#wwe nxt

[samijey]

bonus Booker T live reaction:

[princedevitt]

[moxleyrollins]

The women have always run NXT. This is where the Women's Revolution started. Right here at Full Sail University. Women like... The Four Horsewomen. Paige. Asuka. Carmella. Alexa Bliss. [Alexa adds, Charlotte Flair.] We have so many names. We have Iyo. Rhea. Ember. Shayna. I could go on forever.

NXT HOMECOMING | 09.16.25

[whosgameisit]

[hereticalbunny]

ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒*أ ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑

Rhea Ripley x fem!influencer!reader

Warnings: MDNI!!! Rough sex, manhandling, choking, possessive/jealous behavior, marking, biting, light degradation, mean dirty talk, orgasm control, semi-public sex

Taglist 🏷️: @talklessclaymore, @onlyangel4, @twist3dtinkerbell (comment to join)

Oh I’m jealous, baby yeah, I’m jealous

ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒*أ ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑₊⭒* ִׄ˚•𖥔࣪˖⭑

The afternoon light slanted through the wide windows of the corner bistro, turning the polished wood of the table into something warmer, softer at the edges. You were curled into Rhea’s side in the deep booth, your smaller frame tucked against the solid line of her body like it had found its exact place months ago and never wanted to leave. Her arm rested across your shoulders, heavy and steady, the sleeve of her black hoodie pushed up just enough to show the dark lines of ink along her forearm. Every so often her fingers flexed, a slow, absent drag of callused skin against the back of your neck that sent a quiet shiver down your spine.

She had given you the necklace that morning in the hotel room, a thin gold chain with a small, faceted pendant that caught the light every time you moved. Her hands had been careful, almost reverent, as she’d fastened the clasp at your nape, her breath brushing the shell of your ear while she told you how good it looked against your skin. You’d turned in her arms afterward, pressing your face into the curve of her throat, and she’d laughed that low, private sound she only made when the two of you were alone.

Now the necklace rested warm against your collarbone, hidden beneath the layered collar of your cropped jacket. The jacket itself was one of her older pieces of merch, softened from wear, the graphic faded just enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with low-waisted jeans and the kind of delicate makeup that photographed well for the stories you’d already posted earlier, subtle shimmer at the inner corners of your eyes, lips tinted the exact shade that made her stare a second longer than necessary.

Rhea’s plate sat half-finished in front of her, grilled chicken and greens pushed around with her fork while she listened to you talk about the brand meeting you’d taken on your phone that morning. Her dark eyes stayed on your face, the corner of her mouth lifting every time your hands moved in those quick, expressive arcs you couldn’t quite turn off. She didn’t interrupt. She never did when you got like this, bright, a little spoiled, entirely hers.

Eventually the conversation drifted, the way it always did on days like this.

“I need it tonight,” she said, voice low enough that it stayed between the two of you. Her thumb kept tracing that same slow line at your nape. “She’s had the title long enough. After everything she pulled, the way she used Dom to twist the knife… I want it back. I’m done letting her rewrite the story.”

You felt the shift before you could stop it. Your fingers, which had been resting lightly on her thigh under the table, tightened just a fraction against the denim. Your lower lip pushed out, not dramatic, just enough that you had to turn your face into the soft cotton of her hoodie to hide it. The mention of Dom still landed like a small, unnecessary sting, even though you knew exactly where Rhea stood. You were here. You had been here through the travel and the long nights and the quiet mornings after. Still, the words pulled something petty and tender to the surface.

Rhea noticed instantly. She always noticed. Her arm tightened around you, drawing you closer until your cheek pressed properly against her shoulder. The hand at your neck slid up, fingers threading gently into your hair.

“There it is,” she murmured, the teasing edge soft rather than sharp. “That little pout. I can feel it.”

You huffed, the sound muffled against her. “It’s nothing. Just… you’re talking about her and him and all that history like I’m not literally sitting right here attached to you.”

A quiet laugh moved through her chest. She shifted enough to press her lips to the top of your head, lingering there. The kiss was unhurried, the kind that said she had all the time in the world for this exact version of you.

“You know it’s not like that,” she said against your hair. “Liv’s the obstacle. Dom was… a mistake she tried to turn into leverage. You’re the one who shows up to every show in my gear. You’re the one who lets me post the candids even when you complain about how you look. You’re the one I come back to when the cameras are off.” Her fingers tightened in your hair, gentle but sure. “This win is for me. And for you. Because I want you to see me take it back.”

You stayed tucked against her for a moment longer, letting the words settle. The jealousy ebbed, replaced by that familiar warmth that always followed when she reminded you, without making a production of it, exactly where you stood. When you finally lifted your head, your expression had softened into something closer to fond exasperation.

“Still rude to bring up your ex-situationship when your girlfriend is wearing your merch and everything,” you muttered, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a small, reluctant smile.

Rhea’s grin widened, the one that crinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes. She reached for her phone on the table, angling it toward you with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

“Hold still a second.”

“Mami, don’t—” The shutter clicked before you could finish the protest. The photo caught you exactly as you were: curled into her side, one hand still resting on her thigh, the necklace just visible where your jacket had shifted, your face half-turned into her with that half-pout, half-smile still lingering. She didn’t show your full face, didn’t post anything that crossed the line you’d both quietly agreed on. Just the intimate, ordinary shape of you against her.

She typed for a moment, then set the phone down. You groaned, burying your face in her shoulder again.

“You can’t post that. I look so bad right now. My hair’s all flat from leaning on you and I’m pouting like an actual child.”

Her laugh came again, richer this time, the sound vibrating through both of you. She set the phone aside properly and used her free hand to tilt your chin up, thumb brushing along your jaw until you met her eyes. The look there was steady, warm, utterly certain.

“You look like mine,” she said simply. “And you look perfect. My spoiled princess who gets all jealous over nothing and still lets me post the evidence.”

You swatted her arm, light and playful, but didn’t pull away when she leaned in and kissed you. It was slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like the faint sweetness of her drink and the quiet promise of later. When she drew back, her forehead rested against yours for a beat.

“Gotta head to the arena soon,” she said eventually, voice low. “Get sorted before the show. But right now…” Her hand found yours on the table, fingers lacing together. “Right now I’m exactly where I want to be.”

You nodded, the last of the pout dissolving into something softer. Outside, the city moved on, cars, footsteps, the distant pulse of traffic, but inside the booth the world had narrowed to the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the quiet certainty that whatever happened under the lights tonight, she would come back to this. To you.

You stayed curled against her side a little longer, talking about nothing important, the video you wanted to film from your seat later, the way she always looked unfairly good in her gear, the small plans you’d already started making for after the show. Her hand never left yours. Her thumb kept tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. And when she finally checked the time on her phone and sighed, you only pressed closer for one last moment before letting her go.

She would win. You knew it in the set of her shoulders, in the quiet fire behind her eyes. And when she did, you would be there in the front row, wearing her name across your chest, the necklace she’d given you hidden beneath the fabric, exactly where it belonged.

Back in the hotel room, the curtains were drawn just enough to soften the late afternoon light into something golden and forgiving. You sat at the narrow vanity, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning in close to the mirror as you traced the final wing of your eyeliner with steady fingers. The cool tip of the pen glided along your lid in one smooth pull, and you tilted your head slightly, checking the symmetry with the same focused little frown you always wore when you wanted everything to photograph exactly right. A soft mist of setting spray cooled your skin afterward, and you waved a hand in front of your face to help it dry, the faint floral scent of it mixing with the warmer, earthier trace of Rhea’s cologne still lingering in the air from when she’d passed behind you earlier.

She was across the room now, gear bag unzipped and spilled open across the bed like it had exploded on purpose. Her broad shoulders flexed under the hoodie as she dug through folded shirts and taped wrists, the muscles in her back shifting visibly when she bent deeper into the main compartment. You watched her reflection in the mirror more than your own, a small, private smile tugging at your freshly glossed mouth.

“I’m so excited for tonight,” you said, voice light and a little dreamy as you reached for your blush. “Front row again. I don’t even care if people recognise me sometimes. It’s not about that. It’s just… watching you out there. You get so locked in. Everything else disappears and it’s just you moving like you own the whole ring. It’s the best feeling.”

Rhea made a low sound of acknowledgment, the kind that rumbled in her chest without needing words. She straightened up, one hand braced on the bed, and glanced over at you. Her dark hair had fallen forward a little; she pushed it back with her forearm.

“You always say that,” she replied, but the corner of her mouth lifted. There was fondness there, the quiet kind that made your stomach flip even after all this time.

You swiveled on the stool to face her properly, still holding the blush compact. “Because it’s true. And also because you look stupidly hot when you’re folding people in half and throwing them around like they’re nothing. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

That earned you a short laugh, rough around the edges. She shook her head and went back to the bag, but you caught the way her ears went a little pink at the tips. You loved that, how even now, after everything, you could still pull that reaction out of her with nothing but honesty.

You turned back to the mirror for a second, dabbing color onto your cheeks with the pad of your finger, but your eyes kept drifting to her in the reflection. “I hate the part where you have to go get ready without me, though. That little gap where I’m just… waiting. It feels too long every single time. But then you come out and it’s worth it. Always.”

Rhea didn’t answer right away. She was crouched now, rifling through a side pocket, the fabric of her jeans pulling tight across her thighs. You bit your lower lip without thinking, then caught yourself and looked away before she could notice in the mirror.

A beat later you remembered the real mission.

“Mami,” you called, drawing the word out just enough to sound spoiled in the way you both knew she secretly liked. “You promised me those gear shorts. The black ones with the little logo on the hip? I want to wear them tonight with that cropped top I brought. They’ll look so cute over the fishnets I packed.”

She paused, one hand still inside the bag. “You’re really gonna make me dig for them right now?”

“You said I could wear them,” you reminded her, turning on the stool again so you could watch her properly. Your foot swung lightly in the air. “And I’m doing my makeup like a good girl. The least you can do is find the shorts you promised your girlfriend.”

Rhea exhaled through her nose, but there was no real irritation in it, just that familiar mix of exasperation and indulgence she only ever aimed at you. She shifted the bag, unzipped another compartment, and started pulling things out one by one; a spare pair of boots, a rolled-up towel, her entrance jacket. Each item landed on the bed with a soft thump.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” she muttered, but you could hear the smile in it.

You giggled, the sound bright and unselfconscious, and went back to your makeup. The mascara wand felt light between your fingers as you swept it upward in careful strokes. “I’m not even doing anything bad yet. Just reminding you. Tonight though?” You caught her eye in the mirror and pulled the exact face you planned to use from the crowd later, eyes half-lidded, mouth in a dramatic little pout, one eyebrow raised like you were deeply unimpressed. Then you broke into another laugh. “I’m gonna do that from the front row. Maybe even pretend to boo a little. Just enough to make myself giggle. You’ll see it and you won’t be able to do a single thing about it because you’ll be busy being all intimidating and sexy.”

Rhea finally straightened up, the black gear shorts dangling from two fingers. She held them up like evidence, one brow arched. “These the ones?”

Your whole face lit up. You abandoned the mascara and reached for them, but she held them just out of reach for a second, teasing. “Mami, give. You promised.”

She stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep looking at her face. The shorts were handed over, and you immediately pressed them to your chest like a prize, already picturing how they’d sit low on your hips with the cropped top and the way the logo would peek out just right for photos.

“You’re gonna wear those and then sit there pulling faces at me the whole match?” she asked, voice low and amused. Her free hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering at your jaw. “You know I’ll remember every single one.”

“That’s the fun part,” you said, softer now, leaning into her touch. “You can’t do anything while you’re working. I get to be a little menace and you just have to take it until later.” Your fingers curled around her wrist, squeezing once. “I’d never go too far. Just enough to make myself laugh. You know that.”

Rhea’s expression shifted into something warmer, heavier. She leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another at the corner of your mouth, careful not to smudge the gloss you’d just finished. “I know exactly what you’re like,” she murmured against your skin. “And I know you’re gonna look good as hell in those shorts. Front row, my gear on you, making trouble from ten feet away. Can’t decide if I’m annoyed or turned on.”

You grinned up at her, triumphant and a little breathless. “Both. Definitely both.”

She shook her head again, but her hand stayed at your jaw, thumb stroking once more before she finally let go. 

Rhea turned back to the bag to finish packing, but not before glancing over her shoulder one last time. “Hurry up with that makeup, princess. I still gotta get my own gear sorted before I head out.”

You spun back to the mirror, already reaching for your highlighter, but your smile stayed wide and warm. The shorts rested across your thighs like a secret, and every brush of product across your skin felt like part of the ritual, the one that always ended with you in the front row, heart racing, exactly where you wanted to be.

You finished the last swipe of gloss and set the tube down with a soft click, then stood and stepped out of your jeans in one fluid motion. The gear shorts came on next, black, snug, riding high on your thighs with the small logo sitting exactly where it was meant to. You gave the waistband a little tug, twisted once in the mirror to watch the way they hugged, and felt a spark of satisfaction low in your belly. They were shorter than anything you’d normally wear in public, but that was the entire point tonight.

Rhea was still at the bed, gear bag half-zipped, muttering about missing tape when you crossed the room. You didn’t walk so much as flow, quiet steps, then a sudden, catlike climb up her back the second she straightened. Arms looped over her shoulders, chest pressed flush to the solid warmth of her, one leg hooking around her hip so you could nuzzle into the side of her neck. Your laugh came out low and pleased when she stumbled half a step under the surprise weight of you.

“Mami,” you breathed against her skin, voice sweet and a little wicked, “you have to look. They fit so good. Don’t you think they look good on me?”

She made a sound that was half groan, half reluctant laugh, one hand automatically sliding under your thigh to keep you steady while the other tried to finish zipping the bag. “Fifteen minutes, princess. I don’t have time for you to be a menace right now.”

But she wasn’t pushing you off. Her fingers flexed against the bare skin of your thigh, and when you shifted higher, both legs now bracketing her waist, arms draped lazily around her neck like you planned to stay there, she only adjusted her grip and kept moving around the room with you attached. You took full advantage. Lips brushed the line of her jaw, then lower, light and teasing. Your nails traced idle patterns along the back of her neck, dipping just under the collar of her hoodie to find warm skin. Every time she tried to reach for something in the bag you moved with her, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate little sway that made the shorts ride up another fraction.

“You’re gonna make me late,” she warned, but her voice had gone rougher, the pretend irritation undercut by the way her free hand kept wandering, up your spine, down again, squeezing your hip through the thin fabric like she couldn’t quite help it.

You giggled against her throat, the sound vibrating between you. “That’s the fun part. You can’t do anything about it yet.” Your eyes flicked once to the small bag you’d tucked into the outer pocket of her gear bag earlier that morning, the one she wouldn’t find until she was already at the arena, boots laced, focus narrowing. The thought sent a fresh little thrill through you. You pressed closer, mouth finding the spot just below her ear. “I’m gonna sit in the front row in these exact shorts and think about how you looked at me when I put them on. Every time you throw someone around I’m gonna remember how strong you feel right now.”

Rhea stopped pretending to pack. The bag sat forgotten on the bed while both her hands came up to hold you properly, palms broad and warm against the backs of your thighs. She carried you the few steps to the wall and leaned you there, not hard, just enough to pin you in place while she looked at you. Her gaze dragged down the length of you, lingering on the way the shorts sat, on the strip of skin between them and the cropped top you’d thrown on. When her eyes came back up they were darker, amused, and unmistakably fond.

“You’re a spoiled little tease,” she said, but the words came out like praise. One hand left your thigh and slid upward, slow, deliberate, along your side, over your shoulder, until her palm curved around the back of your neck. Her fingers pressed in just enough to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet her eyes. “Behave.”

You pouted, but it was all for show. Your legs tightened around her waist, pulling her that last inch closer. “Make me.”

She huffed a quiet laugh and kissed you instead, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that said she was memorizing the taste of your gloss and the way you melted against her even while you were being difficult. When she finally pulled back her thumb brushed your lower lip, wiping away a smudge she’d caused. “Later,” she promised, low and certain. “When I’m not about to walk out the door.”

The next few minutes passed in the same delicious, stolen way. You stayed wrapped around her while she made one last check of the bag, your mouth at her neck, your hands slipping under her hoodie to trace the lines of muscle along her ribs. Every time she sighed your name like a warning you only laughed softly and pressed another kiss to her pulse. She let you. She always let you, even when time was short, indulging the spoiled, playful version of you that came out strongest right before she had to leave.

When the fifteen minutes were gone she finally set you down, though her hands lingered at your waist like she was reluctant to let go. You stayed close, swaying into her space, still half-draped against her side while she shouldered the gear bag. At the door she paused, one hand on the handle, and looked back at you with that mix of exasperation and open want that always made your stomach flip.

“Be good until I see you out there,” she said.

Then her free hand came down in a quick, playful slap against your ass, sharp enough through the thin shorts to make you yelp and laugh at the same time. The sting bloomed warm and bright, and she was already stepping into the hallway, but she glanced back once more, eyes dropping to the way the shorts hugged you before flicking up to your face.

“Whatever you hid in my bag,” she added, voice low with promise, “we’re talking about it later.”

The door clicked shut behind her. You leaned against it for a long moment, biting your lip against the grin, the warmth of her handprint still tingling on your skin. The room felt bigger without her in it, quieter, but the anticipation hummed steady in your chest, the front row waiting, the shorts still on, and the small bag she would find exactly when you wanted her to. You pushed off the door, already reaching for the rest of your outfit, a little breathless and entirely pleased with yourself.

You stayed leaning against the door for a beat after it closed, the faint warmth from her handprint still blooming across your skin through the thin fabric of the shorts. A quiet laugh slipped out of you, soft and satisfied, before you finally pushed off and crossed the room to your own bag. The gear shorts sat high on your thighs exactly the way you’d wanted, and every step made the hem brush against your skin in a way that kept the memory of her hands fresh.

The panties you’d slipped into the outer pocket of her gear bag earlier had been nothing more than a distraction, a little something for her to find while she was lacing up at the arena and think was the real surprise. The actual game was still here, tucked safely in your things where she would never have thought to look.

You knelt, unzipped the side compartment you’d kept separate, and pulled out the folded black t-shirt first. It was one of Liv’s older merch pieces, but you’d taken scissors to it the night before, cropped shorter so it would hit just above the waistband of the shorts, the sleeves cut and distressed into ragged edges, the collar stretched and worn so it would slip off one shoulder if you moved the right way. A few careful rips along the hem gave it that lived-in, intentional look that would photograph well under the arena lights. You shook it out, holding it up against yourself in the mirror, and felt the same little spark of mischief that had started at lunch when Rhea had brought up Liv and Dom and made that small, unnecessary twist settle in your chest.

The sign came next, small, rectangular, the kind that could be tucked into your bag and pulled out at the perfect moment. You’d printed the picture yourself: Liv’s face centered inside a pink heart, the text beneath it in clean, bold letters that read “hot girls love mommy morgan.” It was ridiculous. It was perfect. You folded it again and slid it back into the bag for now, already imagining how it would look held up from the front row when the cameras inevitably swung your way.

You were up on every trend. The WAG bit had been everywhere lately, girlfriends showing up to games in another player’s jersey just to catch the reaction on camera, the way their partners’ faces shifted from confusion to that split-second flare of possessiveness before they remembered they were being filmed. It was harmless content gold. And after Rhea had spent part of lunch talking about taking the title off Liv, about everything that had gone down with Dom, the idea had slotted into place like it was meant to be. You weren’t the jealous one in this relationship. She was. The one whose jaw would tighten at the thought of anyone else’s name anywhere near what was hers. You were usually the easy one, the one who curled into her side and let her post the candids and wore her gear without a second thought.

But tonight felt like the right night for a little payback dressed up as a trend.

You pulled the cropped Liv shirt over your head, letting it settle against your skin. It was soft from wear and the alterations you’d made, the fabric brushing the waistband of Rhea’s shorts in a way that made the whole outfit feel deliberate. The cropped jacket you’d planned to wear over it stayed on the bed for now, you’d keep it on until you were settled in your seat, then slip it off at the exact right second. The sign would stay hidden until the moment felt perfect. You already knew how you’d film it; phone angled low, your own face mostly out of frame, just enough to catch her expression when she finally noticed from the ring. Nothing that would show her full face if she didn’t want it. Just the reaction. Just the content.

You turned in the mirror, checking the lines of the outfit from every angle. The shorts still sat exactly where they belonged, Rhea’s logo visible at your hip. The Liv shirt peeked out beneath the open jacket you shrugged on for the walk to the car. You looked like trouble and you knew it. The kind of trouble that would make Rhea’s eyes narrow the second she clocked it from the apron, the kind she would absolutely bring up later in that low voice she used when she was pretending to be annoyed but was already planning exactly how she was going to handle you once the lights went down.

You smiled at your reflection, small and private, then reached for your phone to check the time. The car would be downstairs soon. You still had to do one last touch-up on your makeup and make sure the sign was folded small enough to fit in your bag without wrinkling. The thrill of it sat warm in your chest, not real jealousy, just the delicious knowledge that you were about to hand Rhea the exact thing that would light her up, all while sitting front row in her gear shorts like the picture of innocence.

She had no idea. And that was half the fun.

You zipped your bag closed, slung it over your shoulder, and gave the room one last glance before heading for the door. The shorts hugged you with every step. The hidden sign and the cut-up shirt sat like a secret against your skin. And somewhere across the city, Rhea was already at the arena, probably finding the panties right about now and thinking that was the end of your little game.

She was going to lose it when she saw the rest.

You couldn’t wait.

You arrived with time to spare, the private car Rhea had arranged sliding up to the talent entrance like it always did. Security waved you through with the same easy nod they’d given you for months now, no questions, just a quiet “she’s got you set up front again.” The hallways smelled of cold concrete and the faint metallic bite of pyro residue from the earlier dark match. You moved through them without hurry, bag slung over one shoulder, the cropped jacket still zipped over the Liv shirt so the surprise stayed exactly where you wanted it for now.

