#atticus cogar fanfiction

[indyimagines]

Enchanted

(Credit to the owner of this gif.)

“All I can say is, I was enchanted to meet you.”

Pairing - Atticus Cogar/OC

Warning - Fluff, mentions of deathmatch wrestling

Atticus Cogar was making his way towards the ring, the crowd roaring for him as “Heartbeats” by KING 810 echoed throughout the arena! Suddenly, those crowd roars turned to boos when Atticus was caught off guard and thrown to the ground by the vicious clothesline to the back followed up with some ground and pound! He tried to fight back, but Rickey was too much for him. Atticus was taking a beating, and he had no backup because Rickey had laid out the rest of the 44OH! before he came out here! Rickey was stomping, punching and throwing Atticus around the ringside area like a ragdoll, laughing and chuckling at the negative reaction he was getting from the crowd.

Atticus was able to slide into the ring to get away from the heinous attack of RSP but only for a few minutes. RSP threw up the ring apron skirt and went digging around before he pulled out a table, sliding it into the ring. Once he got the table into the ring, he started to set it up. Atticus took advantage of this moment and tried to hammer away on Rickey, the crowd firmly behind him, but Rickey with a cheap shot to knock Atticus down. Rickey was about to powerbomb Atticus through a table when suddenly, Rickey's little sister, Y/N, jumped over the barricade and into the ring! She chop blocked the back of Rickey’s knee, breaking his hold on Atticus! Atticus rolled away while Rickey bent down, holding onto his knee.

Y/N listened to the chants of the crowd, looking over at Atticus who was recovering in the corner before looking back at her big brother who looked shocked and betrayed once he saw who was the one to attack him. He went to say something but Y/N slapped him across the face before dropping him to the mat with a DDT! Rickey rolled out of the ring, holding onto his face while the crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and continued chants for Y/N! She rushed over to Atticus to check on him as we faded away to a commercial break. After the segment, backstage, Atticus was furious. Atticus turned to her, his eyes blazing with anger. "What were you thinking?" he snapped. "You had no business getting involved in that. You could have gotten hurt!"

Rickey's little sister stood her ground, undaunted by Atticus's anger. "I couldn't just stand there and watch you get hurt anymore," she said. "I had to do something!"

Atticus softened a bit, his rage turning to confusion. "But why?" he asked. "Why would you do something like that for me?"

Rickey's little sister took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "Because I care about you," she said. "I've cared about you since the day Rickey brought you in and started training you. I've watched you grow, and I've seen how hard you work. I couldn't just sit back and watch you get hurt."

For once in his life, Atticus was taken aback. He looked at her for a moment, studying her face. He saw determination and bravery in her eyes, and he felt a pang of something he couldn't quite identify. For a moment, they stood there in silence, both of them unsure of what to say next. But then Atticus made a decision. He stepped closer to Rickey's little sister.

Atticus's expression softened slightly, but he was still skeptical. "You barely know anything about me other than what you’ve seen," he said, his voice quieter now. "Why would you risk your own safety for someone you barely know?"

Rickey's little sister took a deep breath. "Because I see something in you that I've never seen in anyone else," she said, her eyes locked on his. "You have a fire in your heart that burns brighter than anyone I've ever met. I know that you're going to do great things in this business, and I want to be there to support you every step of the way."

Atticus was silent for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. He saw the tears in her eyes, the fierce determination in her expression, and the hope in her heart but he couldn’t bring himself to let her get closer. He stepped back and shook his head before he looked into her once determined, now turned sad, eyes. “You’ll turn out just like the others, Y/N. You’ll stand there and claim you support me but then when I let my guard down and actually let you in, you’ll put a knife in my back. I want to trust you…but I can’t.”

Before Y/N could even have the chance to respond, Atticus simply turned away from her and walked away. Leaving Y/N standing there, tears streaming down her face before she sunk down to the floor, bringing her knees up to her face as she sobbed. Gregory Iron and Eddy Only rushed over, sitting down beside her to comfort her. Eddy held her in a hug while Gregory tried his best to make light of the situation.

Later that week, it was announced that at the next show, Atticus Cogar and Rickey Shane Page would finally step into the ring to “settle their differences” but as we all know, in wrestling, nothing is ever truly one and done. Y/N knew this match would solve nothing, she knew no matter the result of the match, these two weren’t going to be satisfied and she also had a feeling Rickey was going to have something up his sleeve. She tried to plead with the company to let her be involved but they said for her safety, it was best she stay out of it. But of course, she wasn’t going to do what they told her.

The next month, the stage is set for the long awaited, highly anticipated match between Atticus and RSP. After many table bumps, light tubes shattering, skewers being embedded into foreheads and much more violence, Atticus Cogar defeated Rickey Shane Page in a grueling match, but he was attacked by Rickey in a fit of rage! Atticus was exhausted and caught off guard by the attack, unable to defend himself. Rickey was about to deliver a final blow…but Y/N ran down to the ring! She climbed onto the apron then onto the top rope before she jumped off and leaped onto Rickey's back, wrapping her arms around his neck in an attempt to choke him! Rickey struggled to shake her off, but she held on tight, refusing to let go.

Atticus, still dazed from the attack, watched in awe as Rickey's little sister fought to protect him. He saw the determination in her eyes, the fire in her heart, and he knew at that moment that she truly did care about him, more than he ever realized. Rickey suddenly got down to a knee, losing consciousness from the choke before he stopped moving completely and passed out. Rickey lay there, defeated, while his little sister stood over him. Atticus slowly got up, Atticus looked at her, she looked at him, Rickey's little sister took a deep breath. "I need you to know that I'm not like the others in your life," she said, her voice steady and unwavering. "I love you, Atticus, and I'll never betray you."

Atticus looked at her, his heart pounding. He felt a warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he had never experienced before. He saw the sincerity in her eyes, the depth of her love, and he knew that he felt the same way. He knew she was telling the truth. Without a word, he stepped forward and took her into his arms, holding her tight. And as they stood there, wrapped up in each other's embrace, he knew that he had found someone special, someone who would always be there for him, no matter what.

