The Chyna/Chris Jericho feud takes an odd turn behind the scenes.Rating: NC-17 for hints and allegations and the usual uneasy psychodrama. Oh yeah,and it's m/f, if not exactly, um, het.
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Titan Sports and possibly UPN. The situation is totally mine, and I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights. The characters used in the stories are based on WWF characters, not the wrestlers who play them. 'Kay?
Notes: Wrestling is gothic soap opera with violence. The storyline I'm riffing on here is as follows: Chris Jericho's wrestling persona is basically a pathological ego with a penis. He is arrogant and gorgeous and talented and unbalanced and under all that, subversively funny and waaaaay smarter than he plays. Fucking brilliant I think and god he can take a pretty beating. Chyna (a.k.a. Joanie Lee Laurer) is one of the few female wrestlers to wrestle with the men. Think Xena with real muscles. She won the belt from Chris Jericho at a Pay Per View event called 'No Mercy' and the humiliation of losing to a woman caused Chris to lose what was left of his 'fragile sanity'. They feuded viciously for a while but now appear to be doing something... else. Chyna obviously has plans for Chris, hard to say whether he'll like them or not. On a side note, Chyna has also, for the last year, been undergoing the most harrowing reconstructive surgery I can imagine, for the sole purpose of transforming herself from magnificent to merely beautiful.
Pictures of both can be found here
Thanks: To Nicole -- she knows why, to the Psychedelic Furs (R.I.P) for the title and to Hal for the warped inspiration. No blame accrues to any of them.
12/99
Pretty in Pink
by The Spike
Chris gets there late.He's pretending it's all a big joke, but they both know it's not. He's
hard. He's been hard since he stepped into the room and Joanie can
smell the need coming off him like some kind of harsh perfume. And she
doesn't like stupid games."So where are all the girly duds?" he asks, giving her the Mr. Slick
grin. She doesn't crack a smile."Mirror," she says. He takes a beat, looks at her like he's putting
together the big argument. He's good with words. Games. Good at
keeping the world that far away. She's never had that weapon. Had to
build her armor out of muscle and flesh and blood. Now she's building
beauty. Another layer. It doesn't matter. Here it's just the two of
them and they can both get what they need if he'll just let it go.They're staring down and this one she learned years ago. Chris's eyes
flick to the big mirror. Joanie doesn't have to look to know what he
sees. The two of them in blue-black shadow. She in all her leather
gear -- closer to beautiful every damn day and the rear view is damn
near perfect. Sculpted hollow of muscled, solid flesh. Beyond her,
Chris himself. Perfect. Prettier than she ever was, the masculinity of
his face half hidden in the shadows and long blonde hair. The grace of
his
lines brought out by the thin black metalband T-shirt; the web-ripped,
white-faded jeans..."You got a problem?" she asks. Impatient.
"Yeah," Chris says. "The leather dyke act is getting me all hot and
bothered..." Deadpan. Looking at her so cold she could believe he
wanted to hurt her. Then the moment passes and he's not looking at her
at all. Looking anywhere but."So you gonna give me the things or not?" he asks. Joanie shrugs, hand
on the door to close it."You want lacy panties," she says. "Go to wardrobe." Chris, staring at
the ground now, shakes his head."Why are you fucking with me?" Almost a whisper. She doesn't say
anything, just waits. Not for long though. She's done with waiting,
with wanting, with playing to anyone else's tune. Now or never, boy,
she thinks at him and just when the edge starts to fall off she sees it,
sees the grin break out again. She knows that feeling, when the corners
of your mouth just won't let you hide it. Knows how stretched and
bright it feels."Okay, okay," he says, looking right up into her face. "Sheesh, take it
seriously, why don't you?" But he's sweating hard and she can feel the
heat coming off him as he steps into the room and Joanie feels the tug
at the corners of her own mouth. //Yes, folks, I think we have a player
here.// But she swallows the smile, keeps her game face on. And when
Chris raises his eyebrows at her in sarcastic request for instruction,
she is pleased to find the bright/dark edge she's feeling doesn't show
at all."Mirror," she says again and this time her voice is as flat and black as
the blade of a painted knife.Once he's in, the room feels small. Quiet. Sound baffled by the heavy
curtains covering the concrete walls and she can still smell his sharp
juniper sweat under the springtime freshness of his recent shower. A
clean nervous stud, ready to mount. Makes her want to eat him up. Bend
him over the dressing table bench and rim him 'til he cries. Yeah,
that's what she'll do. After. Through the satin and the lace. Because
one way or another there will be tears tonight. And then she'll lick
the salt off his hot little cheeks, slap his ass and send him home.Maybe.