Your seat was waiting exactly where she always made sure it was: front row, slightly off to the side of the commentary table, prime real estate that gave you an unbroken view of the entire ring while keeping you just far enough from the hard cam that you could shift and lean without becoming the main spectacle. Close enough that when Rhea came out you’d see every line of her face, every shift in her shoulders. She never wanted anything less than the best for you, even when she was the one walking into a title match.

You settled in as the undercard rolled on, the crowd noise swelling and dipping around you like a living thing. The barricade in front of your section was already warm from other hands, the padded top slightly sticky under your forearms when you leaned forward during a particularly loud near-fall. You watched with genuine interest at first, the crisp tags, the way the wrestlers moved in the bright lights, the little details you’d started noticing after so many of these nights. Your phone stayed mostly in your bag; you weren’t here to film everything tonight. Just the one moment you had planned.

Between matches you finally shrugged out of the cropped jacket, letting it drape over the back of your seat. The air-conditioned chill kissed your arms and the exposed strip of stomach above the waistband of Rhea’s gear shorts. The Liv shirt settled against your skin exactly as you’d altered it to, cropped high, one shoulder already slipping a little from the stretched collar, the distressed edges soft against your ribs. You didn’t announce it. You just leaned forward again, elbows on the barricade, chin resting on your folded hands for a moment while you watched the next match start. The logo on Rhea’s shorts sat visible at your hip. The Liv shirt did its own thing above it. The contrast was deliberate and quiet for now.

You stayed like that through the next two bouts, body relaxed but alert, one knee bouncing lightly against the barricade in time with the crowd’s bigger reactions. Every so often your fingers drifted up to touch the delicate pendant at your throat, the one she’d given you that morning, rolling it between your fingertips while your eyes stayed on the ring. The excitement for her match sat warm and steady in your chest, the same feeling you always got when you were this close. You loved seeing her in her element, loved the way the whole arena seemed to narrow down to her once she stepped through the curtain. But underneath it ran that smaller, brighter thread of mischief. The shirt. The folded sign still tucked safe in your bag. The knowledge that she had no idea what you were wearing under the jacket she’d watched you put on back at the hotel.

You shifted again, leaning more fully on the barricade now, arms crossed on top of it, weight on your forearms. The position let you watch the ring without straining, and it also gave you the perfect angle to glance sideways at the hard cam when it swung past. Your mouth curved into a small, private smile that no one around you would have understood. You weren’t the jealous one. She was. But after lunch, after she’d talked about Liv and Dom and made that tiny, unnecessary sting settle behind your ribs, this felt like the right kind of trouble. Harmless. Trendy. Content. And entirely yours to spring when the moment was perfect.

For now you just waited, body loose against the barricade, the arena lights shifting colors above you, the crowd noise rolling like waves. The gear shorts hugged your thighs every time you adjusted your stance. The cut-up Liv shirt moved with your breathing. And somewhere backstage Rhea was already in her gear, probably still thinking the panties were the only surprise waiting for her tonight.

You bit your lower lip against another quiet laugh and stayed exactly where you were, front row, perfectly placed, ready to be exactly as much trouble as you’d planned.

The arena lights dropped into that familiar pre-entrance blackout, and the first few notes of Liv’s music hit like a spark to dry kindling. The crowd surged around you in a single, roaring wave. You didn’t even think twice. Your hand slipped into your bag, fingers closing around the folded sign, and you pulled it out in one smooth motion. It wasn’t huge, but it was bright enough under the shifting spotlights, Liv’s face framed in that ridiculous pink heart, the words “hot girls love mommy morgan” bold and unapologetic across the bottom.

You stood up properly, leaning your hips against the barricade, and held the sign high with both hands like you were presenting it to the entire front row. A little dramatic, a little messy, exactly the way you got when you were excited about content. Your cropped jacket was already gone, so the cut-up Liv shirt was on full display above Rhea’s gear shorts, the contrast loud and intentional. You didn’t expect anything from it. Not really. Liv knew who you were, Rhea’s girlfriend, the one who showed up to every show in her merch, the one who never caused problems. She probably wouldn’t even clock you in the sea of signs and screaming fans. That had been the whole point of the bit: a cute little trend reaction from Rhea later, something harmless and funny for your page. You hadn’t factored Liv actually noticing.

She came out in full chaos, all bright smiles and bouncing energy, dancing down the ramp with the kind of confidence that made the arena feel smaller. The crowd ate it up. She high-fived hands on both sides, posed for phones, blew kisses to the hard cam like she had all the time in the world. You kept the sign up for the first few seconds, waving it once or twice with a little grin, then lowered it slightly when she passed your section without so much as a glance. That was fine. Expected, even. You leaned back on the barricade, one elbow hooked over the top, and watched her finish the rest of her entrance with genuine amusement. She climbed the steps, stepped through the ropes, and made her way to the nearest corner like she always did, slow, deliberate, putting on the full show.

That was when it happened.

Liv turned on the middle rope, one arm hooked over the top, hips cocked, free hand running through her hair as she soaked in the reaction. Her eyes swept the crowd in that lazy, practiced arc… and then they landed on you. On the shirt. On the sign still loosely in your hands. You saw the exact second it clicked, the little spark of recognition, the way her head tilted, the slow, delighted smile that spread across her face like she’d just been handed the perfect gift.

She didn’t look away.

Instead she stayed right there on the ropes, twisting her body toward your side of the ring, and pointed straight at you with two fingers. The crowd noise shifted, people around you starting to notice, phones coming up. Liv’s smile turned sharper, playful in that signature way of hers. She brought her mic up and leaned into it without breaking eye contact with you.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, voice bright and teasing over the speakers. “Look at this. Rhea’s girl showing up in my shirt? Holding my sign?” She laughed, low and delighted, and blew you an exaggerated kiss. “Hot girls really do love mommy Morgan, huh? You’re making it very hard for me to focus on the match, sweetheart.”

She stayed there for another beat, posing extra for the cameras while still angled toward you, one hand on her hip, the other still pointing. The crowd ate it up, half cheering, half losing their minds at the direct call-out. Liv winked, slow and obvious, then finally dropped down into the ring proper, but not before blowing one more kiss in your direction and mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “text me” just to be extra.

You felt your face go hot, a surprised little laugh bursting out of you before you could stop it. You hadn’t planned for this part at all. The sign suddenly felt heavier in your hands. Around you, people were already filming, and you knew at least a few of them had caught your expression. You bit your lip, half embarrassed, half thrilled, and tucked the sign against your chest like it might hide the evidence. Your heart was doing something complicated behind your ribs, excitement and oh-god-Rhea-is-about-to-come-out mixing together in a way that made your stomach flip.

Liv was still in the ring, pacing now, but every few seconds her gaze flicked back toward your section with that same mischievous little smirk. She was playing with it. With you. Turning your harmless little trend into ammunition before Rhea even stepped through the curtain.

The second Rhea’s entrance music hit, the entire arena shifted. The bass rattled through the barricade under your forearms, and the crowd exploded into that deep, guttural roar that always made your skin prickle. You stayed exactly where you were, leaning forward on the padded top, the cut-up Liv shirt still on full display, the small sign now resting loosely against your thigh. Your heart was already beating faster, but not from excitement alone. You knew she’d heard at least some of what Liv had said. Gorilla wasn’t that far from the monitors.

She came out like she always did at first, shoulders back, stride long and sure, that cold, focused expression carved into her face. The lights caught the edges of her gear, the ink on her arms, the way her hair moved with every step. She paused at the top of the ramp the way she usually did, letting the moment breathe, letting the crowd feed her. But there was something tighter in the set of her jaw tonight. Something that hadn’t been there at lunch.

She started down the ramp, eyes scanning the crowd out of habit, and then they found you.

Everything about her shifted in one heartbeat.

Her steps didn’t falter, she was too professional for that, but her gaze locked on you like it had been pulled there by force. The Liv shirt. The sign still in your hand. The way you were leaning against the barricade like you hadn’t just lit a match and tossed it straight into her line of sight. Her eyes dragged over you once, slow and deliberate, and you felt it like a physical thing. The possessiveness that usually lived quiet and warm between you two had sharpened into something darker. Her jaw flexed hard enough that you could see the muscle jump even from this distance. One hand curled into a fist at her side before she forced it open again.

She kept moving, climbing the steps, stepping through the ropes, but her eyes kept cutting back to you between every motion. Not raging. Not yet. Just… burning. The kind of look that said she was already rewriting every plan she’d had for after the match.

Liv didn’t miss a single second of it.

She was still in the ring, mic in hand, pacing slow circles like she had all the time in the world. The second Rhea’s boots hit the mat, Liv lifted the mic again, voice bright and poisonous.

“Aw, look at that,” she cooed, loud enough for the entire arena to hear. “Rhea’s girl came dressed for the occasion. First I took Dom… now I’ve got her girlfriend too? Damn, Rhea. You really can’t keep anything, can you?”

The crowd reacted like a live wire, half screaming, half losing their minds at the direct shot. Liv laughed into the mic, turning just enough to glance at you again with that same flirty little smirk she’d given you earlier. She even blew you another kiss for good measure.

Rhea didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

She stood in the center of the ring, shoulders squared, chest rising slow and controlled, but her eyes never left yours. The jealousy was written across every line of her, tight through her shoulders, dark in the way her gaze pinned you in place. It wasn’t the playful kind from the hotel. This was the real thing, the part of her that didn’t like sharing, that hated the reminder of Dom and everything Liv had taken from her. And now you’d handed Liv the perfect weapon to twist the knife before the bell even rang.

Liv kept going, circling closer to Rhea’s side of the ring while still playing to your section. “She looks good in my colors though, doesn’t she? Maybe I should keep her after I keep  that title.”

Rhea’s head turned slowly toward Liv, but only for a second. Then her eyes were back on you. The look she gave you made your stomach flip hard, part promise, part warning, all heat. She looked like she was already imagining exactly how she was going to deal with you once this match was over. Like she was going to make you regret every single second of this little stunt in the most thorough way possible.

You stayed leaned against the barricade, sign still in your hand, heart hammering against your ribs. The arena noise was deafening, but all you could focus on was the way Rhea was staring at you like she was counting down the minutes until she could get her hands on you again.

And God, she looked like she was going to kill you after the match.

In the best and worst way possible.

You could barely focus on the match.

Every time Rhea looked your way, and she looked your way often, the jealousy rolled off her in thick, palpable waves. It wasn’t loud or uncontrolled. It was worse. It was the quiet, simmering kind that lived in the set of her shoulders and the way her eyes found you even when Liv was throwing strikes at her. Each glance landed like a promise. You’re in for it later. A long one. The kind where she would take her time reminding you exactly who you belonged to and why pulling this kind of stunt had been a spectacularly bad idea.

You shifted in your seat, forearms braced on the barricade, trying to watch the action in the ring, but your attention kept fracturing. The crowd was electric, screaming every time Rhea landed something heavy, but you kept catching the way her gaze flicked toward your section between moves. Not full rage. Just that dark, possessive heat that said she was cataloguing every detail, the Liv shirt still on your body, the empty space where the sign had been, the way you were leaning forward like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to hide or lean into the trouble you’d started.

