Post by Arcadia on Dec 5, 2010 6:27:41 GMT -4
BANG! “The Barbed Wire Buzzsaw” Damian Dimitri slams shut the steel fire door behind him in anger. He is fuming, having just come out of a physical skirmish with his mentor, “The Paragon of Hardcore” Trevor Blackwell. He doesn't even know what made him come here, to Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti's basement apartment, and fresh off a fight with Trevor where she was the spotlight issue. He should stay out of it. She's a big girl, and can handle herself. But something made him go looking for her. He tries to convince himself that it's only because this was the nearest exit and he just had to get away from Trevor to cool his temper. He fails. As he descends into the basement, his steps ringing on the metal staircase, the next obvious excuses comes to mind. He was only worried about her as a person. Anyone else would do the same. He steps over the ring tape that marks the beginning of The Hardcora Luchadora's territory and parts his lips to call out to her when both his mouth and his latest excuse dry up completely in the wake of the sight before him.
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is in the “bedroom” section of her apartment, preparing to clean her wounds again. They have been healing nicely, and though they ache and pull, and her ribs are still tender and purple, She takes comfort in the fact that they are twenty times better than they were a week ago. She turns her lamp on and strips off her shirt to preserve it from the greasy salve she will need to apply. Unbeknownst to Player One, she has perfectly backlit herself, projecting her every move onto the white curtain that usually shields her privacy much more efficiently than tonight.
The Barbed Wire Buzzsaw watches her black image on the curtain in silent surprise as she raises her arms above her head and tosses her shirt aside. He nearly calls out to her, feeling like an intruder, a little embarrassed that he caught her changing, but as she bends over to grab a gray shape from her nightstand, he can clearly make out the round swell of her ass. He remains quiet and decided to simply enjoy the view, his eyes traversing the curtain from the contours of her abs to the fullness of her breasts bouncing slightly as she rights herself.
Katrina stands up, now holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol in her hand. She deliberately pours some on both forearms and palms, both of which are still scabbing from all the glass and tacks and blisters from pounding the walls of the truck so desperately, a waste of precious time. Arcadia hisses at the sting and pulls a towel up from the floor to blot the excess away as it foams and bubbles around her wounds. She drops the towel and tucks the bottle into the waistband of her jeans, quiclky clipping her thick, long hair in a twist at the top of her head. She brings the rubbing alcohol to her shoulder and prepares to clean out her back, by far the most mangled part of her body.
Damian Dimitri sucks in his breath on a gasp as he watches Shadow Arcadia raise both her arms up and arch her back further, looking over her shoulder and throwing her breasts and hips into sharp focus as she twists her body to the side, making her waist appear even smaller. He watches, holding in the lungful of air and she appears to pour water down her back. It splashes off of her skin, running down her curves in thick rivulets. As he watches the shadow puppet show, she opens her lips and her breasts heave as she cries out, and the air rushes out of him in a low moan as that sound spikes straight to his loins.
The Hardcora Luchadora almost misses it, absorbed in her own pain at the alcohol burning through her skin. A faint, soft, sigh coming from her living room. As fast as lightning, she grabs the towel and wraps it around herself as she tears open the curtain, ready for another battle with the Blackwells. She comes up short as she sees The Hybrid standing there awkwardly, looking only the slightest bit guilty and grinning from ear to ear.
“What do you want?” She says, throwing her guard back up.
“I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay after the attack.” Damian tries to quickly somber up, but the sight of Katrina Olivetti before him in only a small towel and jeans isn't helping him control himself.
She sneers at him, the reflection of pain and humiliation shining through her electric green eyes. “You sure you aren't here to continue what your idol started?”
That did it. Damian Dimitri scowls, his face becoming a thundercloud. “I had no part of that. I wasn't even aware it happened until the airing of Overdrive, and I've been worried about you since. That was a dick move on Trevor's part, and I'm sorry you went through that.”
Slightly mollified, Arcadia answers him softly, “Oh. Then come in. I could use someone's help anyway.”
Damian and Katrina enter her bedroom and she picks up a tube, squirting some of the greasy stuff into her hand and tossing the container at him before rubbing the salve into her forearms and hands.
“What's this?” He deftly catches it and tries to read the complex medical name on the prescription label.
