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The throb of the distant roar and chanting still echoed around the concrete wall and prop crates in the backstage, fading into a dull, ponderous hum, sounding rather like a relief walking away from the clout for Charlotte. Her blonde hair sharp under the lights, she swallowed the frustration and suddenly a voice came from the side of the aisle: “How does it feel being a booed face, my queen?” There stood Becky, rigid, red hair like a battle flag, her eyes narrowed with raw contempt. “A narcissist queen without a belt on her shoulder. Funny.” She approached, step by step, eyes filled with a defiant taunt, every word pure acid, burning and corroding Charlotte’s insecurity on her social image.
“Queen? Oh, Becks, sweet angel, I don’t need your sour sarcasm to know I’m better than you.” Charlotte’s lips curled into a cold, mocking smirk. Becky stood in front of Charlotte, blocking her way of leaving. “Struttin’ around with that plastic face, stealing what I’ve clawed my way to earn. And when I finally got what I want, and what I deserve, you're right there locking your eyes on them. Graceful, Charlotte, graceful. Lemme guess, you’re right on your way to some executive’s office to use your nepo card, asking them to give the belt to you again.” Becky raised her head to look directly into Charlotte’s eyes, Charlotte’s height a deliberate taunt, looming just enough to make Becky’s blood boil. Their resentment was a living thing—every match, every stolen spotlight, every cutting promo fueling the fire that burned between them.
“I’m not here to have another pointless argument here with you. Fuck off.” Saying this, Charlotte looked away and pushed Becky to the side then attempted to leave this place full of fume. Before Charlotte could even take one step, Becky stormed back and hand shot out, grabbing Charlotte’s wrist and slamming it against the crate with a sharp thud. "Pointless argument? Oh ma’am, I don’t worth your time, do I?" Charlotte didn’t even bother to struggle, plainly she uttered, as a peace offering but rather contemptuous: “I had enough of all this. Different locations, same arguments. Face it, Becky, it gets old and it’s going nowhere. Let’s just avoid interaction and both play by our scripts. Again. Fuck, off.” Becky’s smirk was cruel, her voice low and biting: “Do I have to escalate this to another level to excite you? So that I can be blessed with your patience dealing with me, your majesty?”
Before Charlotte could retort, Becky surged forward, crushing her lips against Charlotte’s in a kiss meant to humiliate, a power play to throw the so-called queen off her throne. It was all teeth and spite, a calculated move to dominate, to make Charlotte feel small. Charlotte didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into it, her lips fighting back with equal ferocity, turning Becky’s attack into something else entirely. The kiss was a warzone, raw and punishing, lips clashing with the same intensity they brought to the ring. Becky’s breath hitched, caught off guard as a buried spark of something—passion, unwanted and unspoken—flared beneath her resentment. Charlotte’s teeth seethed into Becky’s lower lip so hard that both of them tasted iron, drawing a stifled gas, while Becky’s fingers gripping Charlotte’s waist hard attempting to reclaim control.
Their breaths came in heavy, uneven bursts. Becky’s chest heaving, with low, angry hums escaping from her throat but eventually came out as reluctant moans. Charlotte’s hand tangled in Becky’s hair, tugging hard to deepen the kiss, not out of tenderness but a twisted need to outdo each other, as a competition to prove who’s tougher on this twisted competition. Becky’s moans grew more urgent, frustrated, as Charlotte’s relentless assault stole her air, her control, leaving her dizzy and furious.
Finally, Charlotte pulled back, leaving Becky gasping, lips bruised and eyes blazing with loathing. "You…bitch…" Voice hoarse, Becky panted as she wiped her mouth， slightly shimmering from the rage. Charlotte laughed, breath ragged too, voice icy to mask the boiling blood underneath her skin. “I hope you taste your own blood.” It was hard to see Becky’s eyes as shadow casted down from her proud browbone, but it was unquestionably flickering a wicked sarcasm when she retorted back: “I only tasted botox and silicone. And they’re not mine.” “Keep trying to tear me down. You’re only proving I’m in your head." Her eyes raked over Becky, smug and unyielding. The air was heavy with their mutual disdain.
Becky straightened; her glare venomous. "This ain’t over, Flair." Charlotte didn’t budge aside but one step closer, her smirk sharp as a blade. "Huh, that’s all you’ve got? Bring it, Becky. I’m waiting."
