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Supercard Roleplays / Re: FRANKIE HOLLIDAY v AMELIA REYNOLDS
« on: January 03, 2026, 03:22:45 AM »mirrors
04.1 placed
04.1 placed
★★★★★★★
december 31, 2025
new york city
new york city
Lunch had been an indulgence, primarily in that it was out of laziness more than anything else. The Waldorf Astoria’s Lex Yard didn’t have crisp white tablecloths, but it did have quiet silver and a maitre’d who spoke in a low, practiced cadence that said his tip money was already included in the check.
Amelia sat with her shoulders relaxed, hands wrapped around the warm curve of a teacup that smelled vaguely of citrus. The city beyond the windows looked cold, but everything in here was simply patience. She could have pretended, if she wanted, that she didn’t have work. That this was just a week away from the craziness of her life. Something ordinary, simply a lunch that ended with a stroll and a shared dessert and nothing waiting behind the next door. That the man in front of her wasn’t keeping something from her, no matter how calm and quiet he was.
Yet still.
Dickie wore a particular restlessness he always did on show days, whether it was his own or hers. It wasn’t anxiety so much as energy that refused to sit neatly inside his skin. He was a wrestling gremlin in the most affectionate sense. His eyes were alert, mouth half-curved as if he were on the edge of a joke. His fingers tapped against the table once and then stopped as if he’d caught himself. He’d eaten, but it looked like he’d done it quickly, like it was an obligation that distracted them from the real business of the day.
He leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders. “I think I’m gonna go hang with Kallie.” He told her, casually, like he was simply going to the ice machine down the hall from their room. “Cheer from the seventy-five inch with the Dragon and his Princess.”
Amelia’s mouth softened into a smile before she could help it. “Dax and Cassandra will love that.”
He nodded. “Aiden and you both have matches, and it’s not like Kallie can step away from Cass right now. And besides, Dax is still convinced I am the coolest human alive.”
“That’s because,” she replied with a smirk growing on her face, “you encourage him to become chaos.”
“I do not.” He replied with the solemnity of a complete and utter liar. “I simply exist, and he’s just…spiritually aligned with my greatness.”
Amelia let out a quiet laugh, one that came from her chest that loosened something in her ribs. It felt good to laugh like that on a day that so easily could – and would – become all about intensity and pressure. “I think it’s good you go,” she smiled, leaning forward and propping her head up with her hand. “You won’t be buzzing in a parking lot, and you’ll be occupied.”
“Occupied,” he repeated, amused. He stood, smooth and quick, already turning his body toward the rhythm of leaving. “Like I’m the toddler, okay. I see you. Meanwhile, you’ll be busy being terrifying and problematic.”
Amelia rose too, the chair whispering back across the floor. She gathered her composure the way she always did, quietly and efficiently, even if her eyes stayed on him. There were things that she wanted to ask in that moment, softly. She wanted to pull him closer by the wrist and ask, Are you alright? Why have you been so quiet lately? But she’d learned over time that some questions were better saved for later.
They left the restaurant together. The lobby opened up ahead with high ceilings, lavish fountains, muted chatter, Old New York elegance that they didn’t fit in. People moved in and out like currents. A small city within a larger, hulking one.
It was at the fountain that he slowed. Not stopped – he was like a rabbit that way, always moving – but slowing just enough that it mattered. Amelia turned toward him instinctively, her feet stopping softly. She could see the line of his jaw and the way his eyes slid across her face as if committing it to memory. Something in her went still, instinctively, like part of her had recognized the moment as important.
He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers near her temple as if ensuring she was still real. He leaned in, and the kiss that landed on her forehead was so deliberately tender that it felt like a promise without words. Not performative. Not a quick good luck peck. Affection, steady and anchored – a claim of closeness that didn’t need an audience, but happened openly anyway. He didn’t seem to care who saw.
