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Roleplay Boards => Archived Roleplays => Climax Control Archives => Topic started by: RyanKeys on May 29, 2026, 10:39:41 PM
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OFF CAMERA
A FEW DAYS AFTER BLOOMINGTON
Harley Torres hadn’t blinked in damn near a full minute.
That was impressive on its own, but the real problem was the way everybody else in the hotel suite had slowly gone quiet just to watch him destroy Marcus on the SCW video game. Break The Limit flashed bright on the screen with all that purple and chrome, fake crowd jumping around like they’d been programmed by somebody who only saw wrestling fans during a riot.
Video game Ryan Keys bounced off the ropes, smacked digital Miles with a flying forearm, popped back up, and hit some hip pose that made the real Ryan immediately look offended.
“I do not stand like that,” Ryan said from the couch.
Harley didn’t even look away. “Yeah you do.”
“I have never done that with my hips in my life.”
Jessy Maddox, stretched out on the far end of the sectional with his boots crossed, looked up from the snack bowl. “You kinda do though.”
Ryan turned his head slow. “Jessy.”
Jessy just shrugged, calm as hell. “Ain’t saying it’s bad.”
Harley grinned without breaking eye contact with the screen. “See? Accurate hips.”
Ryan flopped back against the cushions, pulling a wounded face, one arm draped along the back. The Roulette Championship sat right next to him like it belonged there now. He wore regular stuff, dark joggers, sleeveless white shirt, sunglasses hooked over his collar, blond hair messy in that way that took effort to look accidental. His right eyebrow had those two fresh slits cut through it. Looked like a style choice unless you knew the story.
Everybody in the room knew the story.
The flaming table in Bloomington took a little chunk out of him. Skin still tender, ribs sore if he twisted wrong, bruise on the shoulder turning ugly colors, and his gear bag still smelled like smoke so bad housekeeping asked if he brought a grill.
And part of the eyebrow.
Not all of it. Not enough to be tragic. Just enough to be annoying and hilarious to the people who loved him most.
Harley had been ruthless about it.
Ryan avoided posting any face pics for days because of that eyebrow, which only made Harley worse. The guy printed the joke straight into his head and refused to let it go.
On screen, Harley nailed the reversal, rolled through a suplex, and sent digital Ryan flying with a springboard kick that flattened Miles. Marcus groaned loud from the armchair and threw his head back.
“Bro, how are you even this good?”
Harley finally blinked. “I read the tutorial.”
Marcus stared like Harley suggested black magic. “The what?”
“The tutorial. That thing the game gives you so you stop sucking in front of people.”
Marcus waved the controller. “Nobody reads that stuff.”
Harley flicked a look at Ryan. “Champ does.”
Ryan held up both hands. “I skimmed it, alright?”
Harley smirked. “And that’s why I’m better with your character than you are.”
Ryan sat up straighter. “That’s a filthy thing to say to your fiancé.”
“That’s loving truth.”
“That’s straight emotional vandalism.”
Lena, one of Ryan’s Vegas friends, curled up sideways in the other armchair with her cup and feet tucked under her. She’d been laughing nonstop for the last twenty minutes and showed zero signs of stopping.
“Harley really does have all the combos down.”
“Thank you,” Harley said.
Ryan shot her a look. “Lena, I invited you for support.”
“No, you invited me because I bring the good chips.”
Ryan glanced at the coffee table where the good chips sat open and already half destroyed. “Okay. That part is also true.”
Jessy leaned forward and dropped the snack bowl on the table, reaching for his drink. “I ain’t even touching that game after watching Harley. Got too much pride to lose to a man who knows what every single button does.”
“You can just say I’m talented,” Harley said.
Jessy gave an easy smile. “You’re talented.”
Harley pointed at him. “See? That’s friendship.”
Ryan looked between them. “I feel straight betrayed by this couch.”
The suite felt loud in the best way, the kind of loud that happens when nobody performs for anybody. Takeout boxes stacked on the counter, ice melting in plastic cups, shoes kicked off by the door, a jacket slung over a chair, pillows stolen from the bed so the losers of each round could get pelted.
Nobody dressed up. Nobody cut fake lines. Nobody asked Ryan how it felt to be champion in that packaged voice.
They just existed.
Harley on the floor with the controller, knee up, locked in like the game insulted his whole bloodline.
Jessy relaxed on the couch, laughing whenever things got too dramatic.
Marcus losing bad and blaming everything except his thumbs.
Lena stealing chips and keeping brutal score on her phone.
Theo by the counter yelling advice that helped zero people.
And Ryan, fresh Roulette Champion, sitting there with the belt beside him while his closest people treated him like the same dude who would still eat sketchy floor pretzels if nobody stopped him.
It felt good.