"I love you too," he whispered into her ear. "And I promise, I'll never let you down."

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Down in Flames

This is what I did with the request for a jealous Atticus fic. Hope that you like it and I hope I didn't get too dark with it. Set in the buildup to So Alive.

Pairing: Atticus Cogar x OFC

Word count: 5,729

Content advisory: graphic violence, psychological elements that some people may find upsetting

You often wonder if he’s aware of the effect he’s having on you when he stays next to you like this. He’s not stupid and he’s very perceptive, so it’s pretty much a given that he’s worked out how you feel about him. It seems more like he hasn’t worked out how he feels about you, so he keeps you close all the time while he’s making up his mind. Or he just really gets an ego boost out of being around someone who’s so obviously sweet on him.

The two of you are standing, not even talking, just leaning against a table and flipping through your phones while you wait to get some clarification on tonight’s line-up, timing, and other mundane details for the show. It’s not a small table but he’s pressed right up against you, your sides flush from the ribs down. He’s resting one hand behind him, so to anyone else in the room, it undoubtedly looks like he has his arm around you. Do people think you’re a couple? Hard to tell. If there’s gossip, no one repeats it to you, probably because they wouldn’t want it to get back to him. He sets everyone on edge, you included.

When you’d first seen Atticus Cogar at a grungy venue in the middle of a torrential downpour, your first thought was that he was unbelievably cute. By the end of the night, which had run late because there were flash flood warnings in effect until after midnight, you’d decided that he absolutely wasn’t cute but you were still attracted. He’d brutalized his opponent for the night and then sat sullenly by himself, like he couldn’t be bothered with any of you. You’d tried to think of a way to engage him in conversation but he proved way too intimidating.

As you were finally gathering your stuff to head out, though, he’d walked over and stood in front of you without a word. When you looked up, he gave you a quick once over and thrust his chin out.

“Cool shirt,” he grunted, indicating the band t-shirt you were wearing.

He walked off before you had a chance to reply.

That had apparently been enough to elevate you just slightly in his estimation because when you’d run into him at shows afterward, he’d at least been civil to you, which was more than anyone else got. A couple of months later, you’d been eating at a dirty spoon when he’d just plunked himself down in your booth, half-finished plate of food in hand.

“You live near me, right?” he muttered without even a greeting.

“I think so.”

“It’s stupid that we’re driving separately to these tiny shows. We could save money by going together and splitting the gas.”

“Yeah,” you stammered, trying to hide the excitement in your voice, “I guess that makes sense.”

“It definitely does.” As he spoke, he’d stretched one of his legs out under the table and for the rest of the time the two of you were there, it rested against yours.

So he was definitely sending signals that he was interested, right? Damned if you knew. In the time you’d known him, he’d become your closest friend, although sometimes it felt like you weren’t very close at all. You bonded over music and wrestling and a shared passion for breakfast. You liked a lot of the same movies so, when you weren’t on the road, you would frequently get together to watch some. And since you both had to stay in shape to do the same job, it made sense that you worked out together. If one of you was nursing an injury, it was easy for the other to be on call to help out. And, of course, you drove together to get to shows, which turned into sharing rooms because that would save money too. You’d slept in the same bed on many occasions, in hotels and at each other’s apartments. And while he was always nonchalant about it, he was almost aggressively affectionate with you, in public and in private. He was always touching you, leaning into you, even hugging you.

And that was it. You’d never once kissed, never touched each other in a sexual way, and your conversations seemed to stop short of really getting to know each other. You were forever in a state of intense agitation, being so close to what you wanted that you could literally touch it and yet things just never came together.

It’s not like there were other women. If any women ever approached him, they’d end up walking away in frustration because he would completely freeze them out. You wondered sometimes if he preferred men but it had started to seem like he just didn’t have a sexual bone in his body. More the pity for you.

There weren’t any other men in your life either. Sexual frustrations aside, you had the guy you wanted, so no one else was of much interest. Men tried to make moves on you from time to time, especially after shows, but they’d usually end up backing off because they’d get a look at Atticus lurking and get nervous he was going to kill them. You couldn’t really blame them because you’d seen the looks he’d give them. You wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of those either.

His reasoning is always that the guys hanging around shows are scumbags or dweebs and that you don’t want anything to do with them. The two of you joke a lot about the kind of guys who have audacity and delusional pride to hit on you. Maybe you’d flirt back with some of them if Atticus weren’t around but he’s always around and given the choice between platonic time with him and having a one night stand with anyone else, you’ll choose him every time.

He presses his face against your ear and whispers, “This is bullshit. Let’s go get something to eat.”

The sensation of his breath on your neck makes your insides quiver, as it always seems to, and you have to compose yourself before speaking.

“I have to wait for Jody to finish what she’s doing so we can block out our match.”

He sighs and pushes back a little. “Ok, give me your bag, I’m going to go check into the hotel. Text me when you’re finished and we can have dinner at that place down the street.”

He’s really supposed to stay here, you all are, because the promoter wants to run through a few things. But it’s true that you have been waiting for longer than you should, so you don’t try to persuade him to stay.

“Have you told him yet?”

The second Atticus is out of the room, Jordan Oliver is there in front of you, giving you a cheeky grin. You double-check to make sure no one’s looking.

“No,” you mutter, “I’m trying to delay that until the last possible moment.”

“Come on, he’s gonna find out soon enough and it really should come from you. I mean, you’re his friend, right?”

You shift your weight a little uncomfortably, scanning the room again to see if anyone is watching. They aren’t but you still feel like you’re on display.

“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” Jordan’s face gets a bit flushed.

“No, I’m in, it's only… things are so tense between you two and it's just…”

It’s just that you’re worried your erstwhile best friend is going to blow a gasket when he finds out that you’ve agreed to team with his biggest rival. You’re worried he’s never going to speak to you again.

