seen from Philippines
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from South Korea
I love women's wrestling
If WWE Superstars were Pokémon Gym Leaders by animeempirestudios
Link 1
Link 2
Link 3
Truth, Dare or You
Rhea Ripley x fem reader
Warnings: smut, or more like a try. idk, i think it's shit tbh
Summary: Two souls collide beneath the weight of restraint and longing—what begins in fire ends in silence, a night of reverent touch unfolding into morning stillness where love speaks without sound.
The hum of the air conditioner buzzes quietly in the background as I tuck my legs under me on the plush carpet of Liv’s hotel room. Candles — well, battery-operated ones — flicker around the room, giving the illusion of something a little more intimate than we probably intended. Liv swore the lighting set the mood better. For what, hell knows.
It’s a typical post-show night: a few matches in our bones, room service scattered across the dresser, and the kind of lazy laughter that only comes with people who’ve bled, sweat, and cried together.
“So,” Liv announces, eyes gleaming mischievously “we’re doing this. Truth or Dare. Classic. No backing out.”
“God, you're such a menace.” Bianca groans, but she’s smiling.
Raquel chuckles, nursing a bottle of flavoured sparkling water. “Who even plays this anymore?”
“You’re all just scared” Liv shoots back.
“I, for one, am not scared.” Rhea laughs from her spot against the foot of the bed, legs spread lazily and an arm slung over a pillow she dragged with her. She’s dressed in black sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, and yet she somehow still looks like a final boss. “Bring it on.”
I try to look anywhere but at her. Rhea Ripley. One of my favorite wrestlers long before I ever got called up from NXT. Now she’s sitting across the room from me like it’s no big deal. And I’m… trying to not combust.
We do interact, and it's not just polite hellos and goodbyes or whatever. We really do talk, I just have to always try to keep my liking of her as internalised as possible. I don't want to make things weird with my stupid attraction.
“Alright” Liv claps her hands. “Y/N, you’re the newbie so you’re starting us off.”
“Seriously?” I blink. “Isn’t it your game?”
“Exactly.” She grins. “So, truth or dare?”
My heart ticks up a beat. All eyes are on me. I pick the safer option for now.
“Truth.”
“Who’s the hottest person in this room?”
There’s a pause. Laughter bubbles up around me.
“Come on, that’s easy!" Bianca says.
My gaze flickers instinctively toward Rhea before I force it away. If she noticed, she doesn’t say anything. But the smirk on her lips makes my stomach tighten.
I clear my throat. “I mean… it’s probably Rhea.”
Whistles erupt. Raquel laughs. Liv beams like she’s just cracked a code. And Rhea? Rhea raises a brow, head tilted in that amused, dangerous way of hers.
“‘Probably?”
I shrug, playing it casual. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Oh, it already did.” she purrs.
⸻
Next round Rhea chooses dare, which surprises literally no one.
“Dare you to swap shirts with the person to your left,” Liv says without looking, a little distracted by something on her phone.
Rhea is already standing. “Come on, rookie. Let’s go.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
You've got to be shitting me. I'm that person.
I freeze. “Really?”
She shrugs. “Unless you want to forfeit.”
I swear I see a flicker of something else in her eyes — challenge, mischief, maybe even... curiosity? The others are already hollering like we’re at karaoke night. I roll my eyes but stand.
Her shirt is still warm when I pull it over my head, and it smells like her perfume. I can’t help but inhale a little too long.
When we face the group again, now in perspective I’m swimming in black cotton and Rhea is almost bursting at the seams in my crop tee. It does make her look incredible tho, just like one of her fitted ones would.
“Oh my god” Raquel gasps. “You look hot. I did not think this was gonna be the outcome.”
“I know" she says and then turns to me. “Don’t you think?”
I try not to choke. “I’ve seen worse.”
Her smirk widens.
The game continues. Someone dares Bianca to prank call Rollins, resulting in Becky chiming in and mocking him in a way only a wife can, and Liv ends up confessing she once cried backstage because her eyeliner got in her eye mid-match.
The room is lit with stories and laughter, but every time Rhea leans back or shifts just slightly closer, I feel it.
The heat of her body. The tension I’m pretending not to notice. The occasional glance that lingers too long.
Eventually, Liv yawns and calls it: “Last round, then I’m crashing.”
Rhea looks at me, her voice low. “Truth or dare, rookie?”
I should say truth. I really should.
“Dare” I say instead.
She smiles slowly. “I dare you to tell me your real answer.”
I blink. “What?”
“When Liv asked who the hottest person was,” she says, leaning towards me now. “You said ‘probably.’ I dare you to drop the probably.”
The room goes quiet.
"I can't believe you're wasting a perfectly good dare on this." The reply flies out of my mouth completely out of nowhere, but I take the win. It's the most okay thing she could've asked for.
Then my mouth is dries. But I meet her eyes.
“You’re the hottest person in here." I say quietly.
Rhea doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk.
She just says “Good.”
And then nothing. No laughter. No teasing.
Just this charged silence between us that crackles like static.
Liv gets up to start cleaning. Raquel and Bianca are already discussing breakfast plans. But Rhea doesn’t move. She watches me, like something’s shifted.
Like the game’s not over.
⸻
When Liv kicks us out — yawning, still giggling, mumbling something about needing beauty sleep — I’m standing in the hallway, still wearing Rhea’s shirt. It hangs halfway down my thighs, and at this point, I’m too tired to care.
The others peel off toward their rooms with lazy goodnights. Of course, Rhea’s right behind me.
“Hey,” she calls out just as I swipe my keycard. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I turn, card still in the lock. “Wha—Ah... this. Didn't forget. I'm just way too tired. Can't I just give it back to you tomorrow or something?”
She tilts her head, taking another look at the shirt I’m swimming in. Something in her gaze changes. "Mmm. You know, if you want to keep it that much you can just say so, princess."
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. You know damn well it's not about the shirt," even though it sort of is comfort wise, but she doesn't have to know that. "and you know how I get, eventually not wanting to move a muscle after a hard match. I just want to sleep.”
“Oh, I'm sure you do.” she says with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
I roll my eyes. “Unbelievable.”
She steps closer, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself. “And yet… I know you don't mind one bit that it smells like me. I'm pretty sure you're specifically fond of that part."
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Do you ever stop blushing?”
I go still.
She notices. Of course she does. Rhea doesn’t miss anything, especially not something she can turn into ammunition.
She cocks her head, her voice low and lazy. “You did say I was the hottest person in the room. Can’t blame you for wanting a souvenir.”
“I only said it because I was dared." I shoot back, jamming the card into the door again. The light turns green. Thank god.
“Mhm.” She steps in closer as I push the door open, her voice brushing right against my ear. “But you picked dare.”
I pause, fingers tightening around the handle. Her breath too warm. Too close.
“Because I’m not a coward.”
“Didn’t say you were,” she says, still grinning. “I just think it’s cute when you try to act like I don’t scare you.”
“You don't.”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “What is your deal tonight?”
“You." she says simply. “You’re fun to mess with.”
“Well, congratulations. You’re annoying as hell.”
“You keep saying that.” She leans against the doorframe now, like she’s got all night. “But here you are. Wearing my shirt. All flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You are adorably flustered." another step closer.
“You’re delusional.”
“And you’re staring at my lips.”
I immediately look away.
She laughs — soft and victorious — and takes a step back.
“Relax,” she says. “I’m just playing.”
I narrow my eyes. “You always ‘just play’ with people?”
“Only the ones who make it fun.”
There’s a beat. I hate how that lands. How she says it like it means more. Like it could mean something.
I try to shake it off. “Go to bed, Ripley.”
She takes another step back into the hallway, but not before saying, “You looked good in my shirt, little one.”
I say nothing.
“But I bet you’d look even better out of it.”
My jaw drops. “You’re such a dick.”
Her grin is all teeth. “Takes one to flirt with one.”
And then she’s gone. Just like that. Walking away, hands in her pockets, like she didn’t just wreck my night with a single sentence.
I shut the door slowly and lean back against it, heart pounding. Her scent is still all I feel. I hate that I notice that.
I hate how smug she is. How infuriating. How easy she makes it look.
I hate that it’s working.
⸻
The next night, I’m sore in all the worst ways. My match was solid — stiff, physical, the kind of thing that gets the crowd out of their seats. But my body’s definitely paying for it.
I’m halfway through peeling off my boots backstage when I hear the voice I’ve come to dread and crave in equal measure.
“Well, well. Look at you, little tough girl.”
I don’t even glance up. “Don’t you have a mirror to flex in?”
“Don't need to.” She walks past, slow and cocky, then circles back, standing right in front of me with her arms crossed. “Saw your match.”
“Oh, goodie. Let me guess. You have notes?”
“Nah.” She leans on the bench next to me. “You were decent.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But your strike game’s sloppy.”
I finally look up, annoyed. “It is not.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Prove me wrong, then. Tomorrow. Training ring. Noon.”
There it is again — that push. That constant need to get under my skin and crawl around inside it.
“You want me to spar with you?”
She smiles like I’ve said something adorable. “Scared?”
“Never.”
“I know.” She leans in a little. “But maybe you should be.”
⸻
The next morning, we run a promo together — very last-minute booking. It’s supposed to build heat for a potential feud. Except… the tension’s already there. No script required.
“You think you belong up here?” she snarls into the mic. “You’re nothing but another wide-eyed rookie with a big mouth and no grit.”
I step up to her, close enough that the crowd loses it, and I don’t even blink. “Say that again when you’re on your back next week.”
Her eyes flicker.
Not in surprise, but interest.
Toe to toe. Eye to eye. And for a second, the silence between us says more than the lines we rehearsed.
Then she smirks and shoves me — hard enough to sell it, but not hard enough to be the end.
I stumble back, lip curling into a grin.
Oh. It's on now.
And I’m playing to win.
⸻
At noon, we’re in the training ring.
I show up a minute early. She shows up ten minutes late.
She doesn’t apologize. Just rolls under the ropes and stands, tall and ready, like she was born here.
“Hope you stretched,” she says, cracking her neck.
“Hope you did.”
We circle. No bell. No referee. Just us.
She comes in first — a quick jab to test me. I dodge. Barely.
Then a lock-up. She’s strong. Unfairly strong.
I push harder. She laughs. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I growl and shove, breaking the hold, stepping back.
“You’re fast,” she admits. “But you don’t commit.”
I lunge in. She counters. I hit the mat with a loud thud.
“Fuck!” I sit up, winded, pissed.
She crouches beside me. Not to mock, just to be close.
“Get up.” she says, quiet. “Again.”