Winning the title felt good too, obviously. He wasn’t pretending becoming Roulette Champion in the main event of his own King For A Day show was some small thing. That night still sat under his skin. The noise, the heat, the crowd, Aron grabbing him in the ring, the belt in his hands, that weird half-second after the three count where his body screamed but his brain whispered, you actually did it.
But then came the rest.
Texts. Travel. Questions. Notifications blowing up. People tagging him in clips. People asking why he hadn’t posted more. People congratulating, joking, already asking what came next.
He wanted to answer all of it.
He also wanted to sleep seventeen hours and wake up with normal eyebrows.
Instead he sat here laughing while his fiancé made his video game self look smoother than he usually managed in real life.
Harley hit Ryan’s finisher. AFTER PARTY flashed huge across the screen. Marcus threw the controller onto the cushion.
“That move is broken as hell.”
Ryan pointed at the TV. “No, that move is art.”
Harley held up the controller. “It’s timing. You keep mashing out of everything.”
Marcus looked at Ryan. “You hearing this? He’s coaching me through your own body.”
Ryan made a face. “I hate that sentence so much.”
Jessy laughed into his drink. “That got weird quick.”
Lena tapped her phone. “Harley wins again. Marcus down four. Ryan down two. Jessy undefeated because he refuses to play.”
Jessy lifted one hand. “Smartest man in the room.”
Ryan looked over. “Coward.”
Jessy smiled. “That too.”
Harley stood up and stretched, shirt riding up. Ryan noticed. Harley noticed him noticing and grinned like the troublemaker he was. He stepped right over the coffee table, no respect for hotel furniture, and leaned down close.
“Your turn.”
Ryan eyed the controller. “Against you?”
“Unless you’re scared.”
“Of you? Never.”
“Of losing with yourself while I sit here looking pretty? Absolutely.”
Theo made a low sound from the counter. “That would sting bad.”
Ryan took the controller and looked at Harley. “You all know I’m injured, right?”
Harley gave him that quick soft glance, the real one hidden under the teasing where he checked how Ryan moved and how the ribs held up. Then the grin came right back. “Your eyebrow is injured.”
Ryan pointed the controller at him. “This eyebrow survived war.”
“That eyebrow survived medium heat.”
“Fire took some. I turned it into branding.”
Lena raised her cup. “To branding.”
Jessy raised his drink. “To fashion eyebrow.”
Ryan nodded at him. “Thank you, Jessy.”
Harley dropped down beside Ryan, shoulders touching. “He only agrees because he’s nice.”
Jessy looked mildly offended. “I got eyes. Looks fine.”
Harley leaned into Ryan’s side. “It does look fine.”
Ryan glanced at him. Harley didn’t joke this time. Just squeezed his knee quick and private, then nodded at the screen. “Play.”
Ryan played.
The room got loud again for two rounds.
Ryan lost the first because Harley chose Mercedes and picked his legs apart while giving running commentary on reversals that got more insulting the more helpful it sounded. Ryan won the second because Harley got cocky on a springboard and Ryan reversed into After Party while jumping off the couch like he really pinned somebody.
“Champion behavior,” Ryan announced, standing with both arms out.
Harley stayed on the couch. “You beat me once.”
Ryan pointed at the title. “Once can change everything.”
Marcus threw a pillow. Ryan caught it awkward, ribs twinged, but covered it by hugging the pillow dramatically. “Wounded by your jealousy.”
Harley grabbed another pillow and smacked Marcus instead. “Don’t throw stuff at the champ. That’s my job.”
The whole room cracked up.
Ryan looked around at all of them and for a second the championship felt lighter. Not less important. Just less lonely.
Then his phone buzzed.
Aron.
Harley saw the name and made a face. “Tell Iceland he can leave a message.”
Ryan picked it up as he stood. “Jessy says hey.”
Aron’s voice came through dry. “Hello, Jessy.”
Ryan glanced back. “He says hello.”
Jessy lifted his drink. “Polite man.”
Harley sprawled out. “Ask him about eyebrow hazard pay.”
Ryan stepped toward the balcony. “I’m not asking that.”
“Coward.”
“Troublemaker.”
“Fiancé,” Harley corrected, blowing a kiss.
Ryan smiled anyway and slipped outside, sliding the glass door shut. Cool Indianapolis air hit him. The city stretched out below with lights and traffic moving steady. Inside through the glass, the friends went right back to arguing over the next match. Harley had the controller again. Of course.
Ryan leaned on the railing. “Not a social call, I’m guessing.”
“It could be,” Aron said.
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Shocking.”
“You had your quiet week.”
Ryan looked through the glass. Harley explained something wild with both hands while Marcus looked lost. Jessy laughed that slow, easy way of his.
Ryan’s smile softened. “It wasn’t quiet.”
“No. I imagine not.”