The anger fueled her.

She moved like she had something to prove, and Liv felt every bit of it. Rhea was relentless, powerful, precise, folding Liv up in ways that made the crowd lose their minds. Every suplex, every strike, every time she dragged Liv back to the center of the ring instead of letting her crawl away, carried an extra edge. You saw it in the way her jaw stayed tight, in the controlled brutality of her offense. She wasn’t just winning. She was making a statement, and part of that statement was aimed squarely at you.

When she finally hit the move that ended it, lifting Liv clean and driving her down with that signature force, the arena detonated. The referee’s hand slapped the mat three times and it was over. Rhea rose to her feet, chest heaving, and the official handed her the Women’s World Championship. She took it with both hands, holding it high as the crowd roared her name.

And then she looked at you again.

The expression on her face was pure cocky satisfaction. Smug. The corner of her mouth curved in a way that made your stomach twist. She didn’t smile wide or play to the crowd the way she sometimes did after big wins. She just stood there with the title over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours across the distance, and the message was crystal clear: You did this. And now you’re going to deal with the consequences.

You didn’t stay in your seat long after that.

The second the match wrapped and the celebration started, you were moving, grabbing your jacket, shoving your phone into your bag, and slipping out of the section toward the nearest backstage access. Security knew you on sight and let you through without question. Your pulse was hammering. Part of you had convinced yourself that if you could get backstage before she made it to gorilla, maybe you could catch her while the win was still fresh, while the adrenaline was high and the edge of her jealousy hadn’t fully settled yet. Maybe she’d be a little softer. A little less irritated.

It was an incredibly stupid assumption.

You moved fast through the concrete hallways, the distant roar of the crowd still echoing behind you. Somewhere in the rush, maybe when you’d twisted to check over your shoulder or when you’d adjusted the strap of your bag, you lost the sign. It was gone. You didn’t even notice until you were already deep in the backstage area, breathing hard, heart still racing from the match and from the look she’d given you.

You stopped for half a second, glancing back down the hallway like the stupid little sign might magically reappear. It didn’t. And the realization hit you square in the chest as you kept walking toward the area where she’d be coming through after the match.

That plan had been ridiculous from the start.

Rhea wasn’t going to be softened by you beating her there. She wasn’t going to be distracted by the win or the title now resting on her shoulder. She was going to be exactly as pissed off as she’d looked in the ring, maybe more now that she had the time and space to really sit with what you’d done. The Liv shirt. The sign. Liv using it to poke at the rawest part of her history with Dom.

You kept moving anyway, because there was nowhere else to go. Your footsteps echoed on the concrete. Every few seconds you caught your own reflection in a dark window or a polished surface, the cropped shirt, the gear shorts, the faint flush still on your cheeks from the arena lights and the adrenaline.

She found you halfway down the hallway leading toward the women’s locker room.

You heard her before you saw her, the heavy, purposeful stride of someone who had just won a title and was still vibrating with leftover adrenaline and something much sharper. When you turned, she was already closing the distance, the Women’s World Championship slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Her eyes locked on you immediately, dark and unreadable except for the clear undercurrent of I want to kill you right now.

“Baby.”

The word came out low, almost calm, but the way she said it made your stomach clench. There was no warmth in it. Just that dangerous, possessive edge that always appeared when she was this worked up.

Before you could get a word out, her hand wrapped around your upper arm, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that there was no mistaking it for anything gentle. She started walking, pulling you along with her in that no-nonsense way that made your feet scramble to keep up.

“What the fuck was that?” she muttered under her breath as she steered you down the corridor, past a couple of crew members who wisely stepped aside. “In what world are you ever Liv’s girl? Wearing her shirt, holding that stupid fucking sign, letting her flirt with you on camera like that’s cute?”

You tried to slow down, dragging your feet just enough to make her feel it. “Mami—”

“Don’t ‘Mami’ me right now.” She kept moving, her grip shifting slightly so she could keep you close to her side while she vented. “You thought that was funny? After everything I said at lunch? After she brought up Dom and tried to use it against me again? You hand her the perfect fucking ammo and then stand there in the front row like you didn’t just hand her a loaded gun?”

Your breath came a little quicker, half from trying to match her pace and half from the way her voice dropped on every other word. You could feel the jealousy still radiating off her in waves, the same thing that had been burning through her during the entire match. It made your skin feel too warm under the cropped Liv shirt.

“Mami, it was just content,” you whined, voice breathy and a little bratty as you let your weight pull back against her hold. Your feet dragged across the concrete. “It was a trend. I didn’t think she’d actually—”

“Stop putting up a fight.”

The words landed like a command, low and stern and final. Something about the tone, the absolute authority in it, shot straight through you and settled low in your tummy, warm and fluttering and impossible to ignore. You felt your steps falter for a second, a soft, involuntary sound catching in your throat.

Rhea didn’t slow down. She just kept walking, pulling you the last stretch toward the locker room door with that same controlled intensity. The title belt bumped against her hip with every stride. Her fingers stayed wrapped around your arm, possessive and unyielding.

She didn’t even wait for the locker room door to fully close behind you.

The second you were inside, she turned, used the momentum of her grip on your arm to spin you, and slammed you back against the nearest row of lockers. The metal rattled hard under the impact, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet space. Your back hit the cool surface and she was already there, crowding into your space, one hand still banded around your arm while the other came up to grip your jaw.

Her eyes were dark, still riding the high of the win and the jealousy that had been burning through her since she spotted you in that shirt.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice low and rough as her hands started moving, grabbing your hips, yanking you forward so your body collided with hers, then pushing you back against the lockers again like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted you pinned or pressed flush to her. “I can just teach you where you belong. Remind you. Since you clearly couldn’t behave like a good girl tonight.”

Her palms dragged down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of her own gear shorts still sitting high on your thighs. She tugged, possessive and impatient, one hand sliding up under the hem of the cropped Liv shirt to grip your waist hard enough to leave the promise of marks.

“You had to push it,” she muttered, mouth close to your ear now, breath hot. “Couldn’t just sit there and watch your girl win like you were supposed to. Had to make it about her. I don’t mind teaching you, baby. I’ll make sure you remember exactly who the fuck you belong to.”

You squirmed against the lockers, breath coming quicker, the metal cold against your back while her body was all heat in front of you. “Mami—someone could walk in, this is the locker room—”

The little slap landed sharp on the side of your thigh, just enough sting to cut the protest off clean. Your breath hitched hard.

Before you could get another word out, she kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was devouring, hungry and rough and animalistic, like she was trying to consume every sound you might make. Her mouth claimed yours with teeth and tongue, one hand fisting in the fabric of the Liv shirt at your chest while the other slid down to grip your ass through the shorts, hauling you harder against her. She kissed like she was still pissed, like she needed to remind you with every press of her body and every bite at your lower lip that you were hers and hers alone. The title belt she’d been carrying clattered to the floor somewhere beside you, forgotten.

She didn’t pull back. If anything she pressed in closer, one thigh sliding between yours, hands roaming like she was mapping every inch she planned to reclaim. The kiss turned messier, deeper, her low growl vibrating against your mouth as she took exactly what she wanted.

You were pinned between the cold lockers and the burning heat of her, and she wasn’t letting up anytime soon.

She didn’t give you room to breathe.

The second her mouth left yours it was only to drag lower, teeth scraping along your jaw, then down the column of your throat in open, hungry bites that made your head tip back against the locker with a soft thud. She sucked hard at the spot just below your ear, pulling the skin between her lips until you knew there’d be a dark mark blooming there by morning. Her hands were everywhere at once: one gripping the back of your neck to hold you exactly where she wanted you, the other sliding under the hem of the cropped Liv shirt to palm your waist, fingers digging in like she could erase every trace of anyone else’s name from your skin.

“You’re mine,” she growled against your throat, voice rough and thick with leftover adrenaline and jealousy. She bit down again, harder this time, right over your pulse point, then soothed it with her tongue before moving to the other side. “Not hers. Not anyone’s. Mine. You don’t get to stand in the front row wearing her shit and holding her stupid little sign like that’s cute. Like you’re hers to flirt with.”

You tried to speak, breath catching as her mouth worked another mark into the tender skin above your collarbone. “Mami— it was just a trend, I didn’t think she’d—”

Her hand came up fast, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your head back farther. She kissed you again before you could finish, deep and consuming, tongue sliding against yours like she was trying to steal the words right out of your mouth. When she finally pulled back just enough to speak, her lips were still brushing yours, hot and swollen.

“Doesn’t matter what you thought,” she muttered, voice low and dangerous. She nipped at your bottom lip, then dragged her mouth down to suck another bruise into the side of your neck, right where it would be impossible to hide. “You pushed. Couldn’t just sit there and be good for me after everything I said at lunch. Had to make it about her. About Dom. Like I needed that reminder tonight.”

Her hands moved again, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, then sliding down to squeeze your ass through the shorts before hauling you forward so your body arched into hers. She pressed you back into the lockers with her full weight, one thigh wedged between yours, and went back to marking you. Open-mouthed kisses turned into bites that made your breath hitch every time. She worked her way along your throat, across your collarbones, even tugging the neckline of the shirt lower so she could leave a dark hickey just above the swell of your chest.

You tried again, voice coming out whiney and breathless as her teeth grazed a fresh spot. “Mami, someone’s gonna see all these—”

She shut you up with another kiss, this one slower but no less intense, like she was savoring the way you melted against her even while you were protesting. Her hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric before she gripped the shirt and pulled it higher, exposing more skin for her mouth to claim. Another mark bloomed under her lips, hot and stinging in the best way.

“Want them to see,” she said against your skin, voice muffled but clear enough. She sucked another bruise right over your heartbeat, then lifted her head just enough to look at you. Her eyes were dark, still burning with that possessive fire. “Want everyone to know exactly who you belong to. Especially after you let her call you her girl on camera. Especially after you wore her shirt like it meant something.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, something about it just being content, about not expecting Liv to actually engage, but she was already kissing you before the words could form. This time it was messier, hungrier, her tongue sliding deep as one hand fisted in your hair to keep you still. She kissed like she was starving for it, like every second her mouth wasn’t on you was too long. When she finally broke away it was only to drag her teeth along the shell of your ear.

“You’re not hers,” she repeated, low and fierce. “You’re mine. My girl. My spoiled little princess who knows better than to pull shit like this.” Another bite, this one on the curve of your shoulder where the shirt had slipped down. “And I’m gonna keep reminding you until it sinks in. Until you can’t look in the mirror without seeing who you belong to.”

Her hands kept moving, gripping, pulling, sliding under fabric to touch bare skin—while her mouth returned to yours in another long, devouring kiss that left you dizzy. Every time you managed a soft, breathy “Mami—” or tried to explain, she swallowed the words with her tongue and teeth, pressing you harder into the lockers like she could fuse you there. The jealousy still radiated off her in waves, but it was tangled now with something hotter, more primal. She marked you like she was claiming territory, dark bruises blooming across your neck, your chest, the tops of your breasts where she tugged the shirt down further.