She closed her eyes for half a second and let the contact settle into her bones. It was easy to forget he was hiding things when he was like this. When he pulled back, his expression had shifted back to something lighter, the familiar half-smirk returning like armor. “I’ll see you after,” he said.
She nodded. He gripped her hand tightly once and let go, turning to weave into the lobby’s flow, towards the parking garage, their family, and the portion of the day that would keep him near without hovering. She watched him go for a moment longer than necessary, one hand briefly lifting towards her forehead as if she could hold the imprint there. Then, she exhaled, squared her shoulders, and walked to the elevators towards her own match, her own work, and a day that had already begun to mark itself as something she would remember.
★★★★★★★
It’s always funny to me how everyone comes into these things jawin’ off like the did somethin’ spectacular. Like they’re special for winnin’ something, even if it’s a little bit unfairly. But that’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Try to like, sound better than we are so the people around us give a little bit of fear or respect. Some people might scream from the rafters “I BEAT THIS PERSON RAAAAAH!!!!!” because they think that gives them a little lick of credibility.
I’m not really convinced on that. I like seein’ it happen, ya know? The evidence blasted across the stage. Goin’ all the way back to Summer XXXTreme, I recall the fact that I like…was almost there. A millisecond more and I would’ve had it. I didn’t. I lost. I stepped away. It really pulled somethin’ out of me for a second, and I’ll always recognize it. And I know people will wanna use it against me because they’re fuckheads like that, but ya know…
Find like…new better lines to dig at me with!
For the whole of twenty-twenty-five, I made a lot of gains in this business whether that is attributed here or not. Here, even if the dirt sheets can’t get my moniker right or they can’t accurately place my win-loss record, but they can deep throat an Argentinian bish that hasn’t been relevant until this year amazingly – suddenly with the generation of content! – I’ve been fairly successful. Seven matches here, only two (2) of them a loss for me.
And one of ‘em was to a sneaky roll up because she couldn’t put me down like she said she was gonna.
Results matter, but so do the way things happen, Mercedes! As if you would know.
I don’t like showin’ up to these things feelin’ like the world is my oyster, and it owes me. I’m not the type of woman that believes that my mere presence makes the voices sing my praises. I know that good work, a bit of fight, and a lot of heart placed into all of this gets the ball runnin’ just as much as piss and vinegar. Spite is a well-workin’ companion to anger, but it isn’t what gets you anywhere. And neither is just simple belief.
You work to succeed, and you succeed when you work. I’ve been workin’. I have lofty goals, but they’re not out of line with my ability to move forward. I just have to be more important to this company first. Not a third match on a big card kind of girlie but more like a headliner kinda girlie.
My sixth match ever, I won the top championship of a new company. I worked for it. I fought for it. I breathed for it. And that Gotham Crown sits on my mantle with my Russian-Brit boyfriend’s two top champ champ titles and I realize that even if I haven’t done it at Sin City Wrestling…I can do it.
This is my chance to prove I fit in with our regalia of women here.
I said it at the last show, and I’ll say it again here – the road has been set for a while, and while I’ve been politely ignored week in and week out, I’ve had my eyes on this since I knew about it. I’m competitive. I like to fight. I told you that I was on my way to the biggest stage of the year and I want ya thinkin’ about me. I’m walkin’ in to Inception VIII as someone who’s trying to make life complicated and become a problem.
I was talkin’ to you, Frankie Honey.
I know, so obtuse. How dare you talk about someone when it’s not even their match time or you haven’t faced them! Talk about the past only that you’ve existed because you can make yourself look prettier in it. But what do I get for mentionin’ you?
A big fat load of nothin’, which I think you’re used to taking…if you catch my drift.
I know you think you’re comfortable. You have all of these contacts outside of this company, and these people are patting you on the head, saying good girl, and you lap it up like one of Maslow’s doggos. The desire to be loved is so prevalent within you, I don’t think you even see it.
It’s there when you tell us that you were trying to fix things.