“It was good though.”
“That is why I waited.”
Ryan turned and looked out over the city. “Bill.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Ryan breathed out. “You calling to ask means you think I don’t know enough yet.”
“This is your first match as champion even if the title isn’t on the line. People watch what you do with it. Zayvion faces Ciaran on the same show too. Do not look past Bill just because the road looks busy.”
Ryan glanced inside again. Harley pulled a stupid face at him through the glass. Ryan almost laughed but held it.
“I’m not looking past him.”
“Good. Say it like champion Ryan Keys, not like the man trying to steal one more hour of chips and yelling.”
That landed.
Ryan looked at the title through the glass, sitting there beside his people.
“Work never really left,” he said.
“But you got to breathe. Now go be champion.”
The call ended.
Ryan stood there a moment longer, phone in hand, letting the muffled laughs leak through the glass. He needed that. Needed the reminder of what he carried into the next fight.
He slid the door open and stepped back in.
Harley looked up. “We fired?”
“No.”
“Rich?”
“Still no.”
“Then why call?”
“Because apparently I gotta go be champion now.”
Jessy raised his brows. “Sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.”
Harley grabbed the Roulette Championship off the couch, brought it over, and pressed it against Ryan’s chest. Their hands brushed. “Then take your shiny problem.”
Harley’s voice dropped under the noise. “You good?”
Ryan looked at him and smiled small. “Getting there.”
Harley patted the plate. “Good. Still want that hazard pay though.”
Ryan laughed and kissed him quick.
Jessy called over. “Y’all gonna make me stare at the wall or what?”
Harley turned. “You’ll survive, country.”
Ryan shook his head, still grinning, took the title, and headed back out to the balcony. This time the camera waited.
ON CAMERA
The door shut behind him, cutting the game noise down to a hum. Indianapolis lights glowed behind him, title on his shoulder, eyebrow slits catching the light. Ryan looked straight into the camera and started talking like they were just chilling.
“Yeah, I know. The eyebrow. Part of it got torched. I waited till it grew back enough to turn it into a look. Official story is fashion. Anybody arguing is just hating on adaptation.”
He adjusted the belt, grinning a little.
“Bloomington was wild, man. Everybody waiting on some big statement after. New champ. King For A Day main event. Flaming table. After Party. Crowd going nuts. Instead I went quiet for a minute. Not hiding, just sore, tired, letting my fiancé roast me daily about almost having one eyebrow, sitting with the title while my friends trash my pixel self in a video game. I needed to be regular Ryan before everybody needed the champion again.”
He tapped the plate.
“And I think that was smart. ’Cause this thing changes how people look at you. Questions get heavier. Expectations too. But the people in that room? They still roasted me. Harley still whooped everybody at the game ’cause he actually reads instructions like a nerd. Jessy still acted like the world could burn and he’d just offer chips first. Nobody treated me like I was suddenly made of glass.”
Ryan smiled bigger.
“They treated me like me. Then the phone rang and work reminded me Bill Barnhart still existed.”
He shifted, getting comfortable against the railing.
“First, Zayvion. I haven’t said enough, so here it is. You brought it in Bloomington. Cleo with the crazy ideas, you using the match I booked against me, kicking out after things that would’ve ended most guys. I put you through fire, dragged you back, covered you, and you still got that shoulder up. Respect. I didn’t beat some paper champ. I beat you on a night where everything was loose and mean. You made me earn this. And I did.”
He lifted the title a bit.
“Earned it when I kept going. When I ducked the Lyons Roar. When After Party landed clean and the ref hit three. King For A Day got me the shot. I still had to walk through it while you were swinging.”
He set it back on his shoulder.
“But winning it once doesn’t answer everything. I know that. Indianapolis is where I start answering the next question. First time SCW steps into the Indiana Farmers Coliseum. New crowd. Road to Summer XXXTreme heating up. Zayvion vs Ciaran on the card, the guy I beat and the guy waiting in Ultimate X over the pool for whoever’s holding this. Lot to look at.”
Ryan paused, glancing out over the city before looking back to the camera.
“And I’m gonna watch that match. I’d be stupid not to. Zayvion just lost this title and Ciaran just climbed through a ladder match to get near it, so yeah, I’m watching. Not because I’m already living on that cruise ship in my head, not because I’m looking past anybody, but because this is what the title does. It makes every match around it feel closer. It turns people into future problems before the bruises from the last problem are even gone.”
Ryan looked right at the camera.
“Which is why I can’t afford to get cute and stare past Bill Barnhart.”
He chuckled a little.
“Bill, this ain’t a title match. You don’t pin me and walk with the gold. Ciaran earned his shot at Summer XXXTreme. The division’s moving. But that don’t make you small. Makes you the first real test. First guy across from me after the biggest night I’ve had here. First chance for people to say Bloomington was just one hot night and the new champ already slipping.”