You tried one more time, voice shaky and bratty as her mouth moved back to that sensitive spot below your ear. “You’re being— ah— mean, I didn’t mean for her to—”

She bit down in response, sharp enough to make your back arch, then soothed it with slow, deliberate sucks that you knew would leave the darkest mark yet. Her voice vibrated against your skin when she spoke again.

“Mean?” A low, rough laugh. “Baby, I haven’t even started.” Her hand slid down between your bodies, fingers hooking into the waistband of the shorts again as she kissed you hard enough to steal whatever else you might’ve said. “Gonna take my time with you tonight. Make sure you remember exactly who you are.”

She didn’t let up. Mouth, hands, teeth, voice, all of it working together to drown you in her claim while you could only manage broken little protests between kisses that never quite let you finish a thought. The locker room felt smaller with every passing minute, filled with the sound of her low, possessive words and the wet drag of her mouth against your marked skin.

She shifted her weight, pressing you harder into the lockers with her body as one thigh nudged yours wider apart. The movement was deliberate, purposeful, like something in her had snapped into pure need, the kind that demanded she prove it with more than just marks and words. Her mouth stayed on your neck, sucking another dark bruise into the skin she’d already claimed, while her free hand slid down between your bodies.

You felt the moment her fingers hooked into the waistband of the shorts again, this time pushing past the fabric without hesitation.

“Mami—baby, someone might see,” you whined, voice breathy and cracking as your hands came up to push weakly at her shoulders. The protest was half-hearted at best, your body already arching toward her touch even as you said it.

She didn’t even pause.

Her palm settled heavy and warm around the front of your throat, fingers resting there in a possessive collar that didn’t squeeze but made it very clear she was in control. The other hand slipped fully into the shorts, past the thin barrier of whatever you had underneath, and found you exactly as she’d expected. She let out a low, rough sound against your skin, half growl, half satisfied exhale, as her fingers dragged slowly through the slick heat there.

“Wet,” she muttered, voice dark and thick with satisfaction. She didn’t give you what you wanted. Not yet. Her fingers circled lazily, teasing around where you needed her most, spreading the evidence of how worked up she’d already gotten you with nothing but her mouth and hands and words. “So fucking wet for me already. Needy little thing. You stand there in her shirt, hold her sign, let her flirt with you on camera… and this is what it does to you?”

You tried again, hips twitching forward despite yourself. “Mami, the door—anyone could—”

She cut you off by pressing two fingers flat against you, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter but still refused to push inside. Her hand on your throat tightened just enough to tilt your head back against the metal, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes were black with it now, jealousy and victory and raw possession all tangled together.

“Let them,” she said simply, like the risk didn’t matter at all. Like the thought of someone walking in only made her want to stake her claim harder. “Let them see exactly who you belong to. Let them hear how wet you get when I remind you.”

Her fingers kept moving, slow, teasing strokes that dragged through your folds without giving you the pressure or depth you were already chasing. Every time your hips rolled forward, seeking more, she pulled back just enough to keep you on the edge of it. Another mark bloomed under her mouth on the other side of your throat, her teeth scraping before she sucked hard enough to make you gasp.

“Couldn’t behave like a good girl,” she continued, voice low and rough against your skin. Her fingers dipped lower, circling your entrance without pushing in, spreading the wetness she was so focused on. “Had to push. Had to make it about her. Now look at you. Dripping all over my hand in the fucking locker room because you need me to prove it.”

You managed a broken little sound, somewhere between a whine and her name, your fingers curling into the fabric of her gear top as your legs started to tremble. “Mami, please— you’re being—”

She kissed you again before you could finish, deep and consuming, swallowing whatever bratty protest you were trying to form. At the same time her fingers finally, finally, slid forward, pressing two of them inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust that made your back arch hard against the lockers. She didn’t move them right away. Just held them there, deep and still, while her thumb brushed lightly over your clit in the barest tease.

“So needy,” she murmured against your lips, the hand on your throat stroking once in a way that felt almost tender compared to everything else. “My spoiled princess. Getting fucked in the locker room because you couldn’t keep your little stunt to yourself. You feel that? How easy you open up for me? How wet you are just from me telling you who you belong to?”

She started to move then, slow, controlled thrusts of her fingers that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you without rushing toward anything. Her mouth returned to your neck, adding another mark right over the one she’d just left, while her thumb kept up that light, circling pressure that was just enough to drive you insane but nowhere near enough to finish it.

Every time you tried to speak, another soft, breathy “Mami—” or a half-formed protest about the risk, she either kissed you quiet or curled her fingers just right to steal the words. The hand on your throat stayed steady, anchoring you, while the other worked you open with deliberate, teasing strokes that made your thighs shake and your breath come in short, desperate little gasps.

She wasn’t in any hurry.

She didn’t ease up. If anything, the longer she had you pinned against the lockers, the meaner the edge in her voice got.

Her fingers stayed buried deep inside you, but now they curled on every slow thrust, dragging deliberately against that spot that made your knees threaten to give out. The hand around your throat tightened just enough to make your next breath come shorter, her thumb stroking once over your pulse like she was reminding herself it was hers to control.

“Look at you,” she muttered against the fresh bruise she’d just sucked into the side of your neck. Her tone was low, rough, almost mocking. “Standing there in her shirt like some little traitor, and now you’re dripping down my wrist because I’ve got my fingers in you. You’re pathetic for it, baby. So fucking wet and needy after everything you pulled tonight.”

You tried to answer, voice breaking on a gasp when she added a third finger without warning, stretching you fuller. “Mami—fuck, it’s too— someone’s gonna—”

She cut you off with a sharp bite to your collarbone, then soothed it with her tongue before lifting her head to look at you. Her eyes were dark, still burning with that possessive anger from the match.

“Someone’s gonna what?” she taunted, voice dripping with mean amusement. Her fingers started moving faster now, fucking into you with steady, punishing strokes that made the wet sound of it echo obscenely in the quiet locker room. “Gonna walk in and see Rhea’s girl getting finger-fucked against the lockers like the desperate little thing she is? Good. Let them see. Let them hear how you sound when you’re getting reminded who owns this pussy.”

Her thumb finally pressed harder against your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk forward, chasing it. But she didn’t give you steady friction for long. She eased off again, keeping you right on that edge while her fingers slowed to deep, grinding thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you.

“You thought you were being cute with that little stunt,” she continued, mouth brushing your ear now. “Wearing her colors. Holding that sign. Letting her call you her girl on camera like I wouldn’t notice. Like it wouldn’t piss me off after everything she took from me.” Her fingers twisted on the next thrust, and she laughed low when your walls fluttered around them. “Look how wet that made you. You like it when I get like this, don’t you? When I have to prove it. When I have to fuck the reminder into you so you don’t forget again.”

You whined, high and breathy, fingers clutching at her shoulders as you tried to rock down onto her hand. “Mami, please— I’m sorry, I just—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it tonight,” she growled, biting down on your earlobe hard enough to sting. Her hand on your throat slid up to grip your jaw instead, forcing you to meet her eyes while she fucked you harder against the lockers. The metal rattled with every thrust of her fingers. “You’re gonna come on my hand like this, in this fucking locker room, because that’s what you get for pushing me. And then I’m taking you back to the hotel and doing it again. Slower. Meaner. Until you can’t walk without feeling me.”

She curled her fingers again, pressing right where you needed it, and her thumb finally gave you consistent pressure on your clit. But even then she kept it just shy of what would push you over, teasing, controlling, making you work for every bit of it.

“Say it,” she demanded, voice rough. “Tell me who you belong to while I’ve got you like this. Or I stop.”

Her fingers slowed to a torturous grind, barely moving, and she watched your face with that same cocky, possessive smirk she’d worn after winning the title. The one that said she knew exactly how close you were and wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Say it, baby. Or I’ll keep you right here, dripping and desperate, until someone really does walk in and see what a needy little mess my girl is.”

She slowed her fingers to a torturous grind, barely moving inside you, her thumb lifting off your clit completely. The sudden lack of friction made your hips jerk forward on instinct, chasing what she’d just taken away.

“Say it,” she ordered, voice low and rough against your ear. Her hand stayed firm around your jaw, keeping your face tilted up toward hers. “Who the fuck do you belong to?”

You hesitated, breath coming in short, shaky pants. Your walls fluttered around her fingers anyway, body betraying you even as your mind scrambled. A few long seconds passed, her fingers staying cruelly still, her eyes locked on yours, waiting.

Finally, it slipped out, soft and breathless.

“Yours… I belong to you, Mami.”

The second the words left your mouth, her expression shifted into something darker and more satisfied. “Good girl,” she murmured, but there was still that mean edge to it. “Now you’re gonna work for it.”

She didn’t give it to you easy.

Her fingers started moving again, but slower than before, deep, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot without giving you the rhythm you needed. Her thumb returned to your clit, but only in light, teasing circles that had you rocking your hips down desperately, trying to chase more pressure, more speed. Every time you got close to that edge, she eased off again, forcing you to grind down onto her hand like you were the one doing the work.

“That’s it,” she taunted, watching your face with dark amusement. “Work for it. Show me how bad you need to come after that little stunt you pulled. Ride my fingers like the needy thing you are.”

You were shaking now, thighs trembling, one hand fisted in the front of her top while the other gripped her wrist like you could make her move faster. Your hips rolled in messy, desperate circles, fucking yourself on her fingers as best you could while she kept just enough control to drag it out. Every time a broken little moan slipped out of you, she answered with another low, possessive comment.

“Look at you. So desperate to come on my hand in the middle of the fucking locker room. After wearing her shirt. After letting her call you her girl.” Her fingers curled hard on the next thrust, and she finally gave your clit the steady pressure you’d been chasing. “Come on then. Since you said it so pretty. Come for me.”

It hit you hard.

Your orgasm crashed through you in a rush of heat and clenching muscle, your walls pulsing tight around her fingers as your hips jerked uncontrollably. A broken sound tore out of your throat, half her name, half a sob, and she kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until your legs were shaking too hard to hold you up properly.

Only then did she slow down.

Her fingers gentled inside you, stroking slowly through the aftershocks as your body trembled against the lockers. The hand on your jaw loosened, sliding down to rest at the side of your neck instead, still possessive, but no longer forcing your head back. She leaned in and pressed a slower, almost gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the fresh mark she’d left on your throat.

For a few long moments, she just let you breathe.

Your chest heaved against hers, legs unsteady, the cool metal of the locker at your back the only thing keeping you upright. She stayed close, fingers still buried inside you but no longer moving, her forehead resting against yours while she gave you space to come down. The only sounds in the locker room were your ragged breathing and the distant, muffled noise of the arena still winding down outside.

She didn’t pull away yet.

But she let you breathe.

She didn’t give you more than a few shaky breaths.

Before your legs had even stopped trembling, Rhea pulled her fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, and stepped back. The sudden loss of her body heat and the support of her hands left you sagging harder against the lockers, one palm braced on the cool metal while the other clutched at your own thigh like that might steady you. Your breath came in short, ragged pulls, chest heaving, the fresh marks on your neck and chest throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

She didn’t say anything at first.