I shoot her a glare. “Why? So you can throw me around again?”
“If you’re lucky.” she murmurs.
And god help me. I flush.
We go again. And again. She pushes me harder than anyone else has in months. And I give it right back.
By the time we collapse against opposite ropes, we’re soaked in sweat, panting, bruised and buzzing with something I don’t have words for.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, watching me like she’s reading a book she already knows the ending to.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re not bad,” she says. “When you shut up and stop overthinking every move.”
“Wow. What a compliment. Want me to frame it?”
She stands slowly and tosses me a towel. “No need. You’ll remember it. You always remember what I say.”
I catch the towel mid-air, teeth clenched. She might have a point but she doesn't have to know that. “You’re really full of yourself, huh?”
She leans in over the top rope, sweat-slick hair clinging to her cheek. “No, love. I’m full of you.”
I blink.
“What does that even—”
“Think about it.”
She slides out of the ring, landing lightly on the floor, and starts walking off like she didn’t leave a fire under my skin.
I sit there, towel in my lap, heart racing, brain short-circuiting.
And I think, not for the first time...
I am so, so screwed.
⸻
The next few days blur into one long, aching sprint—gym, flights, promo shoots, quick matches, not enough sleep. My body hurts in all the right places, and my brain won’t shut up in the worst ones.
Mostly because of her.
Rhea’s been pretty quiet since the spar. No teasing. No smug smirks in catering. Not even a shoulder-check in the hallway. Just… space.
Too much of it.
Which is why when Liv slides into the booth next to me at the bar later that week pressing her thigh to mine, drink in hand, eyes glittering, I don’t immediately push her away.
“Hey,” she says, smile soft but purposeful. “You clean up well.”
I glance down at my ripped jeans and t-shirt. “You must be drunk.”
“Oh, I am,” she grins, sipping something bright pink. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
She’s leaning in close, closer than usual. And sure, Liv flirts with everyone, but tonight it’s different. Sharper. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice quieter now. Just between us.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She raises a brow. “You don’t look fine. You look like someone trying way too hard to not think about someone.”
I tense. “What makes you say that?”
“Call it a vibe.” She plays with the rim of her glass. “Or maybe I just noticed how weird things got between you and Mami after that training session I knew nothing about.”
I glance away. “Weird how?”
Liv leans in, her breath warm against my neck. “She hasn’t looked at anyone but you since.”
That lands.
Before I can respond, Liv places a gentle hand on my thigh and turns toward me completely. I feel the change before it happens. The slow, calculated pause, like she’s giving me a chance to back out.
I don’t.
And then she leans in just as gently and kisses me.
Full. Slow. Unapologetic.
Her lips move against mine with just enough pressure to make my breath catch. Her hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face toward hers. It’s not a drunken stumble of a kiss.
It’s intentional.
Calculated.
Hot, yes — but not messy. Just controlled enough to leave me dazed.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You needed a distraction.”
And that’s when I feel it.
The presence.
I open my eyes, and there she is.
Rhea.
Across the bar, standing next to Raquel and Bianca, drink untouched in her hand, eyes fixed on me with something that’s definitely not indifference.
It’s not rage either. It’s worse.
It’s quiet. Cold.
Liv knows. Of course she does. She lingers close to me another second — a little too close — before sliding out of the booth with a wink.
“Just giving her a little push.” she says as she walks off.
I barely hear her.
My pulse is too loud.
I keep my eyes down and pretend to check my phone, pretend everything’s fine. But I can feel Rhea’s stare like a spotlight burning through me.
And then she moves.
Not straight toward me. She takes the long way around, casual on the surface, but I see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curl around her glass tighter than necessary.
When she finally stops at my table, she doesn’t say anything at first.
Just stands there.
I look up. Force a casual, “Hey.”
She hums, low and flat. “Having fun?”
I shrug. “Just talking.”
“I saw.”
My jaw tenses. “So?”
“She kissed you.”
“I noticed.”
The silence stretches for a few seconds. Thick. Uncomfortable.
“She’s not your type.”
“And you’d know?”
She steps in closer, eyes pinned to mine. “You’ve got a type.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Her voice is low. Controlled. “People who make you crazy.”
I almost laugh. “Then I must be your type.”
That smirk flashes — sharp and brief — but it doesn’t soften her tone.
“Liv plays games.”
“And you don’t?”
She leans in, so close it makes my heart stutter.
“Not with things I want.”
The air shifts. Her voice hits too deep, too real. I can’t come up with anything clever this time.
She waits a second longer, like she wants to see what I’ll do with that.
But I don’t move. Don’t speak.
So she steps back, jaw tight, and walks away.
Again.
Leaving me sitting there with the ghost of Liv’s kiss still burning on my lips…
…and something way hotter building under my skin.
⸻
I show up early this time. It's morning and I need to train anyway for tonight, not just because we came to an agreement on another meeting.
No one else is here yet. The lights in the training facility buzz low, half of the overheads still off. It’s quiet. Still. Not even the sound of ropes creaking or weights clinking in the far room.
But the second I roll into the ring, I know this will go just as well as last time.
I stretch. I pace. I wait.
And then, boots on the mat.
She slides under the ropes like a storm cloud: silent, heavy and electric. Her hair’s tied up in a messy bun. She’s wearing a cutoff tee that clings to her arms, black tape wrapped tight around her wrists. She looks like a threat. Like trouble.
Like everything I haven’t stopped thinking about since the night Liv kissed me.
No greeting. No warm-up.
She walks straight to the center.
“Let’s go.”
I roll my shoulders, climb to my feet. “Not even a hi?”
She shrugs. “Didn’t come here to talk.”
No kidding.
We circle, slower this time. No teasing. Just eyes locked and jaws tight.
I move first, testing her with a feint. She sees it, catches my arm, flips me with almost too much force.
I land hard.
I grin up at her. “Feel better now?”
She stares down at me. “Get up.”
I do.
She charges again. I sidestep, shove her shoulder. She spins, grabs me by the waist, takes me down clean.
It’s not training anymore.
This is something else.
We’re sweating within minutes. Breathing hard. Neither of us holding back now.
She lands a strike to my ribs that’s almost stiff enough to bruise.
I throw one back. She dodges. We grapple again, tangled, panting, too close.
“Jealousy looks good on you.” I mutter, breaking the hold.
Her eyes flash.
“You think I’m jealous of Liv?” she growls.
“She kissed me.”
“She did.”
“You saw her.”
“I did.”
I don’t get a chance to say anything else. She slams into me with another lock-up, this one rougher. More desperate.
She pushes me to the corner, forearm across my collarbone, her breath hitting my cheek.
“She did that to piss me off.” she says.
“Yeah?” I snap. “Did it work?”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t back up.
Her thigh is pressed between mine. Her hand braced on the rope beside my head. Every inch of her body is burning against me like a fuse.
And then, softly — too softly:
“You’re not hers.”
I breathe in sharply.
Neither of us moves. The only sound is our breathing, ragged and synced, and the hum of the lights above us.
She looks at my mouth.
I look at hers.
She leans in slightly. Just enough.
But I turn my head at the last second, chest heaving.
“I thought we weren’t playing games.” I say.
“I’m not,” she growls.
“Then stop acting like this doesn’t mean anything.”
She pauses. Her lips are close to my ear now. “I never said it doesn’t.”
We’re still. Everything feels fragile. Unspoken things hanging in the air between us like broken glass.
And then, just as suddenly, she steps back.
“Again” she says.
I blink. “What?”
“Again” she repeats. “You’re not done.”
And just like that, the moment is gone.
She gives me space.
But the heat doesn’t go anywhere.
Not from the way she looks at me. From the way she doesn’t touch me when she walks past. Not from the bruises I know I’ll feel tomorrow worse than ones from any match.
And not from the ache building in my chest as I watch her, jaw tight, mouth unreadable, fists clenched like she’s holding back something louder than anything we’ve said.
This isn’t over.
Far from it.
⸻
The gym clears out fast.
After the second round of sparring, after that almost moment in the corner, we go again until sweat drips down my spine and my knuckles feel bruised and my lungs burn. Rhea doesn’t go easy on me. She never does.
But this time… she also doesn’t gloat when she pins me.
She just lets go. Rolls off me. Breathes.
Then she grabs her water bottle and towel and stalks off without a word, disappearing into the back hallway near the lockers.
I sit there for a moment, dazed, heart still trying to catch up to everything that didn’t happen.
And then I get up and follow her.
She’s alone in the corridor, leaning against the wall. Shoulders tense. Face unreadable.
When she hears my footsteps, she doesn’t look at me right away.
“You shouldn’t let people kiss you if you don’t mean it.” she says flatly.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I step closer, arms crossed, ignoring the ache in my thighs and the sweat clinging to my shirt.
“She kissed me. Not the other way around.”
“You let her.” Rhea says, still not looking at me. "You chased her at first when she pulled back."
“And you let it get to you,” I fire back.
That gets her.
She turns her head slowly, eyes sharp but tired. “I’m not jealous.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She pushes off the wall and steps in my space in a split second.
“I’m. not. jealous.” she repeats. “I’m…”
She trails off.
That silence stretches between us again, long and suffocating. I hate this more than I hate her smug smirks and taunts.
“Say it,” I whisper.
Her jaw clenches. “What?”
“Whatever it is you’re choking on. Say it.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s nothing teasing in them now. Just heat. Frustration. Resentment maybe, but not the kind born from hatred. The kind that comes from wanting something and not knowing what the hell to do with it.
“I can’t,” she says quietly. “Not yet.”
I step in before I can stop myself and I almost take all the space that's left between us.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I belong to you.”
Her breath catches. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
“I don’t” I add before she can say another word.
And it’s a lie. A stupid, shaky lie. Because she already owns half of me and she hasn’t even touched me properly yet.
She looks at me like she knows it’s a lie too.
But she doesn’t call me out.
She just says, “I never asked you to.”
And that? That somehow hurts worse.
And there is it. My guard comes crashing down right before her eyes.
I take a shaky step back. Her arms stay at her sides. No fists. No grab. Nothing. Just… that look again. That damn look.
“You didn’t have to.” I murmur more to myself than her, but I think she heard it anyway.
And then I walk away, because if I don’t I’ll stay.
I’ll break.
And I think we both know we’re not ready for that just yet.
⸻
Later that night, long after the show ended.
The locker room smells mostly like disinfectant at this time, really late in the evening, and it feels suffocating — like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
I’m folding my gear, mind trying to focus on anything but the weight sitting heavy on my chest.
The door creaks open.
Rhea steps in, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. She doesn’t say hi.
I don’t either. I don't acknowledge her, but she knows I'm aware of her presence.