Atticus and Jordan have had an escalating series of encounters over the last several months. The latest bout is scheduled for a few days’ time, with Atticus and his stablemate Eddy Only facing off against Jordan and a partner of his choosing. People are expecting that choice to be Nick Wayne, who’s also been the subject of attacks from your best friend but instead, Jordan asked you.

The easy answer to his question was “hell no”. But he’d persisted, pointing out that it would be a high profile match for you, something that you really needed because you were at risk of being expendable on GCW shows. So you’d acquiesced in the name of furthering your career, but there was also just a tiny part of you that did it because it felt like a way to force Atticus’s hand, to see how he’d react if he felt a bit threatened not by some schmuck trying to buy you a drink after a show but by another wrestler, someone you saw all the time.

However, you’d been unable to summon the nerve to tell Atticus about any of this.

“Are you absolutely sure you want me for this?” you whine. “Because there’s still time for you to get Nick or… anyone.”

“I know Nick would do it. I chose you.”

“You’re up against two killers, Jordan. You’re an amazing wrestler but you need someone who’s big and strong. You need a killer of your own.”

“No, I need someone who’s good. The two of us are way faster than either of them. We can hit moves they couldn’t dream of. It doesn’t matter how deadly they are, they can’t beat what they can’t catch.” He rests his hands on your shoulders which makes you nervously look around the room again. “You’re an amazing wrestler, you just haven’t had a proper chance to show it yet.”

You try to give him a little smile but it feels more like you just fold your face into an uncomfortable configuration.

“I have to go talk to Jody,” you tell him, nodding towards your opponent for the night. “I’ll tell him tonight, I promise.”

*

“What’s the matter?” Atticus nods at your plate. “You’re not eating.”

You push the toast through your congealing eggs. “It’s not as good as it usually is,” you lie.

“This is. Here, try it.” He carves off a bite of his steak and holds it out for you.

You feel like you’re going to choke if you try to eat anything but you figure you’ll accept the offering, in case it’s the last nice thing that ever happens between you. Even with your nervous stomach, it’s too delicious not to enjoy, perfectly seared and rare. When you try to pull back, a little of the bloody juice escapes. Atticus laughs a little and wipes it away, his fingers trailing around your lips for what feels like too long to be purely innocent, although you’ve given up trusting your instincts as far as he’s concerned.

“Seriously, what is wrong?” He gives you a hard, but not unkind stare.

Nothing to do but blurt it out.

“I’m going to be Jordan’s partner for your tag match.”

His eyes widen as he searches your face for any sign that you're joking, then takes another mouthful of meat before he speaks.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a great opportunity for me. It’s way higher up the card than I normally get to be.” You hate the sad little girl voice that comes out of you.

“That what he told you? That you should do this because it’s this big break for you?”

“Well he’s right, isn’t he?”

“It’s only a good opportunity if you come out of it in one piece. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m going to get myself killed? I’d be in the ring with you!”

“Oh you think I’m going to go easy on you? That I’m going to tell Eddy to pull his punches because you’re my-” He slams his fork against his plate and just leaves the sentence unfinished. “Jordan’s a little bitch and he’s going to get what’s coming to him. He’s putting you in danger.”

“He seems to think I can handle it.”

“He doesn’t think that,” he snaps without any hesitation. “He only asked you to do it as a way of getting to me.”

You have to look down because you realize that you’re about to start crying. In all the time you’ve spent with Atticus, you’ve never cried in front of him and this is definitely not the moment you want to break that streak. You’ve never felt like more of a rank amateur than at this moment and the worst part is that you suspect he’s 100% right.

“Get out of it,” he grumbles. “Just forget about it. He’ll find someone else and we’ll find another way to get you on the card.”

“Just say that you don’t think I’m good enough.” You can still hear the tears in your throat, even though you’ve prevented them from falling. “You don’t think I belong on these shows.”

“That’s not what I said,” he sighs exasperatedly. “You’re good enough. But you’re not good enough to fight me and you’re not good enough to fight Eddy. Not yet. I’m sorry but that’s just how it is. You’re going to be in there against two guys who are bigger, stronger, more experienced, and more violent than you. Tell that little bitch Oliver to take his offer and shove it up his ass. We’ll find another match for you.”

“I don’t need you to find a match for me. I have a match. You’re not worried about me. You’re worried about being embarrassed in front of your boys because your little tag-along buddy is going against you.”

His expression darkens. “That’s what you think? Seriously?”

You fold your arms and give him the toughest look you can manage. Immediately he stands and storms off and you’re about to start crying again when he reappears just as suddenly.

“I paid the bill,” he growls. “Let’s go.”

*

The next days are the most uncomfortable you’ve ever felt in your life. You were prepared to have to find another ride home, even another room at the hotel, but Atticus won’t hear of it. At the same time, he completely freezes you out. He doesn’t talk. He barely makes eye contact with you. You’re self-conscious about everything, feeling the full weight of his eyes on you as you move around. You pass an almost sleepless night in silence, wondering if he’s awake too.

The ride home is tense and you have very little to say to each other. For the next few days, at least, you’re enemies. You hope it isn’t longer than that.

“I’ll come by and pick you up around 9 on Friday to go up to Detroit,” he mutters as you get out of the car. That’s it. He still doesn’t look at you. He clearly doesn’t want to see you before then. He doesn’t even say goodbye.

By the time Friday rolls around, you feel like you’re almost hallucinating. You haven’t been eating enough. You haven’t been hitting the gym enough because you’re terrified that he’ll be there. You haven’t been sleeping. If you weren’t underqualified for this match before, you are now.

His sullen demeanor hasn’t changed at all but there is something different. He looks a little tired himself, a little sadder. He very obviously avoids looking at you for the length of the ride. He makes a little conversation, nothing like what normally passes between you but at least it’s something.