She just watched you for a moment, eyes dark, that same arrogant, cocky smirk she’d worn after winning the title curving her mouth. Then she turned and crossed the few steps to the nearest bench. She sat down with casual ease, legs spreading wide, the championship belt resting on the bench beside her like an afterthought. The arrogant tilt of her head said everything: she knew exactly how wrecked you were, and she was enjoying every second of it.

Her gaze dragged over you slowly, taking in the way your legs still shook, the way you were struggling to push yourself upright properly, the dark bruises blooming across your throat and chest where her mouth had been.

Then she patted the space between her spread thighs.

“Come here.”

Your stomach flipped at the command. You tried to straighten up, pushing off the locker with shaky arms, but your knees buckled almost immediately. The orgasm had hit too hard, left you too loose and unsteady. You took one wobbling step forward, then another, but your legs wouldn’t cooperate. The floor felt uneven beneath your feet.

You ended up sinking down instead, first to your knees, then catching yourself on your hands as another tremor ran through you. The concrete was cold and rough under your palms, but you kept moving, crawling the short distance across the floor toward her because walking wasn’t happening. Not yet. Not after the way she’d just pulled you apart against the lockers.

Rhea didn’t move to help you.

She just watched, that smug little smirk deepening as you made your way over on hands and knees. Her eyes tracked every unsteady shift of your body, every time your arms shook or your breath hitched. When you finally reached her, she didn’t say anything right away. She just let you kneel there between her spread legs for a beat, looking down at you with dark satisfaction.

One of her hands came down to rest on the back of your neck, gentle for once, but still possessive, as she guided you in closer.

“That’s it,” she murmured, voice low and rough. “Crawl to me like the good girl you’re supposed to be.”

Her thumb stroked once over the side of your throat, right over one of the marks she’d left, while she waited to see what you would do now that you were exactly where she wanted you.

She didn’t leave you kneeling there for long.

Her hands came down to your shoulders, firm and guiding as she pulled you backward until your back was flush against her front. She kept her legs spread wide on either side of you, thighs bracketing your body like a cage, the solid muscle of them pressing in against your hips and ribs. One of her arms slid around your waist, holding you there, while the other rested heavy on your shoulder, keeping you exactly where she wanted you, back to her, trapped between her legs, unable to see her face unless you turned your head.

You were still shaky from the orgasm, legs weak, breathing uneven. The position made it worse. You could feel the heat of her body all along your spine, the steady rise and fall of her chest against your back, the way her thighs flexed slightly every time you shifted.

Rhea let the silence stretch for a few seconds, just long enough for you to feel how completely she had you boxed in. Then she spoke, voice low and rough right by your ear.

“Look at you,” she murmured, the words dripping with that same arrogant satisfaction. “Came so hard you can’t even stand up straight, and now you’re right back where you belong—on your knees between my legs.” Her hand on your shoulder slid down, fingers tracing over one of the fresh marks on your throat. “You really thought you could pull that little stunt and get away with it? Wearing her shirt. Letting her flirt with you like that. Now you’re shaking in my lap because you can’t even walk after I fucked you against the lockers.”

You tried to say something, some half-formed protest or whine, but she didn’t give you the chance.

Her hand moved lower, slipping straight back into the waistband of the shorts without any warning or teasing this time. Two fingers pushed into you again in one smooth, deliberate thrust, and the sudden stretch made your whole body jolt. You were still sensitive, still wet from before, and the feeling of her filling you again so soon had your breath catching hard.

She didn’t start slow.

Her fingers curled immediately, fucking into you with steady, purposeful strokes while her other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you back against her. The position meant you couldn’t do much but take it, caged by her legs, back pressed to her chest, every thrust of her fingers making your body rock forward slightly only for her to pull you right back into place.

“That’s it,” she said against your ear, voice mean and low. “Take it. You wanted to play games tonight? This is what you get. Me reminding you exactly who this belongs to.” Her thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that made your thighs tremble between hers. “Still so fucking wet. Still so needy. You’re gonna come again for me like this—back to me, trapped between my legs, because that’s where you belong.”

She kept talking, voice rough and possessive as her fingers worked you harder, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room. Every time your breath hitched or a broken little sound slipped out, she answered with another low comment about how easy you were for her, how you’d crawled to her, how she was going to keep you like this until you couldn’t think about anything except who you belonged to.

She felt it the second your head started to tip back.

Your neck arched, head falling against her shoulder as another broken sound slipped out of you. The position left you completely open to her, throat exposed, body trembling between her thighs while her fingers kept fucking into you with those deep, relentless strokes. Rhea made a low, satisfied sound, almost a growl, right against your ear. She loved it. Loved how easily you gave in, how your body went pliant and desperate against hers.

One of her arms shifted.

She moved it up and around, sliding her bicep against the front of your throat in a firm, controlling hold. Not enough to cut off your air completely, but enough to make every breath feel claimed. Her forearm pressed in, bicep flexing against your windpipe as she locked you there, head tipped back against her, throat caged by her arm while her other hand stayed buried between your legs, fingers curling and thrusting without mercy.

“That’s it,” she rasped, voice rough and mean. “Fall back on me. Let me hold you like this while I fuck you.” Her bicep flexed again, just enough pressure to make your next breath come shorter. Her fingers inside you picked up speed, thumb grinding hard against your clit now, pushing you right up to that edge again with ruthless precision.

You were shaking hard between her legs, one hand gripping her thigh, the other clutching at the arm around your throat. Every thrust of her fingers made your body jolt, and every time you tried to rock your hips she just held you tighter, controlling the pace completely.

She kept you right there, right on the brink, until your walls started fluttering hard around her fingers and your breathing turned into desperate little gasps against her bicep.

Then she stopped moving her hand.

Her fingers stayed buried deep inside you, completely still, while her arm stayed locked around your throat. She pressed her lips to the shell of your ear, voice low and dark. “Who owns this fucking pussy huh?”

“Say it,” she ordered. “Or you don’t get to cum.”

✧˖°.⊹࣪˖^._.^ฅ⊹࣪˖°.✧

[jimslvrr]

THE PICKUP.

summary; You drop your daughter off at Jey’s house before heading out for the night. But when he notices your fit, he can’t help but get jealous and territorial—leading to one of those arguments that never stay arguments for long.

warnings; 18+, heavy tension, baby mama/baby daddy dynamic, jealous/possessive Jey, cursing - use of n word. toxic, toxic TOXIC. slight manipulation? girl.. yea.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

—

You had the overnight bag slung on your shoulder, your eight-year-old skipping ahead of you with her little pink suitcase rolling behind her. Jey had left the front door cracked, so she ran straight inside yelling,

“Daddy!”

You followed in slowly, tugging at your dress to make sure it sat right. The black mini number hugged your curves, your thighs lotion’d and glowing, edges laid down perfectly. You hadn’t worn heels in months, but tonight you had a reason.

And that reason had nothing to do with Jey.

At least, it wasn’t supposed to.

You heard his laugh from the living room as he scooped your daughter up. His curls were still damp like he had just showered, grey Nike shorts hanging low on his hips with no shirt. Tattoos covered his chest and arms, and he had that damn chain on—like he was intentionally trying to test you.

He kissed your daughter’s cheek, set her down, and that’s when his eyes found you.

And stayed there.

You pretended not to notice.

“Her bag’s in the car. Lemme grab it,” you said casually, turning on your heel. The dress shifted higher up your thighs, and you knew he saw because you could feel his stare burn holes into you.

By the time you came back with the bag, he was leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.

“Where you goin’ lookin’ like that?” he asked, voice low, that little island drawl slipping through.

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“Jey, don’t start,” you sighed, pushing past him to set the bag down by the couch.

He didn’t move. Just kept looking at you like you were walking around his house naked. His jaw flexed, lips pressed tight, eyes dragging from your heels up your thighs, over your waist, lingering way too long at your chest before finally landing back on your face.

“Ion like that dress,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Good thing you don’t have to.”

That got him to push off the wall, stepping into your space. “Who you tryna look good for? ’Cause I know it ain’t for me.”

Your tongue clicked against your teeth as you smirked. “What if it is?”

He narrowed his eyes, like he didn’t believe you. “Nah. You tryna get some lil’ dude’s attention, huh?”

You tilted your head, lashes fluttering. “And if I am?”

That was the spark. His nostrils flared, tongue running across his teeth before he laughed in disbelief. He glanced toward the hallway where your daughter was already in her room, then back at you with that dangerous heat in his eyes.

“Y/N, stop playin’ wit’ me.” His voice dropped deeper, rougher. “You know I don’t like that shit.”

You leaned in just enough for him to smell your perfume—warm vanilla and coconut oil—before whispering, “Then what you gon’ do about it?”

You tilted your head and smirked, watching his jaw tighten. Jey hated when you pushed his buttons, but you couldn’t help it. That baby daddy attitude was exactly why you loved riling him up.

“Don’t do that,” he warned, stepping closer until your back brushed against the arm of the couch.

“Do what?” you asked, voice all sweet like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

“That lil’ smirk. Like you proud of yourself,” he muttered, his chest brushing yours just enough to make your breath hitch. “Walkin’ in here like you single, like I ain’t put no work in.”

Your brow arched. “Jey, last time I checked, we’re not together. Remember? You made sure of that.”

That one hit him. His nostrils flared, and he dropped his gaze to the floor for a second, tongue pushing against his cheek. He hated when you reminded him of the breakup.

“I ain’t say we together,” he admitted finally, lifting his eyes back to yours. “But you still mine.”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “Ohhh, here we go. Typical Jey shit. You don’t want me, but you don’t want nobody else to have me either. That’s not how it works, Josh.”

“Man, stop callin’ me Josh when you mad,” he snapped. “You know I don’t like that shit.”

“Too bad,” you shot back, folding your arms under your chest. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear, where to go, or who I go with. Not anymore.”

His hand dragged over his face, frustration written all over him. “You really gon’ play in my face like that? Walkin’ in here dressed like you tryna get cuffed up by some clown—”

You sucked your teeth, leaning into him just enough for your lips to nearly brush his ear. “Better me getting cuffed up by somebody else than you, huh?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes blazing. “Man, stop fuckin’ playin’ with me!”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t move. If anything, you leaned in closer. “Or what?”

Your challenge hung in the air.

Jey’s jaw flexed, the muscle in his cheek jumping as he stared you down. You didn’t flinch.

“You really tryna test me tonight, huh?” he said low, voice dipping rough and dangerous.

You folded your arms tighter, eyes cutting at him. “I’m not testing nothing. I’m just telling you what it is. You don’t get to play baby daddy and boyfriend when it’s convenient for you. You either here or you not.”

His laugh was humorless, sharp. “Oh, so I’m not here? I’m not here every other day making sure our daughter’s straight? Making sure you straight too?”

You rolled your eyes. “Straight? Please. You pop in, you play house, and then you disappear when it’s time to really act like—”

“—Like what?!” he snapped, stepping right up on you, chest to chest. “Like a husband? That what you want? You still in love with me, just say that. Stop tryna act tough.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t back down. “Don’t flatter yourself, Josh. If I wanted you, I could’ve had you.”