She stands there like that for a long, heavy moment, neither of us willing to be the first to break the silence.
Finally, she mutters, “You didn’t have to walk away this morning.” But I know that tone. She means she didn't want me to, but what was I supposed to do?
I glance up, dry. “Maybe I didn’t want to talk.”
She snorts, shaking her head like it’s the dumbest excuse she’s ever heard.
“Since when do you avoid fights?”
“Since I learned which ones aren’t worth having.”
She steps closer, voice low and mocking. “What’s this, then? You’re scared?”
I scoff. "Of you? No chance.”
Her eyes flash with something fierce, almost impressed.
“Then why run?”
“Running isn’t the same as walking away.”
“Try telling that to your pride.”
I snap, sharp and hot. “I’m not the one acting like I’m the only one who gets to be pissed off or be hurt around here."
She knows exactly what I mean. I couldn't hide the hurt in my eyes this morning and I sure as hell can't now. She narrows her eyes, stepping even closer, until there’s barely any space left.
“We’re both stubborn,” she says, voice rough “so what now?”
“We might be stuck.” I meet her gaze evenly. “Neither of us wants to let go.”
She smirks softly, almost fond. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say.
A beat.
Then she adds quietly, “Maybe one day we’ll stop pretending this is a game.”
I stare at her, heart hammering. “Maybe.”
But I don’t know if that day is today.
We stand there, two stubborn forces refusing to break, the silence between us charged with everything neither of us can say.
And somehow that’s enough.
For now.
⸻
We’re alone in the arena this time.
It’s late again.
The echo of our earlier match still hangs in the air, heavy and electric.
I needed to blow off some steam. I didn't realise when she showed up, at first, only when she wanted me to notice, but she definitely has the same reason.
I’m catching my breath, leaning against the ropes, sweat sliding down my face.
Rhea steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off of her — closer than usual.
“Not bad.” she says, voice low and rough. “You almost had me.”
She's been kicking my ass if we're being honest, and now she has me trying to dodge her and her kendo stick. I made her drop it and almost pinned her.
I smile weakly, wiping sweat off my brow. “Almost’s not good enough.”
She moves in, eyes locked on mine, challenging.
Then, suddenly, her hand is gently holding my wrist as if trying to figure out what to do with me further — just resting there, steady, warm.
Too long to be casual.
My skin prickles.
“Rhea” I murmur.
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers tighten just slightly, and her eyes flicker — vulnerable and fierce, but almost… uncertain.
“Stop.” I say, voice sharper than I mean.
She leans in, breath hot against my ear. “Or what?”
“Or I don’t know what.”
She smiles, but it’s not playful. It’s dangerous. Her kind of dangerous.
“Nope, tell me what.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding.
Because everything between us is screaming.
Say it. Do something. Break this.
But uncertainty and stubbornness root me in place.
“I’m not the one who's trying to blur lines.” I whisper.
Her gaze drops to my lips, then back up.
“Maybe I like crossing lines.”
“Maybe you like pushing me.”
“Maybe I like when you push back.”
She lets her forehead rest on mine. Her other hand moves gently to my waist as if to keep me there. Still gently pushing me. Possessive, but not really. A scared kind of possessive.
The space between us almost collapses.
I want to lean in.
I want to pull away.
I want to scream and laugh and kick her ass all at once.
Instead, I choose to step back, breaking the tension like a fragile glass shattering. Not because I don't want her, because I do with everything in my being.
But because I'm not sure this isn't just a game for her.
Rhea blinks, jaw tight.
Okay, maybe not the best move on my part.
“Fine. Good game.”
And walks away.
Leaving me trembling, unsure. This is getting too insane for me.
⸻
The backstage hallway hums with distant voices, but it feels like I'm in a pressure cooker — the air thick and electric.
I’d been joking with Dakota just minutes ago, carefree and easy — nothing more than friendly banter. But Rhea’s eyes catch mine like a blade, narrowing with something I can’t quite name.
Then she's in my space, again.
“Another contender? You two were very cute laughing together.” she says, voice low, sharp enough to cut through the noise.
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. So?”
She steps forward, her presence overwhelming. “So, you think I’m just supposed to stand there and watch?”
I square my shoulders. “Watch what? I'm not yours and I'm just friends with Dakota anyway.”
Her jaw tightens. “No. But I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t sting.”
Then a beat, and she continues. "And for the record, Dakota has been talking about how much she'd like to date you for months."
I did not know that... but I ignore it for now.
“Sting?” My voice edges with disbelief. “What do you want me to say to that? You're the literal embodiment of mixed signals, woman."
“Say that I’m enough.” she spits out, the words almost breaking free but held back by fierce pride.
I stare, stunned by the raw vulnerability beneath her anger.
And by the fact that I finally got what I was waiting for, unsure until now.
“You are enough.”
For a fleeting moment, her guard drops. But then she’s back, sharp and untouchable.
“Then act like it.”
I step closer, heat rising in my chest. My hand wanting to reach out to hers. “Maybe... I’m waiting for you to say what you really mean.”
Her laugh is bitter, bitterer than I’ve ever heard. “I’ve said enough. You just don’t want to hear it.”
“No. You’re scared to say the things that matter.”
Her eyes flash with challenge. “Scared? That’s rich coming from you.”
I swallow hard, voice low. “This isn’t a game. Not for me.”
She’s silent for a beat, breath shaky, then whispers, “It never was."
We’re inches apart now, the tension unbearable, the silence screaming. But I get stuck. I want to pull her close but I can't right away, and I don't get my shit together in time.
Finally, she breaks away, jaw clenched, voice barely audible. “This isn’t over.”
⸻
She turns away like she’s done with this conversation. Like she’s done with me.
But something in me snaps.
I step forward, hand tight around her arm, effectively stopping her and pulling her back slowly. Close enough that I feel the heat of her body. Close enough that I can see the tension pulling at her jaw, the way her breath hitches just a little.
"No. No more bullshit."
There's a literal question mark on her face.
“Say it.” I whisper, voice low and steady. “Say what you really want. Not the words you’re hiding behind. Say what you never can."
She doesn’t move. Not right away. She's not even turned towards me. yet.
Then she laughs. It's bitter and raw and it shatters the silence and sends a chill down my spine.
But it's nothing compared to what comes next.
“You want me to say it?” she spits. “Fine.”
Before I can blink, she turns, closes the space between us and one of her her arms curls around my waist, pulling me flush against her. It's strong and sure around me like she's claiming ground.
The movement is so fast that I also hold onto her on instinct, arms flying on her shoulders.
Her other hand comes to rest gently part on the side of my face, the spot that covers both my jaw and my neck, guiding me so I hold her gaze.
Her arm tightens around me just enough to remind me who she is: relentless, unbreakable.
“I want you.” she snarls, voice thick with everything she’s been swallowing for too long.
The words hit me like a punch.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
Raw and fierce.
My knees threaten to buckle.
I stare up at her, breath caught, heart pounding like a war drum.
She leans in, breath hot against my lips.
“But you make me crazy,” she snarls. “You push me to the edge, and I’m sick of pretending I don’t need you.”
The way she holds me steady and dominant and the way she looks at me. It's that look again.
It’s everything I never knew I wanted.
I’m done.
No smart retort. No witty comeback.
Just a shudder, a gulp, and the desperate want to let go.
Rhea’s eyes burn into mine, fierce and unyielding.
“You’re mine. Please, princess, be mine.” she growls.
And suddenly, I don’t care about the fight anymore.
I want to give in.
"I am."
Her hands tighten around my waist, grounding me, asking me not to pull away. My breath hitches, caught between shock and something raw, desperate, soft.
Rhea’s eyes flick down to my lips, then back up — searching yet fierce.
"Can I kiss you?"
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. No fights, no teasing, no games. Just the heavy, fierce pull between two stubborn hearts finally breaking loose.
"Yes."
Then she leans in.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Her lips brush mine, a featherlight touch that sets my skin on fire.
I freeze.
Then I make the last push, closing the distance fully.
Her mouth opens against mine, breath mingling, hands threading into my hair, pulling me closer with a strength that leaves me breathless.
God, the fact that she is so much stronger will be the death of me.
It’s everything and nothing I expected — rough but tender, urgent but careful.
We lose ourselves in the kiss — the tension, the frustration, the longing spilling over at last.
When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, eyes shining with something soft beneath the storm.
“About time,” she murmurs.
I laugh breathlessly, heart pounding.
“Yeah” I whisper. “About time.”
And somehow, it feels like we’ve finally come home.
⸻
We leave in silence, not from awkwardness, but because nothing we could say would do this moment justice.
Her hand is holding mine as we walk, warm and protective, a silent promise that she's here. Choosing me.
When she opens the door to her hotel room, it’s dimly lit and quiet, like the world has decided to hush for us.
I step inside, and she doesn’t follow immediately. She watches me — this unreadable, dark, blue-eyed stillness in the doorway — like she’s cataloging every second. Then, finally, she moves, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. No rush. No tension.
Just inevitability.
She comes to me slowly. Her steps deliberate. Measured. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And exactly what I do to her.
When her hands find my jaw, her thumbs stroke just beneath my cheekbones, and her eyes are locked on mine. Calm. But there’s something molten there, something barely tethered. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
Her mouth meets mine with a terrifying gentleness, and all the air leaves my lungs. There’s no desperation in the way she kisses me now. It’s deep, confident. Like she’s not taking anything — she’s offering.
And I take it. All of it.
She peels my jacket off slowly, like she’s unwrapping something fragile. Her lips graze the side of my neck, then lower. A kiss at the base of my throat, then another, softer, where my pulse stutters under her mouth.
“You’re shaking,” she says, not mocking — just noticing.
“So are you,” I whisper.
A faint smirk tugs at her mouth. “Yeah.”
She strips me layer by layer. Not hurried. Not greedy. Like she wants to see everything. Memorize. Her hands are slow, sure, reverent. When I reach to undress her, she lets me — patient, quiet, letting me explore the muscle beneath ink and shadow.
And when she’s finally bare in front of me, I can’t stop staring.
She steps forward, presses her body to mine, and kisses me again, deeper this time, more controlled. But there’s a tremble under the surface. Like if she lets herself go, she’ll come undone completely.
She lowers me onto the bed with a steadiness that betrays how hard her breath falls when I lie back, looking up at her.
And then she climbs over me, her hands planted firm beside my shoulders, her body bracketing mine in heat and purpose. She doesn’t speak. She studies me for a second that feels like forever.
And then she shows me.
