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Roleplay Boards => Climax Control Roleplays => Topic started by: Amelia Reynolds on December 19, 2025, 11:52:21 PM
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mirrors
03. home
★★★★★★★
The glow from the laptop washed Amelia’s face soft and warm, the kind of light that made even a Denver winter evening feel gentler than it had any right to. Outside, the highway down the street from the big dual paned windows that held the image of Denver’s city lights in the distance over the foothills of Colorado looked like a small blip where little lights travelled past.
Inside, the house had declared itself one of Santa’s Christmas Warzones.
It smelled like pine and cinnamon and whatever candle Amelia had sworn was subtle when she bought it. White lights braided the stair rail with a garland wrapped between every rung. Gone were the coffee cups and magazines and random Monster energy cans that decorated the coffee table. Instead, had been overtaken by a little ceramic village with tiny roofs dusted in fake snow. Within the scene sat a miniature church, a half-dozen little houses, and a few painted people frozen mid-walk as if they had somewhere important to be.
Amelia sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree with the laptop balanced on the ottoman. She was grinning so hard her cheeks were starting to hurt, but she didn’t really care – this was Christmas, which was one of her favorite holidays. Her family had always been huge on the day, with a whole smorgasbord of food and people and sounds and loudness. There was never any snow, but this time, it was snowing here too.
On the screen, her mother’s face filled the frame. Sheila Reynolds, backlit by Australian summer brightness, hair pulled back with that practical, no-nonsense efficiency Amelia had inherited and then stubbornly refused to use. Her expression was fond, but the fondness had an edge to it. Not anger. Not guilt. Just that particular motherly ache that said I miss you, and I don’t like that I miss you.
“You look…bright.” Sheila said.
Amelia laughed, breath puffing in a little cloud because she’d insisted the room didn’t need to be that warm when there was a fireplace and vibes. “I am bright. I’m home. I’m actually home.”
“You were in New York two minutes ago.”
“I got back Tuesday. I slept, I showered, I ate something that wasn’t airport food. We went shopping. And I’m at SCW this weekend, but it’s in Denver, so I don’t have to travel. I can just… drive.”
Sheila’s eyes softened and sharpened at the same time. “That’s still work, Mellie Love.”
“I know.” Amelia said, gentle but firm, like she was laying something down on the table between them. “But it’s different. It’s not…constant airports. It’s not living out of a suitcase. It’s here.”
Sheila’s gaze flicked, taking in the background like she couldn’t help herself. The staircase lights, the glow of the tree. The fact that Amelia’s house looked like a department store display or an advertisement that showed a genuinely fake family celebrating the holidays.
Amelia caught it, and her smile went bright again. “Wait. Wait, okay – Mum, I have to show you.”
“Amelia–”
“Nope! You have to see it, and then you’ll understand it, okay?”
She stood up, nearly tripping over a stray ornament hook because she was still Amelia, and grace wasn’t always her middle name. (It wasn’t, actually, it was Claire). She picked up the laptop with both hands. The camera wobbled as she turned it toward the tree, which was so new it still had that crisp, untouched look. Every branch was full with no sad gaps, no inherited ornaments with questionable history. It was entirely theirs. Like Christmas had completely thrown up on it.
“All new!” Amelia announced, reverent and smug at once. “We picked everything. Together.”
On-screen, Sheila made a sound that was half amusement and half surrender. “It’s beautiful.”
Amelia angled the camera closer to the ornaments, narrating like a tour guide who had waited her whole life for this moment. “Okay, look at this one. This is the little skier one, because he insisted we needed something that looked like Colorado. And this! This is the tiny disco ball because–”
“Because you’re you.”
“Because I’m me.” Amelia agreed, unashamed. “And this one is a little kangaroo, because you’re still technically in charge of my soul. And – wait – look, look, look – this is my favorite.”
She zoomed in on an ornament that was almost embarrassingly domestic. A small glass house with a lit window, a tiny wreath painted on the door. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t elegant. It was simply home, turned into something you could hang.