That did it. His eyes narrowed, and in the next second his hand was gripping your jaw, thumb pressed to your bottom lip.

“Keep talkin’ that shit,” he muttered, voice husky, nose brushing yours. “Keep actin’ like you don’t feel this. Like your body don’t remember me every time I get close.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing through you despite the defiance still on your face. “You got a lotta nerve…” you murmured, words muffled against his grip.

“Yeah?” His smirk was dark, slow. “And you got a smart mouth. Lemme see how long that lasts.”

Before you could fire back, he pressed you into the couch with his weight, lips crashing into yours. The kiss wasn’t sweet—it was hungry, claiming, like he was tired of pretending y’all weren’t still tangled up in each other.

You broke away just long enough to whisper, “I hate you.”

He chuckled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Nah, you love me. That’s the problem.”

You squirmed under his weight, palms pushing at his chest. “Get off me, Jey. You think just ‘cause you got muscles and tattoos, you can just pin me down and I’ma fold? Nah.”

He eased back slightly, just enough to let you breathe, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Muscles and tattoos?” he repeated with a scoff. “Girl, you wasn’t saying none of that when you was blowing up my phone last week, beggin’ me to come through.”

Your mouth fell open. “Beggin’? Don’t get it twisted. I asked you to come ‘cause your daughter missed you. Not me.”

“Cap.” He leaned in, his breath hot on your ear. “You missed me too. You think I don’t hear it in your voice? You think I don’t see it when you look at me?”

You tilted your chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “All I see is a headache.”

He laughed low, shaking his head. “A headache that had you screaming my name so loud last month, the neighbors was callin’ the cops.”

You gasped and smacked his chest. “Nigga why you always gotta bring that up?!”

“‘Cause you keep actin’ brand new like you don’t remember.” He shifted his hold, one hand on your thigh, gripping tight. “But your body remembers. Always does.”

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, betraying you. “Stop tryna play with me, Jey.”

“I ain’t playin’.” His tone dropped, serious now, his hand sliding higher. “You steady actin’ like I ain’t still yours. Like another dude could even step in and handle you the way I do.”

Your lips curled into a smirk even as your pulse quickened. “Maybe I’m ready for another dude to try.”

That was it. His head snapped back like he couldn’t believe you said that. “Say it again,” he dared, voice thick with warning.

You leaned up, face inches from his, eyes locked. “Maybe. I’m. Ready.”

His nostrils flared, jaw tightening, and then his hand slid up to your throat, not harsh, but firm enough to make you gasp. His eyes burned into yours.

“Bet,” he whispered, his voice almost a growl. “Guess I’ma have to remind you why you keep comin’ back to me.”

His grip on your throat lingered, not rough, but enough to still your words. Your breath caught, chest heaving under his weight.

“Go ‘head, keep talkin’ ‘bout some other man steppin’ in,” Jey said low, his lips brushing your jaw. “You know damn well you ain’t lettin’ nobody else touch you.”

You tried to push him off, but your thighs squeezed together when his hand slid down your stomach, fingers teasing the edge of your thong. “Jey—stop—” you whispered, eyes flicking toward the stairs. “She upstairs, don’t—”

He smirked, eyes narrowing. “So you do care.” His thumb pressed into your skin. “Thought I was just a headache, huh? Headaches don’t get you wet like this.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a sound. “You cocky as hell.”

“Cocky ‘cause I know.” His mouth was on your neck now, biting lightly, and your head tipped back against the couch. “Know this mine. Always been mine. Always gon’ be.”

Your hands went to his curls, tugging hard, half trying to pull him away, half pulling him closer. Your whisper came out sharp: “Jey, if she hears—”

“She won’t,” he cut you off, his voice a husky growl against your skin. “Long as you keep that pretty mouth quiet.”

The challenge in his eyes was lethal. He slid his hand lower, tugging your thong down just enough to expose you, his palm hot against your thigh. You gasped and tried to close your legs, but he pushed them open with his knee, caging you in.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he warned, his tone deep and commanding now.

“Who said I can’t finish?” you shot back, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you.

That did it. He snapped, pressing you deeper into the couch cushions, one hand gripping your hip tight while the other kept your mouth covered just enough to muffle your sounds. His lips crashed onto yours, rough, messy, all the pent-up arguing and frustration spilling over.

And God help you, you kissed him back like you hated him and loved him in the same breath.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured against your lips, “you gon’ sit here and take this. Ain’t runnin’ from me no more.”

You arched against him, trying to fight him off and pull him closer all at once. “Jey, we can’t—”

“We can.” His teeth nipped your jaw. “You think I’m ‘bout to let you talk reckless, slam doors, then come down here actin’ like I ain’t still your man? Nah, I’m settin’ it straight tonight.”

You clenched your thighs when his fingers brushed where you needed him most. He chuckled low, pressing his knee wider between your legs.

“Already drippin’ f’me,” he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. “Arguin’ all week, swearin’ you don’t want me, but your body don’t lie.”

You bit your lip, trying not to give him the sound he wanted, but the way his fingers teased you had your hips rolling against his touch.

“Shhh,” he warned, sliding two fingers into you with ease, curling them slow. Your hand flew up to grip his arm tight. “She gon’ hear you if you don’t hush. Be quiet for me, baby. Be my good girl.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tipped back against the couch. His lips found your chest, pulling the top of your dress down with his teeth until your breast spilled free, his mouth closing around your nipple. The moan slipped out before you could stop it, and his hand snapped back up to cover your mouth again.

“I said be quiet,” he growled, dark eyes locking on yours. “Don’t make me put you on your stomach right here.”

Your whole body shivered at the threat, and he smirked, clearly feeling your walls squeeze around his fingers.

“You like that, huh? Bad as hell ‘til I remind you who daddy is.”

“Jey…” your muffled whine bled through his palm, your nails digging into his arm.

That was all he needed. He yanked his shorts down just enough, sliding into you with a deep, slow thrust that knocked the breath right out of you.

Your scream caught in your throat, muffled under his hand, your body arching up into his.

“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw tight, forehead pressed to yours. “Been wantin’ to get back in this all damn week.”

He set a steady, punishing pace, the couch creaking under you both, your legs wrapped around his waist to hold him close. Every thrust had you clutching at him, eyes rolling back, his hand never leaving your mouth.

“Keep quiet,” he breathed, sweat beading along his temple. “Don’t wake her up. Don’t you dare.”

Your muffled cries turned into whimpers, and he smirked, licking over your lips before kissing you hard, swallowing every sound.

His pace picked up, hips snapping into you harder, deeper. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “Say you mine. Say it.”

You shook your head, stubborn even with your body betraying you. He growled, slamming into you harder, making the couch legs scrape against the floor.

“Say it,” he demanded again, the authority in his voice leaving no room for argument.

Finally, your whisper broke through the kiss: “I’m yours.”

His grin was wicked, satisfaction written all over his face as he drove into you faster, your body trembling beneath him.

“That’s right,” he rasped, his lips trailing fire down your throat. “Always mine. Ain’t no man steppin’ in. Ain’t no man doin’ what I do to you.”

You clawed at his back, toes curling as the heat built inside you, your body clenching around him. His hand clamped back over your mouth just in time as you came undone beneath him, your muffled scream vibrating against his palm.

He followed close behind, his hips stuttering, burying himself deep with a guttural groan against your ear.

For a moment, the room was nothing but heavy breathing, his body still pinning you down.

Then he kissed your cheek, soft this time, pulling his hand away and brushing your messy hair back. “Told you stop playin’ with me, baby.”

You gave him a breathless side-eye, lips swollen, chest heaving. “You still get on my damn nerves.”

But the way you curled into him as he shifted back onto the couch told him everything he needed to know.

The house was quiet again, the kind of silence that let you know your daughter had finally drifted off into deep sleep. You slipped past her door, peeking in just to make sure, and smiled at the sight of her sprawled out under her princess comforter.

The second you closed the door, though, a hand wrapped around your waist, tugging you back against a hard chest.

“Where you think you goin’?” Jey’s voice was low, husky in your ear.

“Home, and to bed,” you whispered, rolling your eyes even as your body melted back against him. “Where you should be.”

“Bed?” He chuckled darkly, lips grazing your neck. “Yeah, I’ma take you to bed alright.”

By the time you made it to the bedroom, he’d already kicked the door shut with his foot. The couch round was fast, desperate, but now? He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you slow. He wanted you remembering.

He laid you back against the pillows, crawling over you, his beard brushing your skin as he kissed down your throat. His hands slid under your dress, tugging it over your head in one smooth motion.

“You had a lot to say earlier,” he murmured, kissing the curve of your breast. “Real mouthy. Now you quiet.”

“Jey…” you sighed, arching up into his touch.

“Nah, keep that same energy, baby,” he teased, sliding his tongue over your nipple, sucking until your back arched. “Don’t start actin’ shy now.”

You tried to come back with something slick, but all that left your mouth was a broken whine when his hand trailed down your stomach, dipping between your thighs.

He smirked against your skin. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.”

He touched you slow, leaving kisses everywhere his hands wandered, until you were bare under him, flushed and restless. He slid down the bed, spreading your thighs wide, his eyes dark as he licked his lips.

“You already know what time it is,” he muttered, then lowered his head.

Your hand flew to his curls the second his tongue met you, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He took his time, dragging it out, teasing you with soft, shallow licks until you were tugging at his hair, begging for more.

“You gon’ stop playin’ with me now?” he asked between strokes, grinning up at you.

“Yes—ah, fuck—yes,” you gasped, head tipping back into the pillows.

“Good,” he growled, sucking deep, his fingers sliding into you to match the rhythm of his tongue. The heat built until your body arched up, cries muffled against your hand as you came hard against his mouth.

He licked you through it, not giving you a chance to come down before he slid up the bed, pressing himself against you. His shorts were gone, again, and the weight of him made your stomach flutter all over again.

“Round two, baby,” he whispered, lining himself up. “And this time, I’ma take my time with you.”

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as he filled you completely. He kissed you deep, one hand laced with yours against the sheets, the other gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him.

Every roll of his hips was controlled, slow but deep enough to make your toes curl. He wasn’t letting you hide this time — he wanted every whimper, every moan, every plea.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving trails across his skin as his pace gradually picked up, dragging out your pleasure until you were shaking under him, chanting his name.

“That’s it,” he groaned, kissing along your jaw. “Say it again.”

“Jey…” your voice cracked, tears pricking your eyes from how good it felt.

“That’s mine,” he whispered, hips snapping harder, burying himself deep. “Always mine.”

You couldn’t even answer — your climax ripped through you, body convulsing beneath him, the sheets twisting in your fists. He followed right after, a guttural moan muffled against your neck as he spilled into you, holding you tight against him.

The room went quiet again, save for your heavy breathing. He kissed your temple, pulling the blanket up over both of you as he stayed buried inside you, unwilling to let go yet.

“See?” he murmured, brushing your damp hair back. “Told you quit talkin’ crazy. Daddy still run this.”

You swatted at his chest weakly, laughing breathlessly. “Shut up.”

But when you curled into him, leg hooked over his hip, he just smirked, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Love you too, mama.”