“Listen,” he says as he pulls into the hotel parking lot and slams the gear shift into park, “you move as fast as you can. Don’t try to do any flippy shit, you’ll get knocked off the ropes. Keep enough distance so that you don’t get punched or kicked, stick close to your own corner, and always keep moving. Let Jordan do most of the offense. It’s his fight anyway.”

You nod and slide out of the passenger seat, trying not to feel like you’re completely incompetent.

The contrast between him and Jordan has never been more obvious to you than when you’re sitting backstage waiting for your match to be called. He’s bouncing around, all unbridled optimism and excitement.

“Could you calm down?” you groan. “You’re going to wear yourself out before the match even starts.”

“We just need to get out there and get going.”

“No, Jordan, what we need is a strategy. We’re fighting two guys who work together all the time. We’ve never even shared a ring.”

“The strategy is that we make them move as much as possible so that they get worn out. Hit as many crazy moves as we can so that they don’t know what’s coming.”

“Ok, what happens when one of us gets hit? Or when they start with the weapons?”

“It’s not a weapons match. If they want to get themselves disqualified, who cares? We win.”

It’s like the boy has never seen a GCW show before. There are always weapons and if the refs see, they usually don’t care because that’s one of the reasons people pay to attend and watch these shows. Atticus has stuck so many skewers in this guy’s head you wonder if a couple of them might have punctured his brain.

“We need to care because we want to be able to fight next week and the week after. We need to care because we want to go home with all our limbs attached to our bodies.”

He smiles a little and reaches over to gently stroke your hair. It feels weirdly invasive, although it’s a pretty normal gesture.

“Ok, let’s try this,” he tells you, “Keep Eddy out of the ring as much as possible. Atticus is going to be pretty freaked out and emotional, so he’s the weak point. If we can make him do most of the work, he’ll mess up and we take that opportunity.”

You want to tell him that Atticus doesn’t get emotional unless the emotion is angry and that seems to help him more than hinder him in the ring, but it’s time to go out. Your music is starting.

*

When you reach the ring, you actually feel better than you have in days. The lights, the crowd, the energy, the anticipation of being in a big match, they all combine to settle your stomach and make you feel stronger.

You assiduously avoid looking up during Atticus and Eddy’s entrance but when they take their place in the opposite corner, you can’t resist. He’s staring straight at you. Eddy is talking to him but Atticus’ eyes are bearing right down on you. If Jordan wanted to get him angry, he’s clearly succeeded. But he also looks more focused than ever.

Jordan and Eddy start off the match and go at it for what seems like a long time. It’s a contrast of styles, athletic versus brutal and both of them are scoring points off the other. After Eddy ducks a big move, though, the tide turns. He’s able to keep Jordan down and just pound on him for what feels like an hour. You know he won’t go any easier on you but you lean forward, yelling at your partner so that he can follow the sound of your voice.

“I’m right here, Jordan! Come on! You can make it!”

He’s finally able to dodge his attacker and roll close enough to the corner so that you can smack his arm and enter the match.

Eddy is a little winded from the flurry of offense he just unleashed so you dart around him as much as possible to keep him moving and swinging. Sensing your moment, you land a drop kick right to his knee that takes him off his feet, followed by a double stomp right on the small of his back. You grab his arm and pull it back as hard as you can while putting all your weight on him and you’re encouraged when he cries out in pain. Unfortunately, you’re too close to the ropes and he manages to get one leg under them, forcing you to let go.

He slips outside the ring, trying to collect himself and you glance back at your corner, wondering if you’ve done enough. Jordan still isn’t back on his feet.

Steeling yourself, you run at top speed and fly right through the ropes, taking out Eddy and about two rows of chairs as startled, delighted fans leap clear. The move knocks Eddy off his feet but you hit hard as well. Both of you get back up and at that moment, you realize that you have a problem. You don’t have the leverage of the ropes to put any power or velocity behind your moves, which is the only thing that’s allowed you to get the upper hand thus far.

He grabs you and while you attempt to swing him around to loosen his grip, he gets a tight grasp on your head and just hurls you forward. Your head crashes right into the corner of the steps, slicing the skin dangerously close to your eye. Blood flows instantly, and as you try to wipe it away so you can see, Eddy grabs you again and smashes you into the ring post. You don’t even manage to get an arm out to protect yourself. From there, he picks you up and throws you back into the ring. It gives you a moment to crawl towards your corner before he’s on you again, sitting right down on your spine and slamming your face into the canvas.

“You need to learn a fucking lesson, bitch!” he snarls in your ear.

He’s sweating from the exertion and this allows you to wriggle slightly forward, holding out an arm in the hopes that Jordan is recovered enough to take over. When you don’t feel the tag, you wipe your eyes to see what’s going on.

Fuck. You’re in the wrong corner. Atticus is staring back at you, eyes lit with rage. Your arm drops and immediately Eddy pins it behind you.

He starts gouging away at the cut on your face, making noises like a wild animal. You’ve seen guys take beatings before. Your (apparently former) best friend has come out of them covered in blood and glass and splinters. You realize now that you’d underestimated how painful and how terrifying this could get when you’re disoriented and overpowered.

You can hear Jordan’s voice in the distance, encouraging you. He might as well be in the parking lot. You’d tap out if you could but Eddy has your arms pinned back and the ref isn’t anywhere in sight. You feel Eddy’s fingernails rip right across your face, through the already cut skin. He’s not even trying to pin you.

You open your eyes again and appeal to the one person you hope will help you.

“Atticus for god’s sake,” you scream, staring at him through the red haze, “call him off!”

He stares back emotionlessly for what feels like a long time but then leans over and slaps Eddy on the arm, tagging himself in.

His expression doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence that he’s going to treat you any better and he’s rough as he pulls you to your feet. You’re able to steady yourself a little before he drops you again with a heavy lariat. Still, you’ve sparred with him before and you know he didn’t hit you at full strength.