It’s there when you admonish the company for not seeing your vision of greatness.
It’s there when you viciously and verbally maim people because they don’t fit the bill of what you want, desire, need, feel.
I see you for what you are, Frankie, even if you don’t see it in yourself. Lack of love becomes envy and jealousy. Try to argue it, and you’ll dig yourself into a deeper hole.
So tell me, Miss Doe-Eyed, pretty little girl from Wisconsin. What are ya gonna play this time? The rooting cheerleader that wanted the best for me? Manipulate your way through another promotional video to try to make yourself the victim while everyone else sees you for who you are? Did you realize that the rest of us weren’t picking up on the mediocrity pouring out of your lungs?
Because you can talk and talk and talk and talk, Frankie. Franchesca. Frannie. That’s all you do, and for a long while, it fit the bill. It paid for what you needed.
Don’t think that’s gonna work on me.
That’s gonna be a problem for you.
★★★★★★★
She hadn’t won. The loss came with its own kind of private silence.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind – you know, the one that demanded tears and a spiral. Like she had that one time they built her up as the next big thing only to have her broken by a slim millisecond. It was just a moment, really, after the crowd stopped being a wall of sound and really became a memory. She had the championship, still in her grasp. Her first championship. The Gotham Crown with all of its blue and red and gold.
Samantha Hamilton had put in the paces for that win, barely scraping through and winning. Just like with Mercedes – barely scraping through. Both of them knew it. Amelia could live with that, the win having not come clean or effortless, and that’s all that mattered to her, even if the record book only held the result.
Inside the locker room, she dropped onto the bench and let her shoulders fall in one fell swoop. The fluorescents flattened everything, making her look like a girl in a room instead of a performer who just stood under spotlights and white-hot lights. Her fingers went to the pins in her hair first, finding them by feeling. Each one, as they came out, eased the ache at her scalp.
After a second, her platinum hair spilled down past her shoulders and she shook her fingers in her scalp to ease the rest of the pressure. She gathered it without thought and threw it up in a messier bun that wasn’t as taut.
Practical.
Familiar.
Her phone buzzed once. She glanced at it, nothing urgent. A message from Kallie earlier, a photo of Dax with an applesauce packet dangling from his mouth standing on Dickie’s shoulders. Dragon, she thought. He already had balance – if he moved in the same family line, when he was sixteen, he’d be flying from people’s shoulders too.
She cracked her shoulder as she stretched then, reaching for her gear bag a moment later. She unzipped it the way she always did, already thinking about the shower that would come when she got back to the hotel. She’d throw on her sweatshirt (Dickie’s), check on Aiden, make him drive her in the shitty New York streets back to the Waldorf and stand for twenty minutes under blazing hot water. Dickie would argue from the room how she could readjust next time, planning six steps ahead for her, and then let her nuzzle into him while she forced another episode of Grey’s Anatomy.
Her fingers brushed fabric, tape, and the familiar clutter of the night’s work. And then they hit something that didn’t belong.
It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t large. But, it was absolutely wrong in the way a foreign object is wrong in your own home. She stopped for a second, and then wrapped her fingers around the thin, plastic coating on paper. She drew it out.
A photograph. Printed and glossy, fresh enough that the paper still held a faint chemical smell of ink and heat. Her breath caught slightly. Not sheer panic, but more of a tightening in her throat, body’s response of recognized danger before her mind caught up to what it was.
It was of her, of Dickie kissing her on the forehead in the lobby, not hours ago. Not from a distance, nor was it weirdly grainy like a surveillance photo. It was close enough to see the exact angle of his hand and the intricate linework that decorated it. It was intimate between them, and it was owned. And threaded through the edge of the photo, punched cleanly through the corner as if someone had taken the time to do it properly, was lace.
White handmade lace. Gold-edged.