Player One replies, “It's for the burns. Can you do my back? It kills my ribs to have to twist around and rub that stuff in.” She lays down on her stomach and removes the towel, exposing her battleworn skin to him. She pillows her head on her arms and waits.
The Hybrid swallows convulsively, letting his eyes travel over her before coming to sit next to her on the bed, doing his best to ignore the tightening of his pants. He squirts a dollop of the medicine into his palms and starts rubbing her shoulders. The immediate moan of relief from the woman underneath his hands makes his mouth run dry again.
“So, you weren't in on it at all?” She asks conversationally.
He mumbles in his distraction, “Uh uh, did you think I was?”
Arcadia shrugs and he can feel her muscles move smoothly under his fingers. “Why not? Trevor is like that. He uses who he can for what he needs and then leaves them behind when he gets distracted by newer, shinier things. Why wouldn't he do the same with you?”
Damian tries to concentrate on her words. “What do you mean?”
“Trevor is a collector, Damian. He collects titles, and battle scars, but mostly, he collects people. No matter what fed he wrestles for, or what business he runs, Trevor Blackwell always has minions. He will never do anything alone. That would be too hard and Trevor likes to stack the odds in his favor. So, he recruits henchmen. He tells them how amazing they would be if they had some proper direction and him behind them, offering support. Then he pushes them and uses them, just to leave them in the dust when another “protege” catches his eye. You don't really think he sees promise in these wrestlers, do you? That he can help them on their way to the top?” She scoffs. “No, he sees something he can exploit while they try and ride his bloodstained coattails for a while. And what he never tells all of these people that he makes false promises to is that he will NEVER let them be on top. Because that is HIS throne. And he will just get a new army and a new prodigy to overthrow the old if they try and take it from him. And he thinks he's a face!”
She looks over her shoulder at Damian, who is staring at her ass and rubbing her back, getting progressively lower. “I think Trevor isn't capable of succeeding on his own merit. And I think he knows it, too. He's old. He's been broken and mended so many times, he could give Frankenstein a run for his money on stitch count. But he can't retire. He's tried. But he doesn't know how to do anything else. So he keeps coming back, and as the competition gets harder and harder to put down, he just comes up with new ways to manipulate others into doing his bidding for him. Like you.”
The Barbed Wire Buzzsaw looks up at this, and immediately goes to defend his mentor. “He hasn't manipulated me into anything!”
“Oh, no?” Arcadia challenges, “Then why did you attack Branden? Or Twister? Or Dr. Matt?” At the blank look on his face she presses her point. “He's told you that you should be IWC Insane Champion, hasn't he? Isn't that the exact title he is gunning for himself?”
She rolls onto her side slightly, moving her arms down to her chest in modesty, exposing ugly, purple bruises that form three distinct and detailed bootprints to him across her rib cage. “There is a saying among the Blackwells that Trevor likes. 'A Blackwell can only trust another Blackwell'. Well, there is a different saying among the rest of us here. 'Never trust a Blackwell'. If you ever get in his way, and you will, Trevor will just call out his siblings to help him take care of you. Just like he tried to take care of me.”
She smirks and rolls back onto his stomach as Damian continues to rub the salve into her abused skin. “But he couldn't. Even with everyone's help, I'm still here. And I understand the rules of this game better than he. I knew I would be attacked, and I wouldn't be surprised if it happened again. Your 'Hardcore Icon' is just a playground bully. And a blamer at that. 'A Blackwell can only trust a Blackwell'. Please! The reason everyone is willing to screw Trevor at the drop of a hat is because he screws them first. And then he screws himself. Look at him now, for instance. Coming after President Jeff yet again. Why? Because he supposedly stole the fed from him when the truth is, IWC never would have shut down in the first, er...second place, if it hadn't been for his piss poor managerial skills and need to place himself in the spotlight. But to him, the world is at fault for everything he's ever done to himself. And he'll never truly admit is was him that screwed himself over. Time and time again.”
She reaches for the towel and wraps it around herself, rolling over, effectively stopping Damian in his tracks right before he finally reached the waistband of her jeans. She looks up at him, locking eyes with the Hybrid as his groin tightens to the point of pain.