Sheila’s mouth tightened, just for a second. “You didn’t tell me you’d done all this.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Amelia said softly. Then, brighter again, because she refused to let the softness turn into sadness. “Okay, okay. Tour. Tour. Come with me.”
She walked through the living room, the laptop held out in front of her. The camera caught the couch first, and on it, Dickie. He was slouched in the corner like he’d melted into the fabric. One foot was planted, propping his leg up, and the other stretched out in front of him. A PlayStation controller sat being actively used in his hands.
He looked comfortable in the kind of way that said they were in their home, and there was no reason for him to be alarmed. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hand through it every time the game annoyed him. His shoulders were relaxed, his body resting in a way that suggested the last couple of weeks had taken their due and he was finally listening to someone other than his heart that said he could do all things, once provided with espresso and spite.
He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he just made a small sound that might’ve been irritation at the screen, and then glanced over when he registered the laptop moving.
Amelia turned the camera toward him with a grin so wide it was borderline triumphant. “Mum, look who’s pretending he’s not listening.”
Dickie’s eyes flicked to the screen. A smile tugged at his mouth. He lifted his free hand in a lazy wave, the universal language of hello, yes I’m here, no I will not be perceived too intensely.
“Hi, Sheila,” he said, voice easy, warm around the edges.
Sheila’s expression shifted, familiarity settling in. She had met him in January, in the way mothers did when they were quietly taking inventory. Manners, tone, posture, the small tells that said whether a person was safe. She still carried that inventory, but now there was something else in her face too.
“You look well.” Sheila said to him.
Dickie’s smile sharpened briefly, boyish, lazy. “I’m surviving.”
Amelia angled the camera away before either of them could get too earnest. “Don’t listen to him, he’s being a menace. Right. So. This is the living room situation. And…come here…”
She guided the laptop toward the coffee table and practically crouched beside the ceramic village like she was introducing it to royalty. “Mum. We got a Christmas village. Like a proper one. Look at the little streetlights – look at the tiny people! Oh my god, and the bakery has a little window display–”
Sheila laughed then, the sound bright and surprised. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” Amelia said happily. “It’s the best.”
As she moved through the house, the tour became its own kind of proof. Stockings hung in the hallway – two of them, not matched perfectly because Amelia had picked one and Dickie had picked the other, and neither of them had been willing to compromise. A garland framed the kitchen doorway. The dining table held a runner printed with holly, and a bowl of candy canes that was already half-empty because Dickie kept eating them like the menace she kept calling him.
Amelia narrated every detail as if she was afraid the joy would evaporate if she didn’t keep speaking it into existence.
And it was in the middle of that, somewhere between showing the tiny village again and pointing out the string lights in the hallway, a the memory slipped in.
It wasn’t invited. It never was.
Three years earlier, she’d stood in someone else’s living room under someone else’s carefully curated tree, wearing a dress that didn’t feel like her and a smile that had been practiced in the bathroom mirror. No tattoos then. Bare skin, polished and plain. Quiet hands folded in her lap while Reece’s family, in their posh, Australian, heavy kind of way in which money spoke louder than words, asked her questions like they were weighing her.
She’d tried, back then. Tried to fit into the shape expected of her. Tried to be the girlfriend who didn’t take up too much space. Tried to look like belonging without ever actually feeling it.
And at the time, it had felt affectionate. Reece had leaned in close, touched her back, kissed her cheek in front of them like he was proud.
But the memory now, viewed from the other side of everything, felt like a photo taken under fluorescent lights. The affection had been there, yes, but it had been wrapped in performance. In expectation. In the quiet pressure of be good, be acceptable, be small enough to be approved of.
Amelia blinked, and the present rushed back in. Warm lights, pine scent, laughter caught in her throat. The difference wasn’t that she was loved now. She had been loved then, in his own way. The difference was that she didn’t have to disappear to earn it.