Every kiss is deliberate. Every touch is measured. She draws a line of heat down my body with her mouth, her hands keeping me exactly where she wants me. Her control isn’t performative, it’s protective. It’s reverent.
She touches me like I’m sacred and she’s trying not to break me. But the deeper she goes, the more the cracks show in her restraint.
When she finally slips between my legs it’s not rushed, but slow. Devastating. Her tongue is patient, focused, like she wants to ruin me and remember every detail.
She doesn’t stop when I gasp her name. If anything, it fuels her.
Her hands grip my thighs with quiet force, holding me open for her, grounding me while I fall apart. And when I reach down, threading my fingers into her dark hair, she lets out a low sound into me. Something primal, unguarded, like she’s been holding this in for far too long.
She takes her time. She makes me take my time. And when I shudder under her mouth, she doesn’t rush to finish me. She holds me there. Gently. Devotedly. Like she wants to keep me at the edge, just to savor the way I come undone for her.
When I finally crash over, it’s not just pleasure. It’s surrender. I fall into her, into the way she’s looking at me like I’ve always belonged to her and she’s only now letting herself admit it.
But she’s not done.
When she comes back up, kisses me deep, wet, tasting of me and I feel her hand slide down, slow and warm and sure. She enters me with precision and ease, her thumb brushing my cheek as I arch beneath her.
“Eyes on me,” she murmurs.
And I do. I can’t look away.
Because her face — when she moves inside me — is the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.
No mask. No armor. Just Rhea.
The sound she makes when I whisper her name again breaks whatever composure she has left. She thrusts deeper, her rhythm never frantic, but weighted. Certain. Her jaw clenches, and her eyes shine with something that might be pain, or pleasure, or love. But it’s hers, and she’s not hiding it anymore.
She touches me like she’s sorry.
She fucks me like she’s been waiting a lifetime.
Her body is still pressed to mine, her breath uneven against my shoulder, the curve of her spine slick with heat. But her weight is careful. Even now she’s holding back. For me.
And I want to see her fall.
I shift beneath her, hand sliding up the nape of her neck to cradle her jaw, coaxing her to look at me. Her eyes are heavy, dark, but so open it almost hurts.
“My turn,” I whisper, and before she can object, I roll us over with slow, deliberate ease. She lets me. Doesn’t fight, just exhales like I took the air right out of her lungs.
Rhea Ripley. Laid out beneath me. Breathless and quiet and undone.
She stares up at me like I’m something she can’t believe is real.
I kiss her deeper this time, more certain and I let my hands trace every inch of her body with purpose. Her collarbone. The inked ridges of her biceps. The softest part of her waist. Every spot I’ve watched from a distance, craved in silence, now mine to explore.
And she lets me.
No, she gives herself to me. Head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut when I drag my mouth down her sternum. Her hand comes to rest in my hair, not guiding, not controlling, just there. A tether.
I take my time.
I kiss her stomach, the hollow just beneath her ribs. I trace my tongue along the lines of definition, feel her tremble beneath me.
She’s quiet, but her body isn’t. It responds to every touch, every brush of my mouth — a stuttering breath, a twitch of her thigh, her fingers curling just a little tighter.
And when I slide down between her legs her hips lift to meet me like a prayer.
“Oh” It’s a breath, not a word, and it nearly undoes me.
I want to worship her. I want to prove that she’s not the only one who feels this deeply.
So I do.
I taste her slow and focused, my hands steady on her hips, keeping her anchored while I lose myself in her. Every sound she makes is etched into me. The low, guttural noises when I circle my tongue just right. The catch in her breath when I suck harder. The near-silent way she says my name like it’s sacred.
“Fuck.” she groans, low and hoarse, and I feel her start to shake.
But I don’t stop.
I want her to break the way she broke me. I want to feel it when she lets go. No mask, no control, just her. Just Rhea.
And when she does, when her thighs tighten around me, when her breath turns into something ragged and unfiltered and real... it’s everything.
She falls apart in my mouth, her body arching off the bed as her fingers dig into the sheets. She doesn’t hold back. Not anymore.
And I stay with her through it, kissing her softly, letting her hips roll against my tongue until her body stills under mine.
Then I rise, kiss my way back up her stomach, her ribs, her chest, until I’m curled into her again.
She’s warm. Shaky. Breathless.
I tuck myself into her and she wraps her arms around me instantly, like instinct. Her lips press to my temple. She’s quiet. Still holding me like I’m something fragile, even now.
But her heartbeat is loud in her chest. Unruly. Like the feelings she still hasn’t said.
No words are said. None are needed.
Because everything she didn’t say tonight, everything she’s been too afraid to feel she’s already told me.
With her hands.
With her mouth.
With the way she’s holding me now, like I’m not just something she wants. I’m something she can’t lose.
⸻
I wake before the sun does.
The room is still dark, but I can feel the light beginning to shift behind the curtains. The kind of blue that only exists at dawn, soft and tentative, like the day isn’t ready to start yet. Like it’s giving us this moment before anything else can touch it.
Rhea is still asleep beside me.
Her arm is draped over my waist, heavy and protective. Her face turned just slightly toward me, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her before. Vulnerable. Peaceful.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
There’s a stillness to her that steals the words right out of my mind. The same hands that gripped me like she couldn’t bear to let go last night now rest against my skin with something closer to reverence. Like she’s forgotten how to guard herself in her sleep.
And I realize this is the first time she’s let herself be this close.
Not just physically. Really close.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face, then stroke her back gently. Slow and careful. Her lashes flicker, but she doesn’t wake. Her fingers twitch slightly against my hip, like even unconscious, she knows I’m here.
My heart aches in that quiet, open way that only happens when something matters too much.
Last night wasn’t just a confession.
It was surrender.
She never said the words. I didn’t either. But they were there, in the way she touched me, in the way her voice broke when I whispered her name, in the way she held me like she was terrified of losing something she never thought she could have.
And I don’t think I need her to say it.
Not yet.
Because this — this quiet morning, her body wrapped around mine, the steady rhythm of her breath against my skin. This tells me more than any words ever could.
I shift just slightly, enough to press a kiss to her shoulder.
She stirs, just barely, then tightens her arm around me, pulling me closer without opening her eyes.
And damn it, I fall even deeper.
A soft murmur escapes her lips but it's nothing clear, just the sound of comfort, of home.
And I smile.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not wondering where I stand.
I’m here. She’s here.
And maybe tomorrow we go back to the chaos. Maybe nothing changes out there.
But in here where it's this quiet, borrowed morning I have her.
And she has me.
Oh…
In My Corner
(Part 1), (Part 2), (Part 3), (Part 4), (Part 5), (Part 6), (Part 7), Part 8, (Part 9)
TW: Regular wrestling violence, lots of tension in the flashback.
Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, @scream4mami, @mandmilovehim, @dummylovewp
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
While Christmas was an absolute dream, Y/N was more than happy to get back to work. She enjoyed her time in Davenport with Colby, but she was itching to get back into the ring. Carrying her title over her shoulder into a soon-to-be filled arena is a feeling that she could never put into words.
She smiles over at the camera that’s recording her as she struts towards the entrance. Her sunglasses rest comfortably on her nose. She slides them down slightly, winking into the camera before finishing her journey inside. She can’t wait to hear the cheers that will get later when it’s aired.
Walking into the Bloodline locker room was like sucking in a breath of fresh air. None of them were there just yet, but seeing everything set up for them assured her she was there. It was time to work again despite having all that time off.
She broke her body hundreds of times over and would happily do it again if she could do this for the rest of her life. Y/N took the alone time to start getting ready. She had talked to one of their many seamstresses before heading to the arena, picking up her gear for the night from them. She slipped it on, loving the way it compliments her figure while also remaining true to her character.
Grabbing her phone, Y/N gets ready to head to hair and make up when the door to the room opens. Her head snaps towards whoever’s entering and she yelps when suddenly she’s being squeezed into a bone crushing hug by Jon. Joseph and Joe follow closely behind, shaking their heads at Jon’s dramatics.
“I’m glad you got some time off sis, but damn!” He exclaims. “Don’t ever leave for that long again.”
“He’s bein’ dramatic,” Joe rolls his eyes. “We did just fine.”
“I ain’t said we didn’t do fine,” Jon fires back. “I'm just sayin’ I was bored without her. She’s my only entertainment when yall bein’ all serious n’ shit.”
“You mean when we’re in character?” Joseph quips smartly. “Not all of us can make breakin’ character our entire gimmick.”
“Shade…” Y/N chuckles as she draws out her teasing. “You’re really gonna let him talk to you like that?”
Jon shrugs, “I can’t hit him if he’s right,” he laughs loudly.
That got a chuckle out of Y/N as she slid onto the bench beside Solo — Joseph — who just shook his head silently, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Glad you’re back, sis,” Solo said simply, bumping his shoulder against hers.
“Glad to be back,” she replied. “Even if you three are a whole circus act.”
“Hey, we kept it together while you were off living your Hallmark movie life,” Jon teased, gesturing toward her title belt. “You and Colby had the internet in a chokehold, I’m just sayin’.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You stalking Twitter again?”
“I’m a man of the people,” Jon said, hand on his heart. “And the people saw the look that man gave you and nearly combusted.”
Solo leaned back, arms crossed. “That the same look you gave him when he dipped your cocoa and stole the first cookie?”
Y/N laughed, “He’s lucky he’s cute.”
“Cute enough to get the mistletoe treatment?” Jon wiggled his brows.
“Y’all are too invested.”
“Hey,” Roman added, pointing casually in her direction, “just sayin’ — man looks at you like that, you might as well book the venue.”
Y/N choked on her water. “Can we not plan a wedding when we’re not even dating?”
Jon grinned. “That sounds like something a future wife would say.”
She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Okay, okay. Everyone calm down. It was just a good Christmas, alright? Colby’s family was great. Kevin — his dog — loved me. And yes, I did wear matching pajamas. There. Happy?”
Jon threw his arms up. “Ecstatic.”
Roman nodded. “Good. Just remember — it’s nice to see you happy, but don’t let the guy distract you from what’s waiting out there tonight.”
Y/N straightened slightly, the energy shifting. “He wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t let him.”
Solo gave her a firm nod. “Iyo’s coming in hot. You ready for that match?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she said, tightening the strap on her gear. “She’s fast, she’s sneaky, but I’ve watched every match she’s had since she stepped into WWE. I’ve studied her like she’s a final exam.”
Roman stood slowly. “Then handle it like you always do. Like a champ.”
A comfortable beat passed between them, the family energy grounding her like always.
“Yeah,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “Even got a weird little confidence boost, honestly. It’s stupid, but…”
She trailed off, caught mid-thought.