“And his worst trait of all? Trevor Blackwell is a bailer. He leaves everything and everyone behind at the slightest hint of a conflict he can't handle. He considers it 'coming back stronger' when all it really is is skulking in the shadows until he thinks his past indiscretions are just memories, or until he thinks he has the upper hand again. He'll do it to you, too, Damian. He'll bail on you, or worse, screw you just when you need him most. Just like he did to Jeff, and Kenny, and me. Trevor Blackwell is an animal. He only understands survival, aggression, and brutality. And he is about to learn that I speak his language fluently. I will have satisfaction.”
Arcadia rolls off the bed and walks out, leaving Damian Dimitri alone with his tumultuous thoughts and the painful, unfulfilled ache in his crotch.
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is in the “bedroom” section of her apartment, preparing to clean her wounds again. They have been healing nicely, and though they ache and pull, and her ribs are still tender and purple, She takes comfort in the fact that they are twenty times better than they were a week ago. She turns her lamp on and strips off her shirt to preserve it from the greasy salve she will need to apply. Unbeknownst to Player One, she has perfectly backlit herself, projecting her every move onto the white curtain that usually shields her privacy much more efficiently than tonight.
The Barbed Wire Buzzsaw watches her black image on the curtain in silent surprise as she raises her arms above her head and tosses her shirt aside. He nearly calls out to her, feeling like an intruder, a little embarrassed that he caught her changing, but as she bends over to grab a gray shape from her nightstand, he can clearly make out the round swell of her ass. He remains quiet and decided to simply enjoy the view, his eyes traversing the curtain from the contours of her abs to the fullness of her breasts bouncing slightly as she rights herself.
Katrina stands up, now holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol in her hand. She deliberately pours some on both forearms and palms, both of which are still scabbing from all the glass and tacks and blisters from pounding the walls of the truck so desperately, a waste of precious time. Arcadia hisses at the sting and pulls a towel up from the floor to blot the excess away as it foams and bubbles around her wounds. She drops the towel and tucks the bottle into the waistband of her jeans, quiclky clipping her thick, long hair in a twist at the top of her head. She brings the rubbing alcohol to her shoulder and prepares to clean out her back, by far the most mangled part of her body.
Damian Dimitri sucks in his breath on a gasp as he watches Shadow Arcadia raise both her arms up and arch her back further, looking over her shoulder and throwing her breasts and hips into sharp focus as she twists her body to the side, making her waist appear even smaller. He watches, holding in the lungful of air and she appears to pour water down her back. It splashes off of her skin, running down her curves in thick rivulets. As he watches the shadow puppet show, she opens her lips and her breasts heave as she cries out, and the air rushes out of him in a low moan as that sound spikes straight to his loins.
The Hardcora Luchadora almost misses it, absorbed in her own pain at the alcohol burning through her skin. A faint, soft, sigh coming from her living room. As fast as lightning, she grabs the towel and wraps it around herself as she tears open the curtain, ready for another battle with the Blackwells. She comes up short as she sees The Hybrid standing there awkwardly, looking only the slightest bit guilty and grinning from ear to ear.
“What do you want?” She says, throwing her guard back up.
“I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay after the attack.” Damian tries to quickly somber up, but the sight of Katrina Olivetti before him in only a small towel and jeans isn't helping him control himself.
She sneers at him, the reflection of pain and humiliation shining through her electric green eyes. “You sure you aren't here to continue what your idol started?”
That did it. Damian Dimitri scowls, his face becoming a thundercloud. “I had no part of that. I wasn't even aware it happened until the airing of Overdrive, and I've been worried about you since. That was a dick move on Trevor's part, and I'm sorry you went through that.”
Slightly mollified, Arcadia answers him softly, “Oh. Then come in. I could use someone's help anyway.”
Damian and Katrina enter her bedroom and she picks up a tube, squirting some of the greasy stuff into her hand and tossing the container at him before rubbing the salve into her forearms and hands.
“What's this?” He deftly catches it and tries to read the complex medical name on the prescription label.
Player One replies, “It's for the burns. Can you do my back? It kills my ribs to have to twist around and rub that stuff in.” She lays down on her stomach and removes the towel, exposing her battleworn skin to him. She pillows her head on her arms and waits.
The Hybrid swallows convulsively, letting his eyes travel over her before coming to sit next to her on the bed, doing his best to ignore the tightening of his pants. He squirts a dollop of the medicine into his palms and starts rubbing her shoulders. The immediate moan of relief from the woman underneath his hands makes his mouth run dry again.
“So, you weren't in on it at all?” She asks conversationally.