With skepticism Becky raised her head, gasped, cold air stinging her slightly swollen biting mark. Caught a hint of temptation in those green eyes, Becky immediately understood the meaning of it, clever indeed. The corridor thick with their unresolved hatred, for a fleeting moment, it was diluted with bitter undercurrent of something hard to explain yet almost too palpable. Becky smiled, somewhat sincere. Next moment, their magnetic collision ripped the blurred line between resentment and yearning.
The corridor’s tension clung to them like sweat as Charlotte Flair and Becky Lynch stumbled toward the shadowed staircase before anyone else could notice, their footsteps erratic, driven by the same volatile mix of rage and unwanted heat that had ignited then started burning.
Their hands were already tearing at each other, as they promised to tear each other’s career apart—Becky’s fingers yanking at the straps of Charlotte’s gear, ripping them down, neck red, while Charlotte’s hands clawed at Becky’s leather jacket, shoving it off her shoulders to the floor. The air was thick, their breaths heavy and jagged, the distant hum of the arena a forgotten pulse. Becky shoved Charlotte against the staircase railing, her lips finding Charlotte’s neck, kissing hard, then biting—sharp, deliberate nips that made Charlotte hiss. Each bite was a challenge, a reminder of their feud.
"If you think this’ll make me have some affection toward you, you’re wrong, and helplessly pathetic." Charlotte scolded, clenching. Though it was a safe code: Only when they reach the agreement that this was a crooked way of expressing hatred rather than lust, they could carry on.
Becky growled against Charlotte’s skin, her voice dripping with mockery, her teeth grazing again for emphasis. Her hands gripped Charlotte’s hips, nails digging in, daring her to react. In a flash, she spun them, shoving Becky hard against a prop crate tucked in the corner of the stairwell, the plate creaking under the force. Her hand cracked across Becky’s face in a sharp slap, the sound echoing in the dim space. Becky’s head snapped to the side, only resulting in a wilder smirk, defiant and taunting, even as her cheek burned.
"Oh YOU… you’re gonna regret that, Flair…" Becky hissed, her eyes blazing, but Charlotte didn’t give her a chance to retaliate. Her hands moved with purpose, sliding between Becky’s thighs, rough, fingers pressing through the fabric of Becky’s gear. Becky’s breath hitched, a low, involuntary moan escaping from her throat, betraying her and her look of anger. Charlotte’s lips curled into a cold, triumphant grin as she leaned in, her hands taking control, claiming Becky in a way that was as much about dominance as desire. "You think you’re so tough, huh, you and your ‘The Man’ bullshit." Charlotte murmured, her voice a venomous whisper. "But you’re breaking right here – you’re just a slut. Look at your hips waggling like a bitch in heat." Her words were a weapon, cutting as sharp as their earlier shoves, each movement a challenge to Becky’s defiance and pride.
Becky’s hands gripped the edge of the crate, hard enough to turn her knuckles white, to seal her moans back into her throat, sharp and laced with resentment moans. "Keep dreaming, uh… you… you plastic faced dope..." she shot back with a hoarse voice, defiant even as her body arched under Charlotte’s touch.
Their hatred fueled every move, turning every touch into a battleground, their fleeting passion a twisted extension of their war. Charlotte pulled Becky’s shorts off, for immediate further invasion into her waterway. Becky’s thighs trembled under Charlotte’s force, still her head unyieldingly raised high. The stairwell’s shadows hid their clash, but the air was heavy with their unresolved fury. Just another moment in their endless feud, two characters locked in a cycle of resentment, their bodies betraying the rage that defined them, neither would back down.
The prop crate creaking beneath Becky’s weight as Charlotte’s hands moved with fierce intent, claiming her in a storm of rage-fueled desire. Charlotte’s fingers pressed firmly between Becky’s thighs, commanding and nowhere near gentle, another hand gripping her on Becky’s chest. Every thrust, Becky’s breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, her body trembling under the intensity, but her eyes burned with defiance, refusing to yield. Her low moans mingled with gritted curses, her hands clawing at Charlotte’s arms, leaving red trails in their wake. Eventually a wild, brutal surge of pleasure took over her control and let a coquettish moan out of her clench, accompanied by her body twitching and bending under Charlotte’s hand.