He leaned in.
“And I know that’s what you’re smelling. You wanna lean on the ribs. Throw that weight around. Make it ugly so the smile drops and folks wonder if Ryan Keys was ready for what comes after the fireworks. Smart, honestly. I just came out of Extreme Rules. Body still remembers the fire. If you’re hunting a champ, that’s the time.”
He shook his head.
“But don’t mix sore with soft. People do that with me all the time. See the grin, the sunglasses, the way I let my people laugh around me and think there’s nothing under it. You should know better, Bill. You hit me after the bell in Copenhagen. Low blow. Piledriver. Match was over. I felt every bit of it. You’re a big stubborn bruiser who knows how to make it hurt. That’s real.”
He tapped the title.
“But I still became King For A Day after that. Still booked my show. Still walked into that main event and left with this. So if the lesson was supposed to scare me off, I learned something else instead. I learned you swing when your pride’s bent. Learned Bea near the ring means extra nonsense. Learned the Bulldog bites hardest when the room ain’t going your way.”
Ryan grinned.
“But you learned I don’t scare off easy either.”
Laughter spilled through the glass, Harley yelling about reversals again. Ryan glanced back, still smiling.
“That right there? That ain’t distraction. That’s what I bring to the ring. Friends who roast me when I get big-headed. A fiancé who turns my singed eyebrow into comedy gold but still checks my ribs quiet. People who keep me human. Then I step through the curtain anyway.”
He faced the camera straight.
“So that’s you gettin’, Bill. The real version. Sore spots and all. Still smiling. Still moving. Still finding openings when you think you’ve got me trapped in the corner grinding me down. You wanna push, crush, make it slow and heavy. That’s your fight. My fight’s different. I adjust. I survive the dumb stuff and flip it. I only need one clean second. One mistake. One time your temper gets there before your feet.”
Ryan tilted his head slightly, the title resting against his shoulder.
“And that is where you’re dangerous. You’ve been around long enough to know how to take comfort away from somebody. You don’t need to out-speed me. You don’t need to out-fly me. You just need to get your hands on me once and turn the match into one long argument I have to fight out of. Corners, ropes, body weight, that old-school pressure where every breath starts feeling rented. That’s where you make people panic. And if I panic, I lose. So I’m not coming in careless. I’m coming in loose, but not blind.”
He held the belt with both hands for a second.
“That’s why Roulette fits me. Wheel spins, rules get stupid, everything goes sideways. You adapt or you eat it. And Bill, I have gotten pretty good at not eating it.”
He stepped closer.
“So bring it. Test the ribs. Test if the new champ still feels Bloomington when you lean on him. Test if the smile stays when the Bulldog starts throwing weight. Test if I’m distracted by Zayvion, Ciaran, the cruise, Ultimate X, any of it. You’ll find out quick I’m thinking about you.”
He lifted the title.
“Bloomington wasn’t a fluke. Wasn’t the crown doing the work. Wasn’t Zay slipping. It was me doing what I said I could when it counted. Indianapolis is where I prove I can keep doing it after. After the party. After everybody starts talking defenses. After people stop asking how it felt and start asking if I can hold it.”
The grin came back full.
“I can.”
He heard the door crack. Harley poked his head out. “You done monologuing yet? Jessy just stole a win with your character and said ‘well would ya look at that.’”
Ryan didn’t look away. “Jessy, that’s theft.”
From inside, Jessy called back. “Borrowed it friendly!”
Harley grinned. “Finish being champ. We saved you cold fries.”
“That’s not saving, that’s a threat.”
He blew a kiss and shut the door.
Ryan laughed, shaking his head at the camera.
“See? That’s why I came out here. But that’s also why I’m ready. Bill, there ain’t no reset button for Bloomington. No reset for Zay losing the title. No reset for me winning it. No reset for what you did in Copenhagen.”
He got right up close.
“And when that bell hits in Indianapolis, no reset for you either. You don’t get to restart when you see I’m not as easy as you hoped. Don’t get to pause when I start moving faster than you can grab. Don’t get to quit when the party you came to kill starts hitting back.”
He tapped the faceplate.
“I’m bringing the champion. And everything that got me here. The movement, the nerve, the idiots laughing behind that glass, the guy who worries even while roasting me. Bring the Bulldog. Bring Bea if she wants to get creative again. Bring every heavy shot. I’ll bring the After Party.”
Ryan turned toward the door, hand on the handle, then looked back with the eyebrow slits sharp and the grin easy.
“You ain’t proving once was luck, Bill. You’re helping me prove the reign’s just getting started.”
He slid the door open. Game noise and laughter spilled out around him as he stepped back inside, title on his shoulder, camera holding on the night behind.