“Mum?” Amelia’s voice softened again as she returned to the living room, sinking down onto the rug near the tree. “I know you’re sad I’m not coming home.”
Sheila’s eyes held hers through the screen. “I am,” she admitted. “I understand the schedule. I do. I’m not…cross, love. Just…it’s Christmas. Aiden and Kallie came, bringing little Cassandra and Dax with them. Aiden will be back after his own match. I just wish you were coming too.”
“I know.” Amelia glanced toward the couch. Dickie had paused his game without making a fuss about it, attention subtly turned toward her in that quiet, listening way. “This is just… the first one. The first Christmas that feels like it’s ours. Like I built it. Like I chose it.”
Sheila exhaled slowly, the way mothers did when they were letting go of something they couldn’t hold forever anyway. “You look happy.”
“I am,” Amelia said, and there was no apology in it. Only certainty. “I’m really happy.”
And she was. She was happy with her life as a wrestler, promoting in two companies, one of which she sat at the top unexpectedly, and one where she continued to work her way up. She was happy that she could be around her favorite of her brothers, idolizing Aiden from afar but still becoming herself. She was happy that she could finally be herself, where expectations weren’t held over her soul. And she was happy that she had a gremlin of a man who didn’t have any ability to say no to her or to the multitude of fans who demanded he break himself every week for their entertainment.
A brief silence stretched. Comfortable, aching, honest.
Then Sheila’s mouth curved, resigned but affectionate. “Alright. Show me the tree again. I want to see the kangaroo ornament.”
Amelia laughed, relief sparkling through her like tinsel catching light. She angled the laptop back toward the branches, talking again – soft and bright and shamelessly domestic – until Sheila finally yawned and admitted it was late for her.
When they said goodbye, it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a fight. It was simply two people loving each other across distance, learning what it meant to let the shape of family change without breaking.
“Wait! Before you go, I have to show you the best part.” Amelia grinned.
“The best part?” Sheila echoed, skeptical and amused.
Amelia aimed the laptop toward herself and Dickie. His attention was back on the screen, trying to give Amelia privacy with her mother. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, beaming at him and then back at her mother. He smiled slightly, glanced at her, glanced at the computer screen, and then back to the game he was playing. She leaned her head on his shoulder and looked at her mum with the smuggest smile she could procure.
“Amelia.” Sheila laughed lightly, shaking her head.
“What?” Amelia grinned, unrepentant. “That’s the best part. He lives here.”
Sheila chuckled, told her daughter she loved her, told Dickie to be more careful please, and said her goodbyes as Amelia heard the front door of her childhood home open with gleeful shouts from her nephew. After, she closed the laptop and set it aside. For a moment, the house hummed with quiet, a kind that felt full instead of empty.
Dickie put the controller down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s okay?”
“She’s Mum.” Amelia said, smiling as she looked at him. “She’s sad. But she gets it.”
He nodded, as if that made sense in the way important things did. Then he opened his arms without saying a word. Amelia crossed miniature space between them and climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, pressing her back to his chest. His arms wrapped around her, solid and warm. He pressed his face briefly into her hair, breathing her in, and she felt the steady exhale that told her he was truly resting. His hands went back to his controller as he set his chin on her shoulder. He unpaused his game.
“What?” she murmured, amused, because his hold had tightened in that stubborn way of his.
“Nothing.” he said, voice low. “Just…this is nice.”
It was such a simple sentence, but it carried weight because for Dickie, nice was not a default setting. Nice was something earned.
Amelia tucked her face into his neck, eyes drifting to the tree. The new ornaments glinted softly. The village on the table glowed in miniature stubbornness. The lights along the stairs blinked in patient rhythm like they had all the time in the world.
The past tried to whisper again. Quiet party, polite smiles, borrowed shapes. But it couldn’t get traction here.
Here, the warmth was real. Here, she wasn’t posing.
Here, she was home.
★★★★★★★
Okay, hi. Yes. It’s me. And I’m going to say something that is deeply on-brand and absolutely not negotiable.
I love Christmas. Like love it.