Becky surged forward, not wasting a second, flipping their positions with a fierce shove fueled by resentment. She pinned Charlotte against the crate, her hands roaming with equal possessiveness, fingers tracing the curve of Charlotte’s waist, then lower, claiming her rival’s body in return. Charlotte’s head tilted back, a stifled gasp escaping her lips as Becky’s touch mirrored her own—rough, unyielding, a battle of wills played out through heated contact. Their bodies pressed close, sweat-slick and tense, each touch a fleeting surrender to the fire they couldn’t name, yet their mutual loathing anchored every move. Becky’s lips found Charlotte’s neck again, biting just enough to sting, along with her breath hot hitting against Charlotte’s skin. Charlotte’s hands gripped on Becky’s shoulders, pulling her closer even as her eyes flashed with anger. It was a dance of dominance, neither willing to give ground, their bodies entwined in a moment that was as much about power as it was about the unspoken pull between them.
As the intensity peaked, their movements slowed, bodies quaking against the creaking prop crate, their breaths erupting in ragged huffs and puffs that echoed in the shadowed stairwell. Becky’s hand clamped over Charlotte’s mouth, stifling a sharp, shuddering gasp as Charlotte’s body trembled violently. Her eyes grew misty, pupils dilated in a haze of overwhelming sensation. Her arms, once gripping Becky’s shoulders, weakened, muscles quivering as they failed to support herself. Her body slumped against the crate, as a strong rush of pleasure crashed through her, each one sending uncontrollable spasms through her limbs. Voice airy and breathless, she couldn’t leave Becky’s name out of her mouth, weakly repeating “Becky, Becky…” Chills sent down Becky’s spine hearing this sweet pleading, urging her to work even harder, leaving Charlotte’s blonde hair a tangled, sweaty mess, drawing out whimpering moans. No, Becky’s not letting Charlotte get away with it so easy; she thrusted her fingers even more mercilessly, and each plugging in and pulling out aroused heavy trembling on those pretty thighs. Charlotte’s face flushing pink, what came with her trembling hips was a stream of sweetness, betraying the strain of maintaining control. Finally, Becky pulled her fingers away as Charlotte just hit one final peak after a string of them, leaving Charlotte a hot, trembling mess, her body still quaking with aftershocks. In thoughtless silence, Charlotte attempted to pick herself up but failed, only able to close her legs to remain a slightly more dignified position. Becky, on the other hand, still not wasting a second, picking up her shorts and putting it back on. The air thick with the weight of what had passed. Charlotte, limp and disheveled, reached weakly for Becky’s arm, seeking help to pull herself up, but Becky stepped back, a cold smirk curling her lips as she savored the sight of Charlotte’s messy, vulnerable state, leaving her slumped against the crate.
Charlotte's breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, each one a struggle to reclaim control, but her usual undisputed poise was fractured, replaced by a raw vulnerability she couldn’t mask. The intensity of the moment lingered in her chest, raising a confusing mix of resentment, shame, and an unacknowledged ache for what had just passed. Her body, still weak, fingers fumbled with the straps of her gear, her heart pounding with the weight of Becky’s cold smirk and the wound of being left exposed.
A queen was brought low. She felt a flicker of rage—at Becky, at herself—for letting this happen, for the way her body had betrayed her iron-clad resolve.
Becky, standing a few steps away, pulled her jacket on with deliberate slowness. Her smirk was gone, replaced by a hard, guarded expression, but beneath it, a storm churned—triumph laced with unease, a thrill at having dominated Charlotte tinged with the unsettling pull of their shared moment. She refused to meet Charlotte’s eyes, her jaw tight, as if acknowledging the intimacy would change what just happened. Yet, as she turned to leave, her lingering glance at Charlotte betrayed a flicker of something softer, quickly buried under the familiar fire of their rivalry.
For a brief moment, the resentment paused, and their eyes met, softened by an unexpected vulnerability. Without a word, Becky leaned in, her lips brushing Charlotte’s in a kiss that was, for once, truly loving—soft, lingering, a fleeting truce in their endless war, a silent acknowledgment of the complexity beneath their war. But as it broke, the walls snapped back up. Becky’s smirk returned, sharp and cutting, as she stepped back, leaving Charlotte to collect herself alone. Charlotte sank onto the crate, breathing unevenly still, watching as Becky turned to leave. Becky paused at the edge of the door, glancing back, her eyes lingering on Charlotte—a mix of challenge and something unspoken, a spark that promised their feud was far from over. Charlotte’s gaze didn’t waver. Her own defiant smile climbed back and curled until Becky turned and left.
The stairwell held the echo of their emotions - unwelcome ghost of connection. The war was far from over, as long as they still have flashbacks of this battle on a red eye flight to another location and another venue, or in a sleepless night laying next to someone sounded asleep, or every possible moment, the war continues.