“But what?” Jon asked, eyeing her.
“It’s dumb.”
“Spit it out,” Roman said.
Y/N glanced at her hands. “I got a call on Christmas. From… Phil.”
That shut everyone up for a second. Jon’s eyebrows lifted slightly, more curious than anything. Solo didn’t react much, just gave a slow blink. Joe’s expression, though — Roman’s — shifted. His arms folded a little tighter across his chest, jaw flexing in that way that said he had thoughts but wasn’t saying them yet.
“He just called to say Merry Christmas,” Y/N added quickly. “I didn’t even recognize the number at first. Said it didn’t feel right not saying it to me, knowing it’s my favorite holiday.”
The air got heavier, just slightly.
Roman finally spoke, voice low. “You okay?”
She paused, then nodded. “I think so. It was weird. Not bad… just unexpected. He said he wanted to talk more eventually.”
“You gonna let him?” Solo asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “I think I needed to hear it, even if it didn’t change anything.”
Roman studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing like he was reading between lines she hadn’t written yet. But before he could say more—
A knock at the door.
One of the crew leaned in, headset over his ear. “Hair and makeup’s ready when you are.”
Jon stood with a flourish. “Perfect! I need to make sure my hair still scream ‘main event.’”
Solo muttered, “You don’t even have a match.”
“I’m in the match of life, uce.”
Y/N smiled faintly, grabbing her belt and adjusting it over her shoulder. As they headed toward the hallway, Roman fell into step beside her.
“I meant it,” he said quietly. “You looked good out there. Happy.”
She glanced over at him, surprised by how soft his voice had gotten. “Thanks, Joe.”
He looked ahead again, nodding once. “Just don’t forget who you are. Or what you came back for.”
Y/N nodded too — steady, grounded “I won’t.”
And she meant it. Tonight, she was Y/N — champion, sister, storm. Let the rest figure itself out later.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
Y/N moved through the backstage hallway like she owned the place — because, in a way, she did. Title snug over her shoulder, sleek gear shimmering under the overhead lights, her stride was easy but purposeful. She’d missed the buzz of live nights like this — the way energy practically vibrated through the concrete floors before the crowd even saw a single entrance pyro.
The camera followed her closely, capturing every detail: the confidence in her step, the way her sunglasses sat perched on her nose, and the slight curve of a smirk that tugged at her lips as crew moved out of her way like they knew better.
And then he stepped in her path.
LA Knight.
Leaning against a stack of production crates like he had all the time in the world and nowhere better to be. Arms crossed, smirk carved deep into his face like it had been made for that mouth. Y/N slowed, sighing before even bothering to push her sunglasses up into her hair.
“Wow,” she said dryly. “Should’ve figured you’d pop up like a bad Christmas rerun.”
LA Knight’s smile widened — irritatingly pleased.
“Didn’t come lookin’ for you, sweetheart,” he said, eyes dragging down to the title on her shoulder. “But I gotta say — hard to miss you when you strut around dressed like a prize.”
Her brow arched. “Takes one to recognize one, huh? You’ve been chasing the spotlight for months and still can’t land a single damn thing without a mic in your hand and a miracle on standby.”
“Better that than hangin’ off the arm of the Bloodline like some loyal little sidekick,” he fired back. “Especially when your taste in men is as trash as that Christmas sweater Seth calls a personality.”
Y/N’s expression barely flickered — but her smile did sharpen.
“Funny coming from the guy who spends more time getting knocked on his ass than actually winning.”
“Oh, I win,” he said, stepping in closer — close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne and the cockiness laced into every word. “Just haven’t decided if I want the gold… or the woman wearin’ some.”
The air between them shifted — thicker now, charged.
Y/N didn’t back down. She never did. Her lashes fluttered as she glanced down at where his fingers now brushed lightly, mockingly, over the gold on her shoulder like he had any right to it. Her chin tilted up, lips parting like she was about to throw a verbal grenade.
But he beat her to it.
“I mean, tell me I’m wrong,” he said, leaning in the tiniest bit, just enough to make it look more like a secret than a threat. “You act like you’re untouchable, but you walked into Raw and let Seth Rollins make you soft.”
Her smile froze.
Knight’s grin deepened.
“There it is,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That look. The one that says ‘I’d slap you if I didn’t want to see where this goes.’”
She exhaled a slow, almost amused breath and brushed past him — but not before dragging her gaze from his boots to his jawline like she was calculating just how hard she’d have to hit him to leave a dent.
Then, right as she passed, she glanced over her shoulder and shot him one last parting shot.
“You can barely handle Roman Reigns without two other guys holding your hand,” she said coolly. “What makes you think you can handle me?”
LA Knight didn’t reply — just turned slowly, watching her walk off with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and something much more dangerous in his eyes.
And Y/N? She kept walking toward Gorilla, head high, pulse doing something traitorous in her throat.
But the second she turned a corner, with the camera no longer catching her face, she bit back a laugh — cheeks flushing despite herself.
What the hell was that?
And why, for a split second, did it make her heart stutter like she'd just main evented WrestleMania?
——————-
Back in Chicago, Phil stared at his screen, face void but thoughts were swirling behind those big blues. He sat on the edge of his couch, arms crossed so tight across his chest he could feel the tension in his shoulders begging to snap. The TV was muted, but it didn’t matter — he didn’t need sound to see everything.
He’d been flipping through the show out of habit. Out of curiosity. Out of something else he didn’t care to name.
And then she showed up.
Y/N, backstage. Full of fire and command. Title slung like it belonged to her — because it did. Every step she took, every glance at the camera… yeah, she still had it.
He wasn’t surprised by the swagger.
But LA Knight?
The second he appeared on screen, something twisted.
And the second that guy brushed her hair behind her ear — that light, casual, intimate touch — Phil’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.
He didn’t have a right to care. He hadn’t for a long time.
And yet…
He could see through it. That wasn’t just scripted tension. That wasn’t “work.” That wasn’t one of those buzzworthy moments fans joked about.
That was real.
The kind of electricity that didn't come from clever dialogue or camera blocking. It came from the way her eyes had widened. From the breath she didn’t take. From the way LA Knight had looked at her like he knew he could ruin something and wanted to.
Phil’s fingers curled into fists against his knees.
He didn’t know what pissed him off more — the fact that Knight saw her that way, or that she let him.
He inhaled sharply, standing up and muting the TV completely now. The room went quiet, save for the dull hum of something angry behind his ribs.
He hadn’t even meant to call her on Christmas. It had just… happened. That stupid, awkward call he regretted and didn’t all at once. Her voice had sounded surprised. Not cold. Not warm either. Just… open enough.
Why did he do it?
Because he still cared?
Because he hated how they left things?
Because deep down, seeing her again — really seeing her — made something twist in his chest in a way that felt too close to guilt, too close to missing her?
He didn’t know. All he did know… was that LA Knight was gonna be a problem. A real problem.
And for the first time in years, Phil didn’t know if he wanted to yell at her… or just be near her again.
Which, honestly, scared the hell out of him more than anything.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
The thunder of Iyo Sky’s entrance music echoed through Gorilla.
Y/N stood just out of frame, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, her title belt snug over her shoulder. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes were laser-focused on the monitor in front of her, tracking Iyo as she made her confident, chaotic walk to the ring. The Genius of the Sky was no slouch—and she wasn’t coming to play games.
From behind, a hand clapped her shoulder.
“You got this,” Jon grinned at her, half cocky, half brotherly. “Go out there and remind ‘em who runs this division.”
Y/N snorted, shaking out her arms, but the smile tugged at her mouth. “Damn right I do.”
He gave her a little nudge toward the curtain. “Kill that shit.”
The cue hit. Her music started. The crowd erupted.
Y/N stepped into the lights, her presence a shockwave of charisma and confidence. The fans popped immediately—those thunderous screams that always seemed to shake the rafters when she showed up. She held the title high over her head at the top of the ramp, basking in the reaction, her body language cool and sharp and full of swagger. Her new gear shimmered under the lights—black and deep crimson with silver accents—and her hair was pulled back into a sleek, powerful ponytail. The crowd fed off her energy as she made her way down the ramp, slapping a few outstretched hands, her eyes never leaving the ring.
Inside, Iyo was pacing, watching with narrowed eyes.
“She looks laser-focused tonight,” Kevin Patrick noted from commentary. “Y/N knows what’s at stake. Iyo Sky is dangerous. A high-flyer, a technician. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”
“Walk in the park?” Corey Graves replied. “Try a war zone. Iyo’s the best Damage CTRL’s got, and Y/N’s been making enemies on all sides. She's got a target on her back the size of Roman Reigns’ ego.”
Y/N stepped through the ropes and climbed the turnbuckle, hoisting her title to another roar from the crowd. Then she hopped down, handed the belt to the official, and turned to face her opponent.
This was it.
The bell rang.
And they were off.
The first few minutes were measured—wrestler’s chess. Y/N caught Iyo in a wristlock, but the Genius of the Sky twisted out with almost inhuman flexibility, countering into a quick armdrag. Y/N hit the mat and popped back up with a grin.
Game on.
They traded sequences—Iyo with the agility, Y/N with the grounded power. A back-and-forth flurry of technical chain wrestling gave way to harder offense. Y/N nailed a running knee that nearly took Iyo’s head off, but the challenger rolled outside for a breather.
Y/N didn’t give her the time. She hit the ropes and launched herself through them with a suicide dive, driving Iyo into the barricade and sending the crowd into a frenzy.
“AND THE CHAMP TAKES TO THE AIR!” Kevin shouted.
Back in the ring, Iyo mounted a comeback—trapping Y/N in the corner and unleashing a barrage of lightning-quick palm strikes. Y/N grunted under the impact, ducked the last one, and spun into a powerful German suplex that folded Iyo in half.
One… two… kickout.
The match stretched on. Near-falls piled up. Each woman pushed herself harder—Y/N’s chest heaving, Iyo’s lip bleeding slightly from a stiff elbow. The crowd could feel the shift. This wasn’t just a match. This was a fight to prove something.
At one point, Iyo locked in a modified crossface that had Y/N’s fingertips clawing the mat—but she refused to tap. The ropes were inches away. With a guttural yell, she dragged herself to the bottom strand and wrapped her fingers around it. The ref forced the break.
“THIS is what it means to be champion!” Corey yelled.
Y/N hit a spine-shattering powerbomb. Iyo landed a top rope moonsault that nearly stole the match.
And then, with both women collapsed in opposite corners, the boos rained down.
Bayley. Dakota. Kairi.
Damage CTRL swarmed the ramp, yelling, circling like vultures, ready to tip the scales in their favor.