As intensely as he was staring at you before, his eyes now are pinned on Jordan in the far corner. He leans over to pick you up, wrapping one arm around your neck to set you up for his finisher. You know how it’s usually done, so you can feel that he’s locked his arm in such a way that your head will be protected from the impact.

“You’re a fucking dead man!” he screams in Jordan’s direction and drives you straight down into the mat.

He rolls you over and climbs on top of you. “Stay the fuck down,” he hisses.

You do as he says and it’s sweet relief when the ref’s hand hits the mat the third time.

Atticus springs off you and walks away without another word. Jordan enters the ring and helps you to your feet, back to the medical room and safety.

Having the wound cleaned hurts and the five stitches needed to close it hurt more but the damage is more aesthetic than anything. Jordan stays with you, trying to reassure you that you actually did pretty well.

“Until that asshole used the steps, you were winning.”

You resist the urge to tell him that that was exactly the kind of thing you meant when you said that they’d find a way to use weapons but there’s little point in doing so now.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” you mumble.

“Hey, can you give us a minute?” Jordan asks the nurse.

She steps back into the hallway and suddenly you feel on edge.

“Hey,” Jordan cups one hand around your face, “have dinner with me.”

“What? I’m not even that hungry.”

“No, I mean have dinner with me. Let me take you out.”

You don’t know if it’s that it’s been so long since anyone’s gotten to the point of asking you out or because you’re still shaking off the effects of the stairs to the head but you don’t know how to begin to respond.

“Are you… a date?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “I’m asking you on a date.”

He leans in and presses his lips to yours for a couple of seconds.

“Let’s see where this goes.”

Your first instinct is to say no, but then you think that the reason you’d say no is largely because you just want to sit here and hope the guy you really love decides to forgive you, despite having basically cut you out of his life.

“I need to clean myself up,” you mumble.

“I’ll wait outside.”

Jordan kisses the crown of your head and leaves quickly while you head to the locker room to grab a shower. You wash and change faster than you ever have in your life, despite the lingering effects of your head injury, because what you really want to do is find Atticus. If he gives you anything, a look, a kind word, any sign that he still wants you around in any capacity, you’ll leave Jordan waiting all night.

After fifteen minutes, though, you feel like you’ve searched everywhere in the building and you haven’t been able to find him. The show is still going on and he’s not one to leave early unless he’s pressed for time but it’s like he’s disappeared entirely. That is, until you make your way back to the locker room to collect your belongings and admit defeat. Because there he is standing in the hallway, looking like he’s been waiting the whole time.

He looks at you expressionlessly.

“It’s not so bad,” he says, pointing to your cut. “Those things bleed a lot but they heal quickly.”

“My pride hurts more.” You approach him and he steps forward to meet you, brushing his fingers lightly over your bandage. “You were right. I wasn’t ready.”

“Eddy shouldn’t have gone after you as hard as he did.”

“That’s the job, though.” You shiver a little as he runs a hand over your arm. “I guess I got a couple of hits in, though.”

“You’ll do better next time.”

His hand rises from your arm to the side of your head, holding you in place as he gently presses his face into the side of yours. The two of you stand there together, his breath heavy against your temple, not speaking. Finally, you feel his lips graze the side of your face, down to the center of your cheek, where he gives you a soft but determined kiss.

He steps back, eyes cast downward.

“I’m actually going to drive back tonight. You okay getting a lift with someone else tomorrow?”

“I guess, but I can leave now. I don’t have to wait.”

“Nah, stay here, get a good night’s sleep or whatever. I don’t know if you booked a room but you can take mine if you want.”

He steps close and pushes a hotel room key into your hand. Once again, he leans in, lips touching your face a little more insistently until he finds your mouth. He lingers there for a long second before he steps away again, still refusing to look you in the eye.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he mutters.

He takes off down the hall so quickly it shocks you and while you try to call after him, it does no good. When he pushes the door open it swings wide and crashes against the wall so loudly that you see several people on the other side jump.

*

If the show in Detroit felt like purgatory, Dallas is like being in hell. You’d begged off dinner with Jordan and had barely responded to him when he tried to contact you in the intervening time, so things with him are a little awkward. And things with Atticus are… non-existent. You’d been too scared to try reaching out to him since the night of your match, since the night he sort of, almost, kind of kissed you, and once you’re at the venue, you don’t even know how to approach him.

You have a match early, which you win and gets very over with the crowd.

“She had a bit of a rough outing in a tag match last week,” one of the announcers says as you head to the back, “but she made a real impression and you see tonight that she’s got a lot of momentum.”

But you barely have time to feel proud of yourself because coming up shortly, Atticus and Jordan have a singles match. Remembering Atticus’ last words to you, you know he must have overheard Jordan inviting you out to dinner. Maybe he saw the kiss. So is he angry? He hasn’t let on. He always seems angry going into his matches (and most of the rest of the time) but is it worse than usual? It wasn’t like the two of you were a couple and Jordan knew that. Does he feel like you ditched him because you have unrequited feelings for Atticus?

You shower and by the time you’re back in your regular clothes, their match is being called. Maybe it would be wiser to stay in the back and watch what happens on your tablet, or just listen to how the crowd reacts. But you can’t resist. You need to see this.

The match is exciting and goes back and forth for a while before going off the rails.

You don’t even see how he does it but one second Atticus is crouching and the next it’s like his core just erupts, like all of that fury he has in him comes out in a literal ball of flame. Jordan catches it right in the face and jumps back, screaming in pain, and the ref stops the match immediately. The audience, the officials, the commentary team, no one seems to know what’s just happened. A couple of medics attend to Jordan while Atticus, unfazed by any of it, grabs a microphone.

“You and me, barbed wire, no ropes match.”

Jesus. He’s luring Jordan right into his lair and everyone knows it’s going to work.

Atticus stalks backstage and you can’t help staring at him. He sees you right away and it's like a shadow passes over him, or from inside him. His whole face darkens. He straightens up as if he’s about to say something but instead goes barreling back out into the hall.