I love the season. I love the holiday. I love the way people suddenly pretend they’re not stressed while they’re deffo obvi stressed. I love the lights. I love the music, although I still don’t understand people that turn it on before December first. I love the fact that peppermint becomes a personality trait for thirty-one days. I love how the air feels sharper and the nights feel softer. I love how everyone gets a little more sentimental and a little more dramatic, and somehow we all just agree to go with it.
And if you’re one of those people who doesn’t like Christmas… that’s okay. I forgive you. I’ll pray for you.
Kidding.
Mostly.
What I’m saying is…I’m in a good mood. I’m in that rare, magical window where I’m happy on purpose. I’m letting myself enjoy things. I’m not shrinking it down, not toning it down, not doing that thing where you act like you don’t care because you’re worried someone will roll their eyes.
I care. I’m festive. I’m thriving. And for Sunday, that’s… actually kind of dangerous for everyone involved.
Because I also just came from New York.
I know. People hear “New York” the same way they hear “Las Vegas”. They think glamour and flash and big-city drama, and yes, obviously, there’s some of that. But for me, New York has been about momentum. It’s been about showing up and shining and not apologizing for taking up space. NYWA has been good to me, and I’ve been good right back. I’m their top champ champ right now, and that’s not me trying to sound tough. It’s me being genuinely proud.
Because there’s a version of me from a few months ago who would’ve gotten nervous saying that out loud. Who would’ve softened it. Who would’ve made it smaller so nobody felt threatened. I’m not doing that anymore.
I’m walking into this opening contest with that New York momentum still on me. Still in me. Still buzzing. Not because I think I’m invincible. Nobody smart thinks that in this sport, and I’m talking about my lovely boyfriend in this mess as well. But I know what it feels like when your timing is right, your confidence is right, and you’re not asking anyone for permission.
Climax Control Four-Fourty-Five takes place at the Denver Coliseum. And that’s close. I always enjoy when we’re in Colorado, because I don’t have to travel that far. Which is also funny, because I know people hear “Denver” and they think, “Oh, home field, easy, roll out of bed and show up.” But nah. The Denver Coliseum is close, yes. It’s familiar, yes. But it’s far enough that I’m still leaving a half-day early because I am not letting traffic, weather, or one weird little universe moment where the roads decide to become a parking lot mess with my timing.
I am many things. Late is not one of them. And when all of the eyes in the world are gonna be on the ring, I know I’ve gotta step up my game regardless.
This isn’t just some cute opener where two women slap hands and politely trade holds and the crowd claps and we all go home. This is a clash that can reshape the road to Inception VIII. I know the match card spelled it out for you…Amelia has momentum, Amelia has a point to prove, Amelia wants to send a personal message to Frankie Holliday…
Hi, Frankie. I know you’re listening.
Let me say this in the most holiday-friendly way I can. I hope you’re cozy. I hope you’ve got a little hot drink. I hope you’re warm and comfortable.
Because I am trying to make you uncomfortable.
Not in a cruel way. In a competitive way. In a “we are heading toward the biggest stage of the year and I want you thinking about me when you’re brushing your teeth” way. I want you watching this match and realizing that I’m not walking into Inception VIII as someone who’s just excited to be there. I’m walking in as someone who is going to make your life complicated. And that’s the part that’s personal.
But here’s the other half of the card, the half that matters just as much, and honestly might be the half people underestimate because it’s quieter…
Zenna Zdunich.
Zenna… first of all, your entire presentation is iconic.
You’ve got your opening guitars, and red and purple lights that flash like you’re legit the rockstar of the moment. You soak in the crowd, you climb the top rope and scream like the ring is a stage and we’re all lucky you decided to share the mic. It’s not just an entrance. It’s a whole mood. I love a mood. I also love that you’re a heavy metal rhythm guitarist, because rhythm guitar is the unsung hero. It’s the backbone. It’s the thing that makes the whole song work even when people don’t realize it’s working. It’s steady. It’s controlled. It’s built on repetition and timing and discipline.