But before they could reach the apron—
Bianca. Michin. Zelina.
The crowd exploded.
The chaos at ringside had reached a boiling point. Michin launched Kairi into the steel steps. Zelina hurled Dakota over the barricade. Bayley’s furious screams were muffled by Bianca’s boot to the stomach. The referee, overwhelmed, didn’t even know who to watch anymore.
But inside the ring — it was quiet. Still.
Y/N stood in the center, chest rising and falling like thunder rolling through her lungs. Sweat clung to her jawline, her eyes wild but focused. Iyo, disoriented and staggering, tried to find her footing near the corner, her body trembling after the war they’d just waged.
One second… Two. And then Y/N moved. Not rushed. Not frantic. Methodical. She grabbed Iyo by the wrist and yanked her forward with calculated force, spinning her around in a tight arc until the back of Iyo’s head was perfectly aligned over the canvas.
The camera zoomed in.
Y/N stepped back — one step, then two — her boot scraping across the mat like the first drag of a matchstick before the flame. Her eyes never left Iyo’s skull. The crowd started rising again. The rhythm was building.
Boom. Boom. Boom. The echo of stomps against the mat. Like a countdown. Like a war drum.
She lined it up — one leg planted, spine straight, lips parting around a breath she hadn’t realized she’d held since Christmas morning.
There was a flicker in her expression. Just the smallest shift. Not anger. Not aggression. Something reverent. Something personal.
And then she struck.
Her boot came down like a guillotine from the gods, crashing onto the back of Iyo Sky’s head with flawless precision and unforgiving power. Iyo’s face hit the canvas with a sickening smack. The sound of it rang out like the final chord of a symphony.
The arena erupted. Not a cheer — a detonation. It was more than a finisher. It was a homage. It was a message. It was a moment. The stomp was so undeniably his. From the snap of her form to the vicious velocity, every inch of it screamed one name — one man — and the crowd knew it.
Kevin Patrick’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Oh my God—she hit it. She hit his move!”
Corey Graves practically stood up at commentary. “I can’t believe it—Y/N just blacked out Iyo Sky with the damn stomp! That was—that was Seth Rollins’ stomp!”
Y/N didn’t go for the pin right away.
She stood over Iyo’s crumpled form, chest heaving, hair sticking to her face, as the fans chanted in waves, a mix of her name and his. Her gaze flicked briefly toward the hard cam, and though she didn’t smile — didn’t wink or play it off — the knowing glint in her eye said everything.
This wasn’t for show. This was intentional. Then, slowly, with the crowd still losing their minds, Y/N dropped to her knees, hooked Iyo’s leg, and leaned in close.
One. Two. Three.
The bell rang. Her music hit. But the stomp was still echoing.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
Heelheatdaily
Liked by Wrestlingupdatesdaily, thewrestlingclassic, undisputedwife, and 30,597 others
Heelheatdaily: NOT THEM FLIRTING AND FIGHTING IN THE SAME BREATH 😭😭
LA Knight and Y/S/N in each other's faces again and somehow it's hotter than it should be??
She really hit him with the “you can’t even handle Roman, what makes you think you can handle me?” 💀🔥
#WWE #YSNRising #LAKnight #BackstageTension #ChemistryOn100
View all 9,256 comments
sapphiresuplex: the tension is ILLEGAL. I’m sweating.
burnitdownbabe: LA Knight being flustered??? she's got that dog in her.
bloodlinebabyyy: Not him going full “you got trash taste in men but damn I’ll risk it all” energy 😭
pipedreamsphil: listen I’m Team Punk forever but that was hot and I’m not blind.
wrestlewivesunite: their enemies-to-lovers arc is writing itself and I’m not mad.
ishouldbesleeping: Punk somewhere punching air and doesn’t know why.
——————————
WrassleObsessed
Liked by wwerollins, Y/S/Nwwe, chrisvanvliet, and 48,756 others
Tagged: wwerollins, Y/S/Nwwe
WrassleObsessed: NO CAUSE THE STOMP??? TO THE HEAD???
She really said ‘This is for you’ to Seth Rollins live on SmackDown.
That was poetry. The way the crowd LOST IT.
#YSNRising #IyoSky #WWEWomen #ThatStompTho #BurnItDownEnergy #SethApproved
View all 15,539 comments
burnitdownbabe: I screamed. She hit that stomp like a love letter.
curbstompqueen: it was the most beautiful stomp I’ve ever seen and I’ve watched Seth’s career since NXT.
troublelikeyn: That wasn’t a move. That was a statement.
ysngodmother: When she hit that stomp it felt like the universe aligned for .3 seconds.
bloodlineluv: everybody knew they spent Christmas together and then she hits that?? girl 💀
cmpunksbitterheart: Not me yelling “TRAITOR” and also crying at how gorgeous that stomp was
kevininfurcoats: Even the stomp was in character. The boots, the pause, the BOUNCE. She knows what she’s doing.
heelheatdaily: She stomped her like she meant it. Like she felt it. I’m obsessed.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
The moment Y/N stepped through the curtain, the sound of the crowd was still ringing in her ears — a thunderous, sustained cheer that had followed her all the way to the back. Her chest rose and fell quickly, adrenaline still pulsing as a stagehand handed her a water bottle and clapped her on the back.
“You killed it out there,” someone said — she wasn’t even sure who, but it made her grin.
As she walked through the maze of gorilla and production crew, people kept stopping her with congratulations. A few hugs. Some high-fives. Triple H gave her a proud nod from where he stood near the monitors. Zelina passed by on her way to another segment and grabbed her arm with a beaming smile. “Girl. That stomp? You knew what you were doing.”
Y/N just laughed breathlessly, still trying to come down from the match high. Her ribs ached. Her thighs were already burning. And yet, she felt weightless.
She finally rounded the corner to the locker room and was met by Michin and Bianca, both of them grinning like proud sisters.
“Okay, Miss Main Event,” Michin teased, tugging her into a hug. “I know that triple threat match is supposed to be the show of the night, but it’s gonna be hella tough to top that.”
“Yo, when you hit that stomp?” Bianca shook her head like she still couldn’t believe it. “Pam and I almost had to stop fighting out by the barricade. Thought somebody got RKO’d through the stage.”
Y/N collapsed onto the nearest bench with a groan, running a towel over her sweat-drenched face. “I was worried my leg was gonna give out with the way Iyo kept working it, but when I saw the opening…”
“You made the opening,” Bianca corrected, nodding with respect. “That was storytelling. You knew exactly how to get a reaction.”
Y/N looked up at her, still catching her breath. “You mean besides nearly blacking out mid-air?”
Michin tossed her a protein bar and pulled out her phone. “Oh, and by the way… social media’s already lost its damn mind.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow, peeling the wrapper. “Already?”
“Oh yeah,” Michin said, swiping fast. “You’ve been posted by every fan page within a ten-mile radius. The LA Knight moment? Trending. The stomp? On loop. Someone already made an edit of the stomp with a slowed-down Burn It Down chorus in the background.”
Y/N let out a groan as she buried her face in her hands. “Oh God.”
Bianca laughed. “Girl, don’t act like you didn’t know that was gonna happen. That was a whole declaration of affection in stomp form.”
“I wasn’t thinking about—” Y/N started to protest, then paused, sighed. “Okay. I was thinking about it. But I didn’t expect people to, like… notice.”
Michin lifted her brows. “You stomped that woman with the same finesse Colby uses on his Monday best. Of course people noticed.”
Y/N slumped back against the wall with a small, tired smile. The only thing people didn’t know was that Colby wasn’t the one who taught her the stomp. “Great. Can’t wait to read the comments saying I’m the WWE bachelorette again.”
Bianca tilted her head. “Girl, you stomped someone’s skull on national television and then left with the title still on your shoulder. You’re doing more than being someone’s anything. Don’t let the noise water you down.”
That made Y/N pause. She took a breath. “Thanks.”
But back in Davenport Iowa, Colby’s focus was completely on the woman on his screen. He didn’t even realize he’d stood up. One moment, he was sunk into the couch with Kevin draped lazily over his legs, and the next, he was hovering in front of the TV like a man drawn to fire. The replay had already started — the moment.
Her moment.
Iyo Sky staggered upright, blood in her eye, exhaustion in every muscle — and then Y/N surged from the ropes like she had every right to be there. The way she moved, precise and poised, her body a blade honed by years of fighting and failure and rising again.
And then — the stomp.
A hush fell over the arena on-screen, only to be swallowed whole by a roar. The crowd came alive in a single, unified scream. And Colby… he felt it echo in his chest.
“Damn,” he muttered, lips parting slightly. His fingers twitched by his side, like his body wanted to feel what hers had just executed.
She hadn’t just used the move. She’d delivered it. Elevated it. Put her soul behind it.
It was the cleanest stomp he’d ever seen from someone who wasn’t him.
And she knew what she was doing. Knew what it would mean to him. Knew what it would mean to everyone watching.
“God, you’re good,” he murmured, almost to himself. His smile came slow, like it was being pulled from somewhere deep. That’s my girl, he thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. Not even to Kevin.
He didn’t own her. Hell, they hadn’t even defined what they were yet. But something in his chest burned warm and anchored.
Then he saw the LA Knight clip pop up on his Instagram feed when he opened his phone next.
Their backstage tension — inches apart, biting words, the electricity so thick you could cut it. And that look she gave as she walked away, the ghost of a blush on her cheeks.
Colby’s jaw tightened.
He ran a hand through his curls, suddenly feeling like the house was too quiet. Kevin perked his head up at him, curious, sensing the shift.
Colby exhaled slowly and shook his head. “Not jealous,” he said out loud, voice dry. “Not jealous. Just… aware.”
But it felt a lot like jealousy. Which was a surprise. Colby was used to being the confident one, the cocky one, the man with the girl on his arm.
But Y/N wasn’t a girl to be held onto. She was wildfire, and somehow, he didn’t want to control her — he just wanted to be the person she ran back to after burning down the ring.
And if other men were drawn to her?
Well, yeah. Of course they were. They’d be stupid not to be.
But only one of them had spent Christmas morning watching her make pancakes in his kitchen, dancing in stupid matching pajamas. And that had to count for something.
Colby sat back down, but the smile didn’t fade from his face — not entirely. It lingered in the corners of his mouth as the stomp replayed again, the sound of the crowd still ringing in his ears. She’d done it. She’d delivered that move with such precision and intent that he almost forgot to breathe. She was fearless. Unstoppable. And hers was the kind of magic that made him fall just a little harder every damn time.