You shift so that you can get a better view of the proceedings but it’s still unclear what’s happening. You see him snatch something off a table where the AV people are working, which sets them off. They’re yelling angrily but you can’t make out about what. He ignores them.

Instead, he stalks down to where the medics are still checking on Jordan. He shoves them aside and grabs his rival around the neck, hauling him back up the ramp in a headlock. He looks like a madman as he turns and holds Jordan over one of the pyro canisters. The AV people, the commentators, the medics, the security people, they’re all losing their damn minds but seem hesitant to approach him as he brandishes whatever it was he grabbed on the way down to the ring. It looks like some kind of tv remote. Then it occurs to you: it is a remote. It’s the remote that controls the pyro.

He laughs as he presses a button and a shower of sparks and flames shoots up, directly into Jordan’s unprotected face. You can hear Jordan shrieking and crying as he struggles helplessly to get free. The smell, that acrid, burning smell fills your nostrils and you have to take a few steps back as you try to process what’s just happened.

You shake your head a little, trying to clear the image out, trying not to pay attention to the sounds coming from the crowd. This is not because of you. There is no way what happened in Detroit caused this. You are not responsible.

You glance up and there’s Atticus, eyes blazing but otherwise disturbingly calm. He rubs at his arm a little and stares straight at you.

“Get your stuff,” he snaps. “We’re leaving.”

He moves forward and you start to retreat, whimpering a little when your back hits the wall

He keeps advancing until you’re just inches apart, resting his arms on the wall on either side of your head. You try to steady your breathing but it’s a fight.

“He should have known better,” His voice is like ice. “He shouldn’t have tried to test me.”

He leans in and runs his lips lightly along your hairline, then places his thumb under your chin and tilts your head to face him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sweetly.

“I’ve watched you throw people through glass. I’ve watched you cut into their skin with skewers. I’ve seen you break people’s bones,” you murmur. “But this is the first time I’ve ever been afraid of you.”

His eyes are gleaming.

“Probably a good instinct.” He plants a kiss on your forehead. “Now go gather up whatever it is you need and let’s go.”

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Death Match

Well, here it is, my first attempt at a GCW fanfic. (Second one is probably coming very shortly.) Thanks to the lovely anon who iencouraged me to try this. Hope you like.

Pairing: Atticus Cogar x OFC

Word count: 3,678

Content advisory: graphic violence, sexual content, language

The crowd is so hot for you, which helps quell your nerves a little. You’ve done deathmatches before. You’ve fought men before. You’re on a hot streak right now, so there’s more attention on you but you’ve got the smarts and experience to deliver. You take a few moments to pose and get the crowd even more behind you as your music swells and fades. The sound of the cheering is more powerful than any drug you’ve ever tried.

Of course, you couldn’t be the beloved baby face that you are tonight without the heel to balance you. The second his music hits, it’s like the crowd doubles in size. The boos rise up like a swarm of locusts and just hang in the air. Man, do they hate him. They hate him like he burned their city to the ground.

The second Atticus Cogar shows his face, the noise gets so loud you can’t even hear his music anymore. He glances around with contempt, looking every but the snot-nosed punk he really is, and heads straight to the ring. You could kill him tonight and every single person in this audience would cover for you. You’d kind of like to kill him.

The ring is already littered with some weapons: chairs, mostly, a couple of thick curtain rods, some lighting tubes, and an ominous-looking toolbox. You can’t help wondering if that’s an actual box of tools that someone left there by accident. It would be pretty hilarious if the night ended with some poor guy washing blood and god knows what else off the items he literally needs to do his job. You just hope it’s not all your blood.

You pace a little, stretching out your arms as he takes his sweet ass time getting into the ring. It helps with the nervous knots. You’ve got this. You know you can do this. Done it before and done it well.

He’s in his own corner now, slowly removing the stiff collared shirt he always wears to the ring. Pretentious, uptight little shit. Finally, he turns around, sneering at the audience that is already screaming for you to fuck him up. You grin and raise your arms but you know better than to take your eyes off him.

The ring announcer starts to do the honors.

“The following match is scheduled for one fall. There is no time limit and no disqualifications…”

The two of you approach each other as both of your stats are called.

“Finally found a way to get your hands on me,” he smirks.

And therein lies the problem.

Yes, he’s an egotistical bastard with a sadistic streak but he’s also right. You do want him and not just in the ring. You have for months as the two of you have been moving through the same indie circuit together, always on the same shows but never facing off. You suspect that the lust is mutual but he’s good at hiding whatever he’s thinking behind that obnoxious front, so you can never be sure. His attitude makes you want to break his back. But then you’d want to roll him over and climb on top.

The bell rings but he makes no attempt to approach you. He stands still with his head tilted and that infuriating sneer on his irritatingly attractive face.

“Try not to give up too quickly,” he teases. “We want to give these assholes a bit of a show.”

You pretend to laugh shuffling around a little. He outweighs you by twenty-five pounds, give or take, and has five or six inches of height on you. If you try to overpower him, you’re doomed. No, you’re going to have to rely on your brains and speed. You move just a little, enough that your body hides what you’re doing with your hand. He’s so convinced that he’s going to win that he’s not watching you carefully enough, doesn’t perceive your hand curling around the metal chair that’s leaning against the ropes behind you.

You even give him a little smile just before you make one quick move and hurl the chair right into his face. It doesn’t hit him hard but it does the trick. He throws his arms up to block and that gives you the chance to hit a running kick right into his solar plexus, knocking him back into the corner and off his feet so you can jump in for the kill.

You land on him, raining down as many forearm strikes as you can. What you lack in power you make up for in quantity. If you can hit him enough, he’s going to be too punch-drunk to counter you. At a point, you have to stop just because swinging your arm at full strength is taking the air out of you and hurting your arm. It’s just a second but you glance down and see his hateful eyes staring up at you. And even though you’ve been in this position with dozens of opponents, this is the first time you realize that it’s a perspective you normally only get in bed, straddling someone and watching them underneath you. His nostrils flare a little as if he’s thinking the same thing but you’ve given him a crucial break and when you pull your arm back to hit him again, he grabs a fistful of your hair and slams your head into the corner post.