He mumbles in his distraction, “Uh uh, did you think I was?”
Arcadia shrugs and he can feel her muscles move smoothly under his fingers. “Why not? Trevor is like that. He uses who he can for what he needs and then leaves them behind when he gets distracted by newer, shinier things. Why wouldn't he do the same with you?”
Damian tries to concentrate on her words. “What do you mean?”
“Trevor is a collector, Damian. He collects titles, and battle scars, but mostly, he collects people. No matter what fed he wrestles for, or what business he runs, Trevor Blackwell always has minions. He will never do anything alone. That would be too hard and Trevor likes to stack the odds in his favor. So, he recruits henchmen. He tells them how amazing they would be if they had some proper direction and him behind them, offering support. Then he pushes them and uses them, just to leave them in the dust when another “protege” catches his eye. You don't really think he sees promise in these wrestlers, do you? That he can help them on their way to the top?” She scoffs. “No, he sees something he can exploit while they try and ride his bloodstained coattails for a while. And what he never tells all of these people that he makes false promises to is that he will NEVER let them be on top. Because that is HIS throne. And he will just get a new army and a new prodigy to overthrow the old if they try and take it from him. And he thinks he's a face!”
She looks over her shoulder at Damian, who is staring at her ass and rubbing her back, getting progressively lower. “I think Trevor isn't capable of succeeding on his own merit. And I think he knows it, too. He's old. He's been broken and mended so many times, he could give Frankenstein a run for his money on stitch count. But he can't retire. He's tried. But he doesn't know how to do anything else. So he keeps coming back, and as the competition gets harder and harder to put down, he just comes up with new ways to manipulate others into doing his bidding for him. Like you.”
The Barbed Wire Buzzsaw looks up at this, and immediately goes to defend his mentor. “He hasn't manipulated me into anything!”
“Oh, no?” Arcadia challenges, “Then why did you attack Branden? Or Twister? Or Dr. Matt?” At the blank look on his face she presses her point. “He's told you that you should be IWC Insane Champion, hasn't he? Isn't that the exact title he is gunning for himself?”
She rolls onto her side slightly, moving her arms down to her chest in modesty, exposing ugly, purple bruises that form three distinct and detailed bootprints to him across her rib cage. “There is a saying among the Blackwells that Trevor likes. 'A Blackwell can only trust another Blackwell'. Well, there is a different saying among the rest of us here. 'Never trust a Blackwell'. If you ever get in his way, and you will, Trevor will just call out his siblings to help him take care of you. Just like he tried to take care of me.”
She smirks and rolls back onto his stomach as Damian continues to rub the salve into her abused skin. “But he couldn't. Even with everyone's help, I'm still here. And I understand the rules of this game better than he. I knew I would be attacked, and I wouldn't be surprised if it happened again. Your 'Hardcore Icon' is just a playground bully. And a blamer at that. 'A Blackwell can only trust a Blackwell'. Please! The reason everyone is willing to screw Trevor at the drop of a hat is because he screws them first. And then he screws himself. Look at him now, for instance. Coming after President Jeff yet again. Why? Because he supposedly stole the fed from him when the truth is, IWC never would have shut down in the first, er...second place, if it hadn't been for his piss poor managerial skills and need to place himself in the spotlight. But to him, the world is at fault for everything he's ever done to himself. And he'll never truly admit is was him that screwed himself over. Time and time again.”
She reaches for the towel and wraps it around herself, rolling over, effectively stopping Damian in his tracks right before he finally reached the waistband of her jeans. She looks up at him, locking eyes with the Hybrid as his groin tightens to the point of pain.
“And his worst trait of all? Trevor Blackwell is a bailer. He leaves everything and everyone behind at the slightest hint of a conflict he can't handle. He considers it 'coming back stronger' when all it really is is skulking in the shadows until he thinks his past indiscretions are just memories, or until he thinks he has the upper hand again. He'll do it to you, too, Damian. He'll bail on you, or worse, screw you just when you need him most. Just like he did to Jeff, and Kenny, and me. Trevor Blackwell is an animal. He only understands survival, aggression, and brutality. And he is about to learn that I speak his language fluently. I will have satisfaction.”
Arcadia rolls off the bed and walks out, leaving Damian Dimitri alone with his tumultuous thoughts and the painful, unfulfilled ache in his crotch.