But on the other side of the Midwest, in a Chicago apartment that still looked like it hadn’t been unpacked despite him living there for over a decade, Phil Brooks didn’t smile at all.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes locked on the same footage. No sound in the room except the low hum of the TV and the creak of his own jaw as he clenched it tighter with every second.
She looked good. Too good. Comfortable under the lights, magnetic in the way only she could be — and when the camera caught her mid-strut, lips quirked like she knew exactly what she was doing? Phil hated how well he still recognized that look.
Then came the stomp.
It landed with almost surgical precision — one clean, devastating blow straight to Iyo’s skull. She’d planted that foot like she owned the damn ring. The crowd erupted, and he didn’t move.
He didn’t need to rewind it. He didn’t need to see it again. He’d know the feel of that stomp anywhere — because he’s the one who helped her perfect it.
And now?
Now the whole world was losing their minds over what they thought was a tribute to Seth Rollins.
Phil rubbed his mouth, dragging his fingers across the rough stubble on his jaw. He didn’t even know why he was still watching. Why his pulse picked up when LA Knight’s segment rolled again. Why his chest felt tight when she laughed — really laughed — at something that loudmouth idiot said.
He didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to feel any of this.
But the worst part wasn’t the jealousy. It was the fact that, for the first time in years, he couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight her, forgive her… or just figure out how the hell he’d let her get that far away.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
Phil was already cranky.
He didn’t try to hide it — not when he stalked into the dusty training facility, threw his bag into the corner like it had personally wronged him, and ripped off his hoodie with a sharp tug that made the sleeve tear a little.
“This is why I don’t do tag teams,” he muttered, not for the first time. Or the second. Or even the fifth.
From the opposite side of the ring, Y/N draped over the top rope like it was a hammock, casually winding her wrist tape and watching him with all the energy of a cat eyeing a laser pointer.
“You’ve said that,” she said lazily, “a lot.”
“Because it’s true,” he shot back, his voice sharp and echoing in the quiet. “Tag teams are a waste of time. Dead weight. I don’t trust anybody else to do the job right.”
He glared over at her. “Especially not someone who thinks sugar cookies are a viable character trait.”
She scoffed, whipping the tape around her wrist. “Excuse you. Just because I enjoy a little sweet treat after a match, doesn’t mean I make it my entire character.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And for the record,” she pushed off the ropes and began slowly circling the ring, hips swaying with deliberate ease, “I’m not the one sulking in the corner like a middle school kid who didn’t get picked first for dodgeball.”
Phil opened his mouth, a scathing retort already forming—
And then he looked up.
She was facing him now — full-on. Tight black shorts hugging her hips, an old oversized tee tied at the waist and hanging off one shoulder, exposing the glisten of sweat on her collarbone. Her legs were already a little bruised from drills, and she looked like she didn’t give a single damn.
She smiled when his eyes paused a little too long on her bare thigh.
That made it worse.
“C’mon, sensei,” she said, beckoning him with a finger. “Teach me your ways.”
He grit his teeth. Climbed onto the apron. Ducking through the ropes felt like surrender.
“I swear to God,” he muttered, “if you treat this like some damn So You Think You Can Dance audition—”
“I’ve never even seen that show.”
He eyed her. “Yet you give off such ‘please validate me’ energy.”
She gave him a sarcastic little bow. “Only from you, sweetheart.”
He cursed under his breath and stalked toward her. “You want to learn the stomp or not?”
“Depends,” she chirped. “You gonna actually help? Or just mansplain while staring at my thighs again?”
He stopped short. Blinked. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” She smirked. “It’s okay. I’m flattered.”
Phil made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
She turned away from him, bending into position like she hadn’t just said that, hands braced on her thighs. And when she pushed her hips back slightly — just enough to make sure he noticed — he almost walked out right then and there.
Instead, he stepped behind her.
“Your footing’s all wrong,” he muttered, and placed his hands firmly on her hips. “Your power starts from here. You need to widen your stance.”
He nudged her knees outward, guiding her weight down until her posture was solid. Then his hands slid up her sides, slowly, palms pressing into the curve of her waist to straighten her spine.
“You’re too upright,” he murmured, voice dipping low. “You want to feel it in your core. Not your knees. Control lives in your center.”
She was silent now. Still. Until: “Mm. You talk dirty to all your tag partners, or am I special?”
He froze. Then leaned in — lips brushing her skin, just below her ear, right where her pulse ticked like a warning. His lip ring ghosted against the base of her neck as he murmured: “Breathe out when you land. Push the air through your body like it’s a release. Controlled. Precise.”
She shivered.
“Was that also for alignment?” she asked, voice a notch lower now. Less teasing. More breathless.
Phil didn’t answer. He just stepped back.
“Again.”
She hit the ropes, bounced clean, and slammed her boot into the center of the pad with a stomp that echoed through the room like thunder.
Clean. Perfect. Fucking lethal.
Before she could think, she turned and launched herself toward him.
“I did it!”
Phil didn’t have time to react. She barreled into him, legs lifting as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He caught her automatically, instinctively — hands locking under her thighs, her momentum bringing her up and off the mat until he had no choice but to hold her there.
His breath hitched. She was laughing against his shoulder, flushed and beaming and victorious.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You ever not throw your body at people?”
“Not when I nail something that hard,” she said, chin on his shoulder. “That felt awesome.”
Her breath was hot against his jaw. He stared at the far wall, hyper-aware of every point where her body was pressed into his. She wasn’t clingy. She wasn’t faking it. She wasn’t trying to impress him.
And that irritated him more than anything.
Because he wanted to impress her.
Phil slowly set her down, her feet hitting the mat like nothing had happened. He stepped back.
“I still think this tag team is a joke,” he muttered, voice rougher now.
“Oh, you’ve upgraded from disaster to joke. That’s improvement.”
“Vince must’ve been high when he signed off on this.”
“Or maybe,” she said slowly, tugging her shirt down and sauntering past him with extra swing in her step, “he just saw something you don’t.”
Phil’s eyes locked on her — the curve of her back, the strength in her shoulders, the confidence that wasn’t shaken even once by his constant jabs.
He didn’t trust her. Not yet. But damn if he didn’t want more of whatever the hell that was.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw the twitch in his jaw — subtle, but there — and smiled. “Careful, Punk. Keep looking at me like that and people might think you like working with me.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She just hopped out of the ring, heading toward the lockers.
And Phil? He ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth, feeling the cold metal of his lip ring press against his fingers. He muttered something about stupid tag teams and having better things to do. But it didn’t have the same bite anymore. Not now.
Not after that.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
Y/N shoved a piece of fruit into her mouth as she ran back out into the hallway. She forgot she had a small segment with Damage CTRL and Bianca in the next couple of minutes. It was a simple backstage confrontation, Y/S/N putting Bayley and Iyo in their place. She utters apologies as she weaves in and out of the crowd backstage.
Once she sees Bianca, she knows the segment has already started. She stays as quiet as possible, careful not to give away her presence. One of the camera men nod at her, signaling that she’ll walk on screen shortly.
“But you Bayley on the other hand, you’re gettin’ a little ahead of yourself,” Bianca says sassily. “Because that little plan you talkin’ about. Yeah. That got a flaw. Because, um,” she clears her throat. “You’re not winning the Royal Rumble. Because I’m entering the Royal Rumble. And I can’t wait to KOD you over the top rope. See, what’s gon’ happen is that I’m gonna win the Royal Rumble for the second time. And then at Wrestlemania I’m gonna take back my title. And then, the Y/S/N era will finally come to an end.”
Before Bayley could fire back at Bianca, the camera shifted slightly, just in time to catch the confident, deliberate strut of Y/N rounding the corner.
Title glinting under the fluorescent lights, she slung it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing — though everyone watching knew exactly how heavy it was with legacy and dominance. Her smirk was slow, teasing, built from years of knowing no one could touch her at the top.
“Wow,” she said, voice smooth like honey laced with venom. “You say my name like it’s a curse, B.”
She winked toward Bianca, tilting her head. “You sure you don’t mean ‘Y/S/N era will go down as the most dominant reign this division’s ever seen’?”
The crowd just off camera erupted — a roar breaking from behind Gorilla as talent and crew watched the monitor like it was the main event already.
Bianca didn’t look offended. In fact, she grinned, folding her arms. “Oh, I mean it, sis. Don’t get it twisted. You’ve been killin’ it. Almost three years with that title? That’s legacy talk.” She stepped forward, the tension playful but still electric. “But you know how this works. Everybody’s time comes eventually. Even yours.”
Y/N looked her up and down, biting back a grin. “I’m not afraid of eventually. I just don’t think it’s showing up this year.”
That’s when Bayley let out a laugh — loud, sarcastic, and entirely grating.
“Okay, okay,” she said, stepping between them, hands up like she was trying to mediate peace. “Can we get real for a second? Because I’m so sick of the two of you standing here, throwing praise and shade like it’s a damn brunch buffet.”
Iyo stood silently behind her, arms crossed, gaze narrowed like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Bayley jabbed a finger toward Y/N. “You’ve been ducking real competition for months. Iyo had you beat twice and you needed a whole squad to help you keep that title. And now Bianca’s acting like she’s already won the Rumble when she hasn’t even entered the ring yet?” She scoffed. “Please. You’re all hype. Iyo’s the future.”
Y/N’s smile disappeared slowly, replaced by something colder, sharper. She stepped closer to Bayley, title gleaming like a second spine over her shoulder. “You wanna talk about ducking, Bayley? Where was this energy when I ran through half of your faction over this last year? Where was it when I pinned you in the center of that ring just two weeks ago?”
The camera zoomed in as the audience popped again backstage, a few staffers stifling grins as they watched from the sidelines.
Y/N leaned in, her tone dropping like a loaded gun. “Let me remind you. I’ve been carrying this division while y’all kept shuffling stables and failing upward. You think Iyo’s the future? I am the present. And until someone pries this title out of my cold, dead hands—” she looked to Bianca briefly, then back at Bayley, “—you’re just living in my reign.”
Bianca chuckled, even as she shook her head. “Girl’s got a point.”
Iyo stepped forward suddenly, the silent storm finally striking as she got in Y/N’s face, barking something sharp in Japanese. Y/N didn’t flinch — just tilted her head, unfazed, eyes locked with hers like they were already mid-match.
Bayley quickly wedged herself between them again, holding Iyo back with one arm while pointing at Y/N with the other.
“This isn’t over,” Bayley snapped. “Not by a long shot. Mania’s coming. And you will break.”
Y/N smiled again, all teeth now. She slung the title off her shoulder and held it up between them like a mirror they didn’t want to look into.