Her fingers went cold around it. For one suspended second, she was in their little kitchen, back in March, watching Dickie’s face change in an instance at the sight of it the first time, like watching something ancient and violent slide over him like a skin.
Don’t touch it. Don’t look at it. Don’t move.
His voice had been low and fast and dangerous. Not loud, not chaotic. Focused and commanding, a tone she hadn’t heard from him before that made her want to listen. Not necessarily out of fear, but more out of instinct, like the world itself had shifted and he was the only stable point in it.
Her grip tightened around the photo now without meaning to. There was red thread tied around the lace. Deliberately, knotted with care, as if someone had dressed the lace the way you might dress a wound. The red stood out against the white and gold like a signature. Amelia stared at it, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
They had been in her bag.
They had opened it.
They touched her things.
They had placed this inside with the kind of confidence that came from knowing no one would stop them.
The room suddenly felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. More like the air itself had turned attentive. Her first impulse was to look at the door, which was still shut, locked and normal, just as it had been.
No. Normal was a lie.
Her second impulse was to take the photo and rip it in half, but she didn’t. Whoever this was, it would be giving them the satisfaction of reaction. She took one slow breath in through her nose and let it out carefully, not moving the lace, or untying the threat. She didn’t shift the photo. The memory of Dickie’s voice sat in her spine like a hand.
Don’t move.
Her eyes flicked down again, taking in details like she was assessing evidence rather than absorbing violation. The hole punched in the photo was clean and precise. The lace didn’t fray where it fed through, and the knot in the thread was tight, intentional and elegant. Whoever had done it wanted her to see the craftsmanship, wanted her to understand that this wasn’t made by a frantic person – wanted her to understand that this was a message delivered by someone who believed they had the right to deliver it.
Her phone sat still on the bench beside her. For a moment she simply stared at it, as if it might bite. Then, she picked it up, and her fingers moved to Messages, hoving over the emojis she’d jokingly added to Dickie’s name. She pressed it softly, typing out a message with careful speed one-handed.
In my gear bag.
Photo from the lobby.
Lace.
Red thread.
It’s here.
I didn’t move it.
The loss against Samantha sat somewhere completely behind her now, distant, not irrelevant but not critical. It had been a fight, it had been close, it had been a night. A normal night. This…this was something else. This was access, someone proving they could reach into the softest part of her life and touch it with unknown hands.
The door outside her room sounded with footsteps, voices, and the ordinary traffic of the show. Amelia stayed still anyway. Aiden would be there in a second, and she had a sneaking suspicion that Aiden was more aware of things than she was. When her phone finally buzzed with Dickie’s response, her stomach dropped in confirmation.
Звезднысвет, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.
Don’t touch it anymore. Zip it.
Go with Aiden, he’ll get you straight to me. He’s got you.
I need you safe.
I’ll see you soon.
Don’t touch it anymore. Zip it.
Go with Aiden, he’ll get you straight to me. He’s got you.
I need you safe.
I’ll see you soon.
This wasn’t going away. And Dickie had been carrying it seemingly less alone than she thought.
★★★★★★★
I don’t want to go too far into it, you know. Don’t want to pick you apart just yet. Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to say when we get to week two, and I thank you for the fact that you’re actually going to speak, unlike others.
Where would you like to start?
Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Your rise to the Bombshells Championship was through the Blast From the Past, and you got there with some challenges that you simply brushed off as simple and unnecessary. Maybe you didn't say those things, but it was there in your tone. Lilith and Melissa, both gone now, were a piece of cake. You had Julianna DiMarria, who is also gone now, and you beat her.
Then came Laura and Mikah, two women who have stayed far longer than they were ever asked to be here. Laura comes from fame outside of here and couldn’t step up. And Mikah made a habit of putting her relationships over her actual success, as she hasn’t been relevant as anything more than a mixed tag team wrestler since 2018.
