contenders still left in the ring paid me no mind, which was fine. I had time to stand in the spotlight and listen to the thousands who'd paid to see us, a small percentage having paid to see me, and I reveled in it, my emerald eyes shining as they passed over the sea of arms and signs. Once Alberto del Rio was tossed over the top rope by The Miz, I noticed my cue maybe a little too late and started down the ramp at a leisurely pace as if I didn't care, as if I had no real intention to compete at all. I still had not been noticed by anyone in front of me, and I took hold of the bottom rope, bringing my boots onto the ring, and held myself in that awkward position for a few seconds, rocking back and forth, eyes like that of a predator stalking its prey. I then vaulted into the ring, the sound of my boots stomping my landing giving away my position, and the remaining two Divas put me in their crosshairs. The both of them charged me, and just before they were going to pounce on me, I dropped into a straddle, my pelvic bone screaming at me as I landed too hard on the stage, and the women flew over me, landing on the padded floor, eliminated. The cheers took over the boos.
Dolph Ziggler bounced over the top rope, nearly holding on but slipping at the last minute. That left me with The Miz and Cody Rhodes. As a fan of the show, I'd have been happy with either of them winning, but we had a script and an endgame to stick to, which called for the three of us to stalk one another, affording me the time to metaphorically get my rocks off as I overlooked the two men before me. The Miz—Mike—was my favorite. He partied like I did, lived the life of a rich athlete like I did, and loved to fuck anywhere and everywhere he could like I did. He and I were perfect for each other in that we were perfectly wrong for each other. We indulged and we fed off of one another, both assuming that if the other did it, it was by default okay to do. Looking at him now, all I could think about was the party that would take place in our hotel room tonight that would probably include the other man in the ring with us. Cody Rhodes. His body was a bit more slight than Mike's, but still delicious, still edible, tan, fit, and his blue eyes were enough to knock a girl off her feet. He drank with us quite a bit, more so lately, and he had me thinking about the fact that Mike and I were not dating and he was single. Cody was fair game, regardless of how many times Mike and I had been caught having sex in numerous places, and I'd put my Lexus on the line that he would be down, too.
Returning to the show, I removed the hood from my head, the garment sliding sexily down my arms, and I glanced at the crowd over my shoulder, winking. A rhinestone encrusted bustier covered most of my upper half, but there wasn't much in the way of support. The boys' crouched positions loosened slowly as they both took in the sight of my body; waist-length black hair in a side braid, average chest, flat stomach that I worked hard to maintain, thick thighs, tan. Mike stared at me like he did right before he tossed me onto my back on the nearest flat surface and shoved his face between my legs, Cody's expression mirroring Mike's. I approached the two of them, not making my intentions clear until I wrapped my hand around the back of Cody's head, and his eyes were smoldering, the heat between us unbearable, but I kissed him anyway. His hand seared the skin on my thigh as he squeezed my flesh, and the whole arena disappeared for one wonderful second while I backed him up toward the ropes. I reluctantly pulled away, his fluttering eyelids not lost on me, and I smiled, waved, before shoving him backward so that he flipped over the top rope. Eliminated.
The crowd roared, half in disdain, half with excitement, as I turned to Mike, brow arched. He wore the same dubious expression on his face, watching me as I crawled out of the ring, ousting myself from the Royal Rumble. I blew a kiss up to him, defining our position and the path our storylines were taking, which had partly been our idea as well as the writers who saw chemistrybetween us, and I stepped over Cody Rhodes, heading backstage with a pleased smile on my face.