Now you’re the one who’s dazed and he slithers out from under you, locking his arms around your waist and flipping you backwards without even standing up. Immediately, you feel a blunt pain in your back and it takes you a moment to realize you’ve landed on the stupid chair that’s still lying in the middle of the ring. You roll just enough to dodge his boot as he tries to stomp down on you but he recovers enough to give you a sharp kick to the ribs.

After a strong start, this has gotten away from you, so you roll out of the ring to regroup, looking up just in time to sidestep as he dives right through the ropes at you, crashing and burning as the audience separates like the red sea, cheering as he hits the floor. No point in waiting, so even though your side still hurts a lot you grab him by his shirt and pull him to his feet to get him back in the ring.

He has enough in him to hit one blow, nowhere near full strength but enough that he can overpower you and push you hard against the ring apron, your aching ribs absorbing most of the impact. He barges into you to injure them further, crushing you into the edge of the ring. Your eyes meet again as your bodies grind together and you’re almost certain you see a flicker of lust pass over him.

At the exact same moment, you both rake each other’s eyes and spring apart, yelping like dogs. You’re able to get one hand on the bottom rope, which allows you to pull yourself back in the ring. Son of a bitch scratched you right on the eyeball so you can barely see, but it’s enough for you to make out his form crawling back into the ring. He charges at you but he’s clearly not able to see either, so you’re able to pick up the chair and slam it into what you hope is his head.

Regardless, he drops and it gives you the chance to rub your eyes a little so you can get a handle on what’s going on. He's on the ground, trying to push himself up and as you approach, you’re pleased to see that you’ve opened up a cut above his left eyebrow. Grinning, you grab a handful of his hair and pull him up so that he’s forced to look at you from his knees.

“You look good like that,” you taunt.

He punches you in the thigh, not enough to knock you over but you know right away you’re going to have a nasty bruise there in the morning. The slight wobble in your stance allows him to grab your arm and snap it behind your back, twisting it painfully as he pushes you face-first into the canvas and lands on top of you.

“Why don’t you just tap out so we can go back to the hotel and I can give you what you really want,” he whispers harshly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you gasp, the air getting pressed out of you as you writhe, trying to force your way out from under him by bucking your hips back into his.

He thrusts back against you just a little, but it’s enough for you to get some leverage and force him back. He gets an arm around your neck but you roll over so that it’s his shoulders pinned to the mat. The ref counts two and he’s forced to release you to avoid the loss.

The two of you scramble backwards, away from each other but still staring, panting. The crowd is making a ton of noise but it all kind of blends together. There’s no one else here right now, just you and him. He gives a devilish smile as he unfolds one of the chairs and stands it up in the center of the ring. What the hell is he up to? You see him get to his feet and move towards you so you lunge at him.

You realize just a split second too late that you’ve fallen into a trap as he intercepts you and locks an arm around your neck, slamming your head into the chair so hard you bounce right off it.

“Oh you’re dead,” you snarl at him, barely able to register that it’s you talking.

“You fight like a little girl.”

Once again, you slide outside the ring and lift the apron to see what you can find there, a couple of doors that always seem to be on hand for these matches. You grab one but you have to keep an eye on what he’s doing, so it’s awkward and you know you’re wasting precious time.

He jumps down on the floor and grabs the other side of the door. You struggle to get it away from him but it’s useless. If he lets go too quickly you’ll fall over under your own momentum.

“Bitch, we both want the same thing!” he yells.

You’re about to retort but he cuts you off.

“We both want to use these things.” He shakes the wooden plank a little. “Let’s just get them in the ring and we’ll figure out how to fuck each other up after.”

“Still thinking about fucking me?” you gloat.

However, you have to admit he’s right, so you work together to throw one door and then another into the ring. As you grab the second one, you both see something else under there. The glint along its edges is unmistakable. Cutting a quick, excited glance at each other, you make the decision at the same time. Hell yeah, let’s do this. You reach under the ring and take out the pristine sheet of glass, lifting it with surprising delicacy and pushing it onto the canvas. This is going to be grotesque.

You slide back in under the bottom rope, both on your stomachs, eyes locked, breathing rapid. The crowd is roaring. They want blood. Together, you place the glass in one corner, then each of you takes a door to lean against other corners. You glance away for just a second to steady the panel and out of the corner of your eye you see him drop what he’s doing and run for you at top speed. You notice just in time to move and he crashes right through the wood, landing in a heap.

“Too eager,” you grunt, dragging him back enough that you can roll him up, your upper body between his legs, dangerously close.

One… two… the fucker kicks out, smacking his crotch right into your face.

He moves quickly to get to his feet, which puts you in an awkward position. if he jumps at you, he’ll flatten you. If you swing at him, there’s a good chance you’re too gassed to exert the force you’d need to take him off his feet. It’s still the better option, so you run forward and drive your forearm into his head, dragging it with all your might against the cut on his face, making it wider and bloodier. Red drops roll onto your arm.

“That all you got?” he hisses, pushing his face so close that you can’t see anything else.

“All you’re getting.”

“Keep pretending. You’re not worth the effort to take my dick out.”

You give him a push because you have to get him away from you or you really are going to have a meltdown and try to tear his clothes off. It’s a hard push but you’re surprised when he drops down to one knee. You take one step forward and are clocked right upside the head with the goddamn toolbox. It’s empty, thankfully, but it’s still more than enough to knock you senseless and he tackles you to the ground, trapping your legs between his and pinning your wrists to the mat.

It’s an awkward hold because while his grip is painful, it’s not effective. Every time the ref goes to count, you’re able to lift a shoulder. He’s too strong and too heavy for you to escape and if he leaned down on your shoulders, you’d be done for. But he’s just staring at you like a wild animal, as if the match isn’t happening at all.