You called Kayla Richards irrelevant and now here she is…a match ahead of you on a card you went from being on the top of to the very, very bottom. With me! The rookie who lost to Mercedes Vargas and Andrea Hernandez. I deserve to be here.
Where….where do you deserve to be?
I’d like to say you deserve to be up there with the best of them, but you’re nine-five in seven months and most of those losses come from now as opposed to earlier. And Kayla? Kayla carried you in that tag match. She did more, she had more momentum and she controlled that match. You helped. A little. And then you had the audacity to call her irrelevant…which you’ve called everyone, might I add…but how about you look in the mirror and say with the same gusto, yeah?
You lost the championship a month into your reign. You lost it to Crystal Caldwell after calling her washed up and old and…whatever the hell you did, and it wasn’t expected. That was the crux, wasn’t it? It wasn’t expected. You keep tellin’ us that all of these things are going to happen because of what the history books and the dirt sheets say, and you wanted so badly to change the status quo. You had a month long reign and lost it to someone who learned how to work around your bullshit.
Listen with all of your ability. If you even have the ability to do so with all of the diatribe you speak.
You’re not a catalyst.
You’re not a queen in the making.
You’re not even a fixture in this company.
You’re like a run down, semi-shiny newold toy that got fucked. But you like that, don’tcha?
Ope, little Australian got a little too vindictive there, tried to sound like you. Did it work? Did I become edgy? No? Too much?
Do you hear yourself when you talk, Frannie? You like to scream about relevancy, but people have destroyed your mantle lately. This role has to go to someone younger, you said, as if veteran smarts don’t exist. Fuckin’ manifestos about about utopias make you sound like a crazy shooter person, and maybe really the only thing ya actually need is a straightjacket. You have no right to be calling anyone channel changers when ninety-five percent of the time since you lost the championship, no one is interested in what you did.
You’ve got no right to call anyone a nostalgia act when we’re already nostalgic for the days of your success. Bella and Alexandra defeated you because you sat there and thought you knew the system. That you were better because you jabbed a little edginess in there and talked about relevancy and lackluster and blood and sex.
Newsflash, darlin’, we all get laid. It’s not somethin’ new.
And the way you approach things…inspired one week and then the next you’re shittin’ on them for everything they’re worth and a box of rocks.
Maybe you’ve got this weird need to be respected, or loved, or adored, or everything under the sun because no one has ever really done any part of that. And now you’re facin’ a nother rookie who already had her big failure and made somethin’ of herself anyway.
What’s that say about ya, Frannie-dear?
Frank? Franchesca?
I know you want so badly to prove you’re worth somethin’.
But you’re not gonna do it on my time.
★★★★★★★
What felt like a peaceful weekend away earlier had come crashing to a grinding halt. The gold light, the marble floors, the lobby that screamed expensive, flickered past her vision as she walked with Aiden to the elevators. Amelia tried to stay composed, her fingers gripping the bag with a specific kind of relentlessness. It helped her look fine, even if she didn’t feel it.
She was scared. But more than that, she was angry.
Aiden knew. She could tell he’d been texted before he even got to her door at The Monarch. He kept her in public eye until they got to their corridor, until he took her keycard from her pocket of her bag, until he walked her inside the room. A quiet followed that felt louder than any crowd.
Dickie was already on his feet, not sprawled with the restless joking energy he always had. Not half-laughing, not pointing out something stupid on his phone to make her smile. He was standing near – but not close – to the window like he’d been watching for something in the dim light of the New York City bulbs. He turned his head upon the sound of the door opening, and his gaze went straight to the gear bag her hands so dutifully clung to.
She took four steps into the room and dropped the bag on the bed as he approached, keeping the zipper closed exactly the way he’d told her to. She didn’t touch anything else, and when he stopped short of her, she noted his eyes darting across her face, her shoulders, her waist, ensuring that she was safe. She was still in her ring gear and that silly hoodie of his.
“I didn’t–” she started, but he cut in, low and fast.