Chris has... something sharp in there. The smile in the mirror is still
full of balls. Rimmed with the little blond fuzz that looks like
cunt-hair."So," he says. "Whips and chains, babe. Let's get to it..." She just
looks at him. The 'Injun' stare, her Daddy used to call it -- when it
was her mother's look. She and her mother used to do it together
sometimes. The stare that said 'come on white man, kick my ass again
'cuz I'm gonna swallow your foot'. Or something. Fuck, she never knew
what her fucking mother was thinking any more than he did. But she
could look like she did. That's what *she* was thinking anyway. That's
what she's thinking now.She doesn't know if she hates Chris that much or not, but the vision
that had come to her ringside when his eyes had *flashed* at the pruning
shears in her hand comes together now. She steps behind him. She has
maybe a half-inch on him, longer legs, a little less mass in the
shoulders. Her performer's eye sees what the audience sees -- they're a
good match, physically. Her dark; his bright. She wraps her arms
around him. Like a fucking Penthouse shoot. Pretty. Finds his
nipples, brackets them with her fingers while they both watch. It
hardly seems real, her inch-long black nails, her graceful hands.
Impulsively she tweaks the nubs, uses the nails. Chris winces, shifts
but before he can say it she lets go, runs her hands down his pecs,
abs. Not sexual but soothing, gentling.Nice. Just like any stallion, silence and stroking take his anger, make
him drowsy and sensual. The ballsy grin's dimmed down to a lazy smirk
and Chris doesn't argue when she pulls his shirt out of his jeans, even
raises his arms so she can slip it off over his head. More sweat, clean
and saltless and sharp as underbrush and when she lets her fingers trail
through the damp curls under his arms he arches into it before he pulls
away."Whoa," he says, holding up a warning finger. "Ticklish." Mocking.
She's seen that look on boys faces before. It's a look that says
'You're a two-bagger but maybe I'll let you blow me' and even though it
must have hurt once, now it just makes her smile. Maybe 'cause she knows
what too many of them look like coming with her finger up their ass. So
what if they run away after? Now it really *is* just because she shines
so bright and soon they'll forget the two-bag face was ever there.
She'll just be the sun.So how do you like looking into the sun, Chris? her smile says and he
maybe reads it exactly right and Joanie's almost gratified to have to
settle him again with her hands.Underneath he's nice and meaty. Nice round pecs that feel a lot like
her own 'additions'. Not too cut yet. Chest baby-powder smooth where
he's just shaved it. //For me? How sweet// She smoothes it, then
roughs it the other way, just one time. That's going to chafe under the
boning and from the way he moves Chris is going to like that just fine.
Fine flat board of a belly and his navel like a little mouth. His
'woman part' in her personal lexicon of parts. If she liked him, she'd
kiss him there. Tongue him. Maybe she does. Will. For now she just
hooks a finger into it, gives it a little jerk and moves down. Hand on
the top button of his
jeans and he stops her with his hand on her hand."No offense," he says, and *this* grin is wry and very, very cold. The
grin, she'd bet, he used to give to middle aged fags in public toilets.
Especially the brave ones that dropped to their knees anyway hoping for
a mouthful of fine het-boy dick but ready for a beating if that's all
the golden boy was dishing. And that's just fine too. She wants to
take the bumps the big boys take. Always has. Because she wants to
give them too. And she doesn't take her hand away.Instead she slides it down as she reaches over him, plucks the crook of
the hanger that's been hanging over the backside of the mirror out of
sight the whole time and fishes out her prize. His prize. Dangles it.Made for her, but it'll fit him, suit him so much better. No woman
would ever get away with something this... pink.Pink satin, structured, heavy and *shimmering* -- bustier and thong; a
froth of lace, bright garters dangling; stockings sheer and pink as
candy floss. Pink satin fuck-me pumps in a clear plastic bag...She feels him take in air, feels his cock stiffen and heat with blood
under her hand and yanks him back against her, hard. Palming him.
Doesn't say nothing. She can feel his answer in her hand. Smell it
rising off him in waves. She strokes him again and this time his hips
jerk and he pushes into it."Fuck..." Chris says.
Yeah. This angle's going to fly big-time.
And when she moves the prize he's looking down and away, flushed face in
profile. Not looking in the mirror anymore. But that's okay. He will
be. When the time comes, he will be.And anyway, the mirror's just for practice. It's what happens in the
ring that counts and one thing she's learned since she's been in the
Show -- you never have to look at the Titantron to know when you're up
there.That's what the crowd is there for.
-end-
***
"All of her lovers all talk of her notes
And the flowers that they never sent
And wasn't she easy
And isn't she pretty in pink
The one who insists he was first in the line
Is the last to remember her name
He's walking around in this dress that she wore
She is gone but the joke's the same"-Pretty In Pink by the Psychedelic Furs