“I’m gonna break you in half,” he whispers.

You strain and push your head up a little, moving your lips as if you’re about to speak. He moves a little closer, just close enough for you to sink your teeth into his bottom lip. He roars and jumps back but you’re still dazed and he’s able to grab you by the hair and propel you forward into the second door, head first.

The fucking thing doesn’t break. You absorb every bit of the impact and you literally see stars. Instinct forces you up to your feet but you’re way too disoriented to mount any sort of offense. Atticus locks his arms around your stomach from behind, holding you so tight you can barely get any breath in. He pushes one fist up into the ribs you’d injured at the beginning of the match and the pain is so much you can barely move. You’re desperately trying to get free but even with the voices of the crowd willing you on, you can barely move. He keeps constricting, pulling you back against him.

As you struggle in vain, you realize, even in your dazed state, that you can feel the outline of his hardened cock against your ass. The more you fight, the more you can feel him getting turned on and you inadvertently let out a very sexual moan. He presses his head close and kisses your cheek.

“I love you too, babe,” he jeers.

He drags you over to the ropes, flinging you over the bottom one. You try to crawl over it but he grabs your head and presses it down so that your throat is getting crushed against the cable. You move as best you can but he straddles your back, pinning you in position with his legs so that your arms are strung, useless, over the rope. He keeps his hand knotted in your hair and out of the corner of your eye you see his free hand go to his pocket. Your heart sinks. You know exactly what’s about to happen.

He presses a handful of sharpened skewers against your scalp and removes his hand from your hair. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before he hammers down on the skewers, driving them into your scalp. It takes you a minute to realize that the noise you hear is your own voice screaming in pain. he steps back to enjoy his handiwork, a cruel smile on his lips as you turn around, streams of blood already trickling down your face and neck as you try desperately to get the tiny spears out of your head.

Some fall out on their own and you’re able to swat others loose but you’re in no position to defend yourself as he grabs you from behind once again and lifts you up, throwing you back with a massive suplex, right through the pane of glass you’d helped him put in place.

You know you’ve lost. You’ve got shards of glass all over you, inside your gear and covering your skin. There are still skewers in your head. There’s blood coming out of about eight different parts of you. Instinctively, you cover your face with your hands, partly wanting to protect your eyes and partly because you don’t want to see what’s about to happen. And then…

Nothing.

You lower your hands a little, wondering if he hurt himself on that last move but he’s already getting to his feet, a little unsteadily, yes, but he’s not bleeding any more than he was before and he isn’t showing any signs of injury. He’s just standing there, staring at you with an expression you can’t read, somewhere between surprise and confusion. This staredown seems to go on for a long time, long enough that a hush falls over the crowd. They don’t know what’s happening either.

Your right arm drops. You have a gash on your bicep that’s bleeding profusely. As your hand hits the ground, you feel something there. One of the curtain rods that’s been in the ring the whole time. Atticus looks down and shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to clear the cobwebs. Unbelievable.

You grab hold of the curtain rod and struggle to your feet. You aren’t too quick but when he looks up, he doesn’t move. This is it. One shot. You get that crazy burst of adrenaline that only comes when you feel like your life is literally in danger and god knows that with this guy, it could be. You swing the pole with all your might, crashing it into his stomach and dropping him with a sick thud.

He’s on his hands and knees, struggling not to vomit from the force. You doubt he has much idea what’s going on and take your chance, grabbing him by the arm and hoping you have enough adrenaline left to lift him up just enough to drop him on his smug face in the pool of broken glass behind you.

It’s at the last minute that you see his other hand grab hold of one of the light tubes and immediately you panic. You cannot take another faceful of glass. You can’t. You drop his arm and without thinking, you stomp down on his hand, shattering the tube and driving his palm down into it.

He shrieks in pain and immediately you see a red stain spreading all around his hand. You know you need to act, you need to pin him or choke him or something but you can’t. For the first time in your career, you’re horrified at something you’ve done. It’s not until he glares back at you that you even come to your senses.

“Don’t pussy out now,” he mutters.

You drop to your knees behind him, locking one arm over his face and the other under his arm so that you’re wrenching his neck back. Once again, he screams from the pain and you think he’s done but then he bites down on the inside of your arm with all his force. You can feel his incisors tearing into your flesh. You know you can’t hold on much longer so you crank back on his neck, driving your knee into his back so that he can’t get air in but the bastard won’t let up on your arm. If he can roll himself over a little, it’s going to be your shoulders on the mat.

“Fuck you!” you holler. “I fucking hate you!”

But you don’t mean it. And you stupidly hope he knows that.

You can feel yourself getting dizzy from blood loss, your strength draining out along with it. The angle you have him trapped, he must be in agony, but the pain from that bite is quickly growing unbearable. And just as you’re about to break, you see it. He pounds his hand repeatedly on the mat, leaving a bloody stain with every strike. He’s tapping out.

“That’s it! It’s over!” The ref calls and you hear the metal ring of the bell just as you collapse onto your back.

You’re supposed to stand up, take in the adulation of the crowd, but you can’t move. The sound of your breath going in and out is alarmingly loud. Your curtain call can wait.

Likewise, it’s customary for the loser to just roll out of the ring and slink backstage but Atticus isn’t moving either. He’s flat on his stomach and as you tilt your head to look, he’s staring right back at you. For a second, you’re not even sure that he’s conscious.

Your hands are so close, close enough that just relaxing your fingers a little bridges almost the entire distance. Straightening his fingers slightly, he’s able to bridge the rest. You’re barely touching, just the tips of your trembling hands. You’re both covered in rapidly drying blood, your own and each other’s, just trying to get enough air to stay conscious.

“Stupid asshole,” you murmur, barely able to summon the strength to move your lips, “you could have pinned me.”

He exhales heavily and gives the faintest of smiles. “I’d had enough foreplay. Figured we should move on to the good stuff.”