“I know.” His voice was focused in a tone she’d only heard when something else snapped him into place. His eyes flickered up to Aiden as he locked the deadbolt without being asked. Amelia watched Dickie’s face shift from worry to stillness, into a control so tight it made the air feel sharper.
“It…it’s the same. Like before,” she added, pulling his attention back to her.
His jaw flexed, and for a second, she could have swore guilt flickered behind his eyes, immediately buried by focus. Aiden spoke, calm as if he was reading off a checklist from behind her, “She did exactly what you said. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t move it.”
“Good,” he nodded, but it wasn’t so much as praise as it sounded like relief. Amelia looked at him, taking a slow breath in, trying to forget that Aiden knew things that she didn’t before she spoke.
“Someone was in my bag. In my things.”
Dickie’s expression tightened, anger flashing hot and immediate beneath the restraint as his eyes flicked to the bag again. She tilted her head, ensuring that she had his attention as she leaned forward.
“This is why you’ve been weird. This is why Yoshiro keeps pulling you away for stupid things. And you keep telling me it’s nothing. But you argue with Finn behind closed doors, you share looks and disappear with Yoshiro and,” she pointed at Aiden, “he knows about all of it before I do.”
“Звездныйсвет,” he breathed his nickname for her. Starlight, he called her. Like he could press it into the air and make everything easier.
It didn’t work. She didn’t move except to cross her arms, jaw tight. Her nose flared slightly. “Don’t use that like it fixes it.” Her voice ground out, sharper than she’d initially meant to. When his throat bobbed and he didn’t move, she reached down and ripped open the zipper of the bag. The sound was too loud, and split the silence like a blade. She felt Aiden’s posture shift behind her, but he didn’t move otherwise.
And neither did Dickie.
He could have. He could have moved faster than her and snatched her hand away, but that wasn’t how Dickie’s brain functioned when it came to her. It was a line, invisible in his head: she does what she wants and I don’t get a say. He raised an eyebrow though as she pulled the intrusion out of her bag and flung it to the bedspread.
The photo of them, or rather the invasion as she felt, landed face-up, glossy against the bedspread. She watched Dickie’s eyes take it in, floating over the visible affection, the gold-edged white lace, the single red thread. His entire body went rigid in the same way it had back in March, as if his brain had launched into several different scenarios and he was stuck on which one to take.
“Amelia,” he said, not a warning but a restrained stop.
“That’s from lunch,” she swallowed, keeping her voice level.
Dickie’s jaw clenched once, and she knew his teeth were gnashing hard. “I told you not to touch it,” he started, but she could tell it wasn’t completely aimed at her.
“It was in my bag.”
His eyes moved to her face, checking her again. Irritated, but safe, she was sure he was cataloguing. “Are you hurt?” He asked.
“No, but I’m not fine.” She watched him look back at the lace and the thread and the invasion of their personal space and she saw it again: an internal calculator of wanting to fold her away somewhere safe and quiet and keep whatever this was from touching her at all. Protect, contain, control variables. She snapped her fingers in his face. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to universally decide what I can handle because it makes you feel better.”
Something raw, guilt-ridden, frustrated, and tender sat behind his eyes now, unsure where to go when the person that he loved bared teeth. He swallowed again. “I was trying to keep you out of it.” He meant them as truth, but the words still came out like an excuse.
“That worked so well. Look at it. I can see the fucking hibiscus clearly on your hand.”
His mouth opened like he was going to say something that mattered, the things that he’d been swallowing for weeks and months, but he stopped. His gaze followed her finger as she pointed at the photograph, to his own hand captured there on paper, to the intimacy they’d shared turned into knives in someone else’s hands. Someone she didn’t even know about.
“You do not get to love me and keep me ignorant.” She declared, each word steady, placed like a boundary line drawn in the same ink on his skin. “Pick one.”
Silence gathered between them.
Dickie didn’t move.
And neither did she.