And when you translate that to wrestling? That tells me everything I need to know about how you fight.
You’re not just out there to do one big flashy thing and pray. You build. You stack. You keep the tempo until your opponent gets impatient, makes a mistake, and then you cash in. And you have the kind of move set that makes people panic. 450s. Corkscrews. Springboards. Frankensteiner. You’ve got submissions, too…like you want to remind everyone you can fly and you can hurt people in ways that don’t require altitude.
And your finishers? Fatal Kiss. Shot of Z. Even the names sound like they come with eyeliner and a warning label.
So no, Zenna, I’m not walking into this like, “Oh, this will be cute.” Because you’re not just fighting for a win on Sunday. You’re fighting for pride, legacy, closure. You’re preparing to stand beside your sister Seleana in the first-ever tag team match for the World Bombshell Championship at Inception VIII. That’s not just another match on the card. That’s history. That’s pressure. That’s the kind of moment people remember.
And I know what it’s like to carry something heavy into a match. Something you can’t put down, even if you want to. I know what it’s like to be trying to prove something not just to the crowd, not just to the locker room, but to yourself. I’m not going to cheapen what you’re walking toward. If anything, it makes me more excited about this match, because it means you’re going to come in sharp. Focused. Dialed. You’re not going to sleepwalk through this. You’re not going to treat me like background noise.
Good. I don’t want background noise. I want the real thing.
Since we’re being honest tonight, let me be honest about something else. I lost to Mercedes and I’m not going to do that dramatic wrestling thing where I pretend I’m shattered and traumatized and staring out a rainy window for three days.
No. I got mad. Because the reason it happened? Ropes. Leverage. That tiny little detail that changes a match when it shouldn’t. That little extra inch that turns a scramble into a pin. And yes, Mercedes is talented, but I’m not going to sit here and rewrite history like it was some clean, perfect, “she was just better” moment.
It was ropes.
And that kind of loss does something to you, because it doesn’t make you feel defeated. It makes you feel annoyed.
It makes you go, “Oh. So we’re doing that.”
And I would like to publicly announce that I am carrying that annoyance into the holiday season like it’s a stocking stuffer. So, Zenna, when I look at you, I’m looking at someone who is fighting for momentum before Inception VIII, just like me. I’m looking at someone who needs to walk into the biggest stage of the year feeling like everything is clicking. I’m looking at someone who, because of that, is going to come into this match ready to take whatever opening she can get.
And that’s where my Christmas cheer meets my competitive side.
Because I am bubbly. I am joyful. I am absolutely the kind of woman who will squeal over ornaments and insist that the tiny Christmas village needs “one more little house” as if I’m not already out of shelf space.
But I am also observant I am also stubborn. And I am also the kind of person who learns a lesson once and then puts it in her pocket like a weapon.
So this match…this opening contest where “all eyes are on the ring”...this isn’t just about who’s better. This is about who controls the pace when the stakes are this close and the calendar is screaming at you that Inception VIII is coming whether you feel ready or not.
You want to walk into that tag title match with your sister carrying pride and closure and momentum?
I get it. I respect it. But I want to walk into my showdown with Frankie Holliday with her already feeling the pressure. I want her watching me tonight and realizing that my “happy holiday” energy doesn’t mean I’m soft. It means I’m confident. It means I’m loose. It means I’m having fun.
And I fight better when I’m having fun.
So bring your concert entrance, Zenna. Bring the horns, bring the lights, bring the scream, bring the crowd with you. Bring the rhythm. Bring the heart. Bring the resilience.
I will bring the sparkle. I will bring the cheer. I will bring the momentum I carried back from New York. I will bring that very specific kind of petty focus you get when you’ve been robbed by something as small as rope leverage and you decide you’re never letting it happen again.
And Frankie?
Watch. Closely.
Because whatever you think you’re walking into at Inception VIII…I want you to realize tonight that I’m walking into it too. I’m not bringing a silent night.