“You better pray I do,” she said coolly. “Because if I don’t… I’m walking out of WrestleMania still champion. Again.”
And with that, she turned on her heel, strutting out of frame as the camera lingered just long enough to catch the slow, deliberate roll of her hips — and the absolute chaos she left simmering behind her.
Y/N walked away from the aftermath of the segment like she didn’t just verbally slap half the women’s division into next week. Her title sat proudly on her shoulder, her boots echoing confidently through the hallway as the WWE crew made way for her.
She turned a corner and headed toward the one place that felt like home no matter what arena they were in — the Bloodline locker room.
Inside, the air buzzed with tension and anticipation. Jon was bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing in front of a mirror with one glove already on. Joseph sat leaned forward in a folding chair, taping his wrists in deliberate silence, while Joe was half-sitting on the armrest of the couch, surveying the room like he owned it. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
Y/N cracked the door open with her hip and smirked. “Room full of danger and egos. Gotta be the Bloodline.”
Jon turned first, wide grin splitting his face. “Heeey! The champ is here!”
She strutted in like she hadn’t just thrown verbal grenades at Bayley and Iyo five minutes ago. “Damn right I am.”
“Watched that segment,” Joe said with a slow smirk, arms crossed over his chest. “You ate. No crumbs.”
“You already know.” She winked as she tossed her belt onto a nearby bench and leaned against the lockers. “Honestly, I should get hazard pay for dealing with Bayley’s loud mouth and Iyo’s death stare. At the same time.”
Jon chuckled, pulling off his warm-up hoodie. “You told Bianca to keep your name outta her mouth and told Bayley to sit down. That's peak Bloodline behavior.”
Joseph said nothing — as usual — but offered her a subtle nod of approval, which from him might as well have been a standing ovation.
“Where’s my hug?” Jon demanded, arms open.
“You’re sweaty.”
“So are you!”
She groaned dramatically and walked into his open arms anyway, letting him squeeze her tight before she jabbed him in the ribs. “You better not get all clingy when I’m gone.”
“You’re leavin’?” Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.
Y/N leaned down to tie her boot. “Yeah, I’ve got a 4 a.m. flight to New York. Some early press before the Rumble hype kicks in. Gotta go charm a few media outlets, pretend I’m not running on caffeine and attitude.”
“4 a.m.?” Jon repeated with a wince. “Girl, you’re a different breed.”
“Can’t help it,” she said with a shrug. “The grind loves me.”
Joe smirked, sitting up a little straighter. “Don’t let them soft journalists play you. They love asking dumb questions like, ‘What’s it like being the only woman in a faction full of men?’ Just hit ‘em with the stare and remind them you’ve been champ for three years.”
“I got this.” She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and offered them a lazy grin. “Besides, y’all are the reason they ask dumb questions. Look at you — tall, muscly, brooding… Joseph doesn’t even speak. He just vibes.”
Joseph blinked at her. Jon laughed. Joe shook his head.
“I ain’t brooding,” Jon said.
“You are,” Joseph muttered.
Y/N grinned as she slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her title again. “Anyway, I just wanted to wish you all luck. I know you’re about to go stir the pot in that triple threat match.”
Joe cracked his knuckles. “Knight, Orton, and Styles think they’re running something. Time to remind them who we are.”
“You gonna pop up on commentary again?” Y/N teased Joe. “Tell ‘em you run the table, the show, the whole damn company?”
He shrugged, his grin dangerous. “If the crown fits.”
“Y’all better stay safe out there,” she said, walking toward the door again. “And make sure Jon doesn’t do anything dumb.”
“Hey!” Jon called, offended.
Joseph stood now, tightening his gloves. “What time you land?”
“Around nine-twenty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “I’ll sleep on the plane. Maybe.”
“You won’t,” Joe muttered knowingly.
“Nope,” she called back. “But I’m still gonna show up lookin’ better than everyone.”
Jon leaned into the hallway, cupping his hands. “Sweet dreams, champ!”
She blew them a kiss over her shoulder without breaking stride.
“Kill it tonight, boys.”
The door swung shut behind her, and for a second, the locker room was quiet.
Then Jon clapped his hands together. “Man, I love her.”
Joe nodded once. “Don’t really gotta choice. She’s family.”
Joseph didn’t say anything. But he smiled.
✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*
The hotel was quiet when Y/N stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by the carpet and her body running on sheer adrenaline and exhaustion. Her duffel bag slung over her shoulder and title cradled in her arm, she fished her phone from her pocket and scrolled absently through the notifications blowing up her socials.
The internet was already on fire — clips of her dragging Bayley backstage, the stomp that echoed through the arena, fans calling her the true face of the division. A short laugh slipped from her lips as she hearted a few edits and slowed to a stop at her room.
She smirked, letting the screen dim as she reached her door — only to come to a full stop.
Because standing right in front of it, bouquet of flowers in hand and nervous energy practically radiating off of him, was Colby Lopez.
“Uh…” she blinked, confused. “I must’ve concussed myself. You are not supposed to be here.”
His head tilted slightly as that crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Nice to see you too, trouble.”
She gawked. “What the hell are you doing in Canada, Colby?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, nodding at her duffel. “Weren’t you supposed to be passed out with a protein bar and your title by now so you could sleep before your flight?”
“Don’t change the subject,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re supposed to be in Davenport. Or literally anywhere else.”
He shifted his weight. “Yeah, well… plans changed.”
“You flew all the way here tonight?”
Colby shrugged. “Caught a late flight. Got here like thirty minutes ago.”
She stared. “Why?”
He hesitated. And for a moment, she saw it — the flash of something in his eyes he hadn’t quite untangled yet.
He opened his mouth, then closed it, then let out a breath. “I… wanted to be here. For your first title defense of the new year.”
She folded her arms, heart thudding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with exhaustion. “You could’ve texted me. Or called. Or literally waited until morning. You showed up at my hotel.”
“I know.”
“You’re holding flowers.”
“I know.”
Her voice dropped, wary but curious. “Why?”
Colby looked at her — really looked at her — like he was still working through it in real time.
“I watched that segment,” he said finally, voice low. “With Knight.”
Her brow arched. “And?”
“And I don’t know,” he said quickly, biting down on the words. “I just… it got under my skin. The way he looks at you. The way he talks to you like he has a right to. I hated it.”
Y/N blinked. “Colby—”
“I’m not proud of it,” he muttered, eyes flicking away. “I’m not trying to be that guy. I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the loose bun even more. “I saw him in your space again and I… I didn’t want him there. I didn’t want anyone there.”
The silence sat between them like a lit fuse.
He finally looked back at her, jaw clenched like the admission physically pained him. “I don’t want to share you.”
Her breath caught. “Colby…”
“I know we’re not—this isn’t—” He gestured vaguely between them, like trying to categorize it would break it. “But I don’t like seeing someone else circle you like that. Not when I’ve been right here this whole time.”
The hallway felt smaller suddenly.
Warmer.
Louder.
She stepped forward slowly, dropping her duffel with a dull thud. Her expression was unreadable. Her heartbeat was not.
“I didn’t know it bothered you,” she said softly.
“I didn’t either,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Not like that.”
There was a beat.
She reached up, fingers brushing against the stem of the flowers still in his hand. “You got jealous.”
“Yeah.”
“You brought flowers.”
“...Shut up.”
She grinned.
And then she grabbed him by the hoodie, pulled him in close, and kissed him like the world could wait.
Colby made a low sound in his throat — surprise, awe, surrender — before dropping the bouquet entirely and dragging her against him like he couldn’t bear a single inch between them.
His hands were warm on her hips, then in her hair, lips parting against hers like this had been waiting in the wings all along — quiet, patient, aching.
Y/N pressed up onto her toes, fingers curling into his hoodie, heart hammering with every movement, every breath. His beard scraped softly against her jaw. His mouth was warm and demanding, but unhurried — like he wanted to memorize how she tasted.
When they finally broke apart, their chests heaved in tandem. His forehead touched hers.
Neither of them moved.
She exhaled, dazed. “That was…”
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It was.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re kind of an idiot.”
He smirked. “I flew to a different country. I think I’ve earned that.”
“I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
He raised a brow. “Sure didn’t look like that.”
She laughed, the sound low and breathless. “Well. You were holding flowers. That’s basically emotional blackmail.”
He grinned, eyes crinkling. “So… what now?”
She paused, still tucked against his chest. Her fingers twisted into his hoodie like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But you’re not the only one who didn’t want to share.”
And for Colby?
That was enough for now.
They stood there for another beat, wrapped up in each other, lips still tingling, heartbeats gradually slowing. His hands hadn’t left her waist. Hers hadn’t let go of his hoodie. For a moment, they weren’t champions, performers, coworkers, or complications.
They were just two people in a hallway at a random hotel., admitting something without saying everything.
And neither of them noticed the quiet click of a phone camera from the far end of the hall — a fan or maybe a hotel staffer caught mid-cleaning shift, frozen with wide eyes and a trembling grip on their phone, staring down at the blurry-but-undeniable photo they’d just snapped.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They just scurried back around the corner in silence, already opening Twitter.
Because this?
This was about to break the internet.
And Y/N and Colby were too wrapped up in each other to have any idea.
VisionaryVixen_
Liked by Squaredcirclesource, Hottagdaily, Kayfabeconfessions, and 100,235 others
VisionaryVixen_: I was just trying to find the vending machine and walked into THIS. Y/S/N. Seth Rollins. A hallway. A kiss. Flowers. I don’t know whether to faint or scream but I took the photo anyway. You’re welcome. 🥀👀
#WWE #Rollins #YSNSZN #WHATDIDWEJUSTSEE
View all 18,978 comments
wrestlingwithdrama: THE BAG. SHE DROPPED HER BAG FOR HIM. 😭 this isn’t a soft launch, this is a war declaration
bloodlinebaddie: First the stomp tribute and now this??? oh yeah, she’s his.
heelheat4ever: He flew in JUST to see her after defending the title?? He wasn’t even supposed to be in Canada!! That’s real main event energy 😭🔥
Punkscollarbone: Punk flipping off his phone somewhere in Chicago rn
Knighttimethirst: LA Knight seeing this after flirting all night: 😐
burnitdowndaily: Not Colby looking like a teenage boy in love after YEARS of teasing. I feel ill
yn&flairfan: She wins a brutal match, shuts down Bayley, drops a STOMP, and makes out with Seth in the hallway??? Queen behavior
tagteamtease: If this is what happens after a title defense… what’s gonna happen at Mania???
lipsandlineage: I haven’t breathed since this hit my feed. This is my Roman Empire.
DAKOTA KAI WWE RAW, February 24th, 2025