[zarucas]

Lets be just like mama and papa

[ellswritings]

Little Hurricane

Randy Orton x reader

TW: Y’all I lowkey got carried away with this one lmaooo. Foul language. Reader is an ass at first (it’s pretty bad). Mentions of daddy issues. Confidence issues. SMUT!!! MDNI!! Daddy kink, oral (m receiving), fingering (brief), praise kink, cowgirl/riding, PnV, creampie, hickeys… I believe that’s its.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Shawn Michaels didn’t say anything at first. He just pressed play on the footage with a grim kind of curiosity — the kind you have when you hear a house exploded but nobody died, so it’s technically fine to gawk.

Hunter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The WWE Performance Center sparring ring appeared on-screen. A half-dozen tryout hopefuls moved through a standard drill — pair off, run a sequence, critique, rotate. But Y/N? She wasn’t blending. She stood out instantly.

She was short. Wiry. Not particularly buff. But the second she took a step, there was a sharpness to her movement — a snap to her transitions that made the others look like they were wrestling underwater. She leaned against the ropes as her partner, a nervous blonde in brand-new boots, fumbled her way through the setup to a tornado DDT. "Watch this,” Shawn muttered.

The blonde ran up the corner turnbuckles — too slow, bad angle — and launched a crooked spin. She grabbed Y/N’s head half a second too late, which forced Y/N to awkwardly pitch herself forward into a half-sell to keep the girl from landing on her face. They hit the mat in a clumsy thud. A full beat passed. Then Y/N sat up slowly, looked around, and said, “If you're gonna try to kill me, babe, at least do it with conviction.”

Hunter covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. The blonde blinked rapidly. “I-I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Y/N snapped. “You hesitated halfway through and forgot to hook the head. I’ve seen better rotation from folding chairs.”

“Ouch,” Shawn muttered.

“I’m sorry, I just—” the girl stammered.

Y/N didn’t wait. She grabbed the girl’s wrist, hauled her up, and gestured toward the corner. “Fine. I’ll walk you through it. Again. But if you break my neck, I’m suing your footwork.”

She jogged to the corner with the girl and demonstrated. “Plant the foot, don’t dance on it. Grab the head before you spin, not during. Or you’re just doing gymnastics and praying I fall.”

Then she executed a flawless, tight tornado DDT that bounced the mat and drew an audible whoa from someone off-camera. When she stood up, she looked down at the blonde and added, “If you’re scared of hurting me, wrestling’s not your sport. Try yoga. Or Bible camp.”

The girl’s lips trembled. She sniffled and rolled under the ropes, hiding her face as she disappeared behind the corner post. Shawn cringed. “And that’s cry number one.”

Before Hunter could hit pause, another girl climbed through the ropes — tall, CrossFit build, jaw tight. She folded her arms and stared Y/N down. “You always this much of a bitch?”

Y/N turned. Tilted her head. “Only when I’m surrounded by developmental Barbie dolls with delusions of adequacy.”

The taller girl took a step forward. “She was trying.”

“And I was surviving,” Y/N shot back. “If you wanna hand out gold stars for almost snapping necks, maybe you should coach preschool instead of pretending you’ve got ring awareness.”

The other girl flinched slightly — not visibly, but enough to catch on camera. “You can’t just tear people down like that.”

Y/N walked right up to her. Didn’t back off an inch. “I didn’t tear her down. I told the truth. If that scares you, good. Wrestling’s not a tea party — it’s a business. And I’m not gonna play nice while someone uses me as their crash-test dummy.”

Hunter winced. “Goddamn.”

The CrossFit girl opened her mouth again, but Y/N just cut her off with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Also,” she added lightly, “your German suplex form is garbage. You lift with your arms and not your hips, which means you’re gonna blow your back out before you ever get an entrance theme. So maybe focus on that before trying to clap back.”

The taller girl stepped off. Quiet now. Shawn paused the footage. There was a long silence.

“Okay,” Hunter muttered. “So… she’s brilliant.”

“And a hellcat.”

“She moves like a vet. Thinks like a producer. Talks like a sniper.”

“She’s twenty-eight,” Shawn said, scrolling on the iPad. “Started training at eighteen. Grinded the indies for nearly a decade. She’s not some influencer with abs. She’s the real deal.”

Hunter nodded slowly. “But she can’t work with anyone.”

“She doesn’t want friends,” Shawn replied. “She wants competition. And unless we get her some direction, she’s gonna chew through half our roster before her first match.”

They sat with that for a beat. Then Hunter blew out a slow breath and muttered, “Call him.”

Shawn blinked. “Seriously?”

“She’s too talented to let go. But if we let her on TV like this, she’s gonna run her mouth until someone knocks her teeth out. We need someone who won’t flinch. Who’ll push back.”

“You really think he’ll say yes?”

Hunter’s jaw flexed. “I think he’s the only one who won’t back down.”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Randy Orton’s phone buzzed on the hotel nightstand, vibrating itself halfway to the floor. He didn’t bother checking it until the second buzz hit — then a third.

Shawn Michaels

pick up. important.

MISSED CALL: Paul Levesque

He sighed, already regretting waking up. He was three cities into a five-city loop. Friday Night SmackDown in Des Moines, the weekend and Monday in St. Louis for family time with his kids, Tuesday and Wednesday for media. He had a neck that still barked at him every time he took a bump. He had a chiropractor he liked, a flight he didn’t, and zero patience left for corporate favors.

But… he picked up anyway.

“Randy,” Paul’s voice came in, staticky. “Hey. Got a second?”

“No,” Randy said immediately, deadpan. “But I feel like that’s not gonna stop you.”

Shawn chuckled in the background. “We need a favor.”

“Great,” Randy muttered. “What is it? You want me to RKO Logan Paul into a table made of Prime bottles? Because I’d do that. That sounds therapeutic.”

“Not that kind of favor,” Hunter said. “This is about the PC.”

Randy was already shaking his head. “Nope. Not doing seminars right now. I’ve got three kids, two school pickups, and a back that reminds me weekly I’m not twenty-four anymore.”

“It’s not a seminar,” Shawn cut in. “It’s a project. One person. Just a couple weeks.”

Randy raised an eyebrow. “What kind of project?”

Hunter hesitated. “Let’s call it… corrective coaching.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Randy flopped back on the hotel bed. “You’ve got another hothead, don’t you?”

“She’s not just a hothead,” Shawn offered. “She’s… talented. Very.”

Randy groaned. “That’s what you said about Riddle.”

“She’s not Riddle,” Hunter said. “She’s smarter. More precise. Just… very difficult.”

“How difficult?”

Shawn sighed. “You remember you in 2004?”

There was a beat. “…Seriously?”

“She’s like if 2004 Randy had a smaller frame, a sharper tongue, and no Evolution to wrangle her.”

Randy sat up now. “You’re trying to tell me she’s me?”

Hunter chuckled. “We’re saying she’s someone only you could get through to.”

“She’s twenty-eight,” Shawn added. “Been grinding indies since she was twenty. Started training at eighteen because her parents wouldn’t sign the waiver earlier.”

“She’s good,” Hunter repeated. “Really good. But she made three girls cry on her first day.”

Randy blinked. “Jesus.”

“And one coach threatened to walk out after she corrected his footwork mid-demo.”

“…Okay, maybe I do want to see this.”

Shawn laughed. “We’ll send you the tape.”

A minute later, Randy’s phone buzzed again — a video link labeled “Y/N: PC Footage (Wednesday).”

He clicked play. For thirty seconds, he watched in silence. The first bad DDT made him wince. Y/N’s reaction made him chuckle. But the second she launched into that no-bullshit teardown of the blonde, his eyebrows raised. By the time she destroyed the CrossFit chick with a single eyebrow raise and surgical-level sarcasm, Randy whistled low. “Well damn,” he muttered. “She’s ruthless.”

“That’s why we need you,” Hunter said. “She’s got something. But we can’t send her to NXT when she’s tearing everyone apart with her mouth.”

“She doesn’t take shit from anyone,” Shawn added. “But she might learn from someone she knows would flatten her in five seconds.”

“She needs a firm hand,” Hunter said. “She needs you.”

Randy didn’t say anything at first. He watched the paused frame of her on-screen — small, quick-footed, sharp-eyed. That cocky smirk like she’d already figured out everyone else’s next five moves. She wasn’t big. She wasn’t flashy. But she was dangerous. And she reminded him a little too much of himself. He smirked. “What’s the deal?”

“Two weeks,” Shawn said quickly. “We’ll fly you to Orlando. Put you in the apartment next to the PC. You’ll work with her exclusively — in drills, in the ring, in sessions. We’re not asking you to be her life coach. Just get her to work like part of a team. We’ll handle the rest.”

“And it pays?”

“More than the Loop.”

Randy dragged a hand down his face, still staring at the screen. Y/N had just finished landing the cleanest damn DDT he’d seen in months. “Alright,” he finally muttered. “You’ve got me for two weeks. But if she gets mouthy and tries to superkick me during warm-ups…”

“We’ll triple the bonus,” Hunter said.

Randy smirked again and clicked off the video. “Let’s see what this little hurricane’s got.”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Florida sun was already punishing when Randy Orton pulled into the Performance Center parking lot, a bottle of water clutched in his hand like it owed him something. He stepped out of the SUV in black joggers, a faded Viper Club tank, and dark shades that barely hid the grimace on his face. This was not how he wanted to start his morning. Or his week. Or, God help him, the next two. He spotted Shawn Michaels outside the PC doors, clipboard in hand, looking far too chipper for someone dealing with a human wildfire. Randy approached, unscrewing his water bottle as he walked. “Alright. I’m here. Let’s get this over with.”

Shawn gave him a sympathetic grin. “Good to see you too, sunshine.”

“I could be home right now. Or napping. Or literally anywhere else.”

“But then you’d miss the once-in-a-generation opportunity to wrangle a rabid jackal in gym shorts.”

Randy groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Remind me what the hell I said yes to again?”

Shawn held out a thick manila folder. Randy took it and flipped it open. Inside were printed notes, match reports, taped wrists, med history, a scanned indie resume that looked like it had been folded and shoved into a gear bag more times than he could count. Y/N L/N. 28. Y/H. Y/W. Dangerous. Mouth like a live grenade.

“She make anyone cry?” Randy asked without looking up.

“One so far today. But the day’s still young.”

“And no one’s decked her yet?”

“Oh, they’ve tried. She ducks like a damn phantom and fires back twice as hard.”

Randy smirked, grudgingly impressed. “Alright. So, what, I beat the sass out of her and you give her a contract?”

Shawn chuckled. “You don’t need to beat it out of her. Just teach her how to point it in the right direction. She shows she can work with someone, we give her a deal. You survive two weeks? You get your bonus, and you never have to see her again.”

“Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”

Randy grunted, shutting the folder and following Shawn inside. Inside, the PC was buzzing — padded thuds from sparring rings, trainers yelling cues, weights clanging. Bodies flew, grunted, grinded. It was a machine. Except one part of it wasn’t part of the machine. She was owning it.

Y/N was in the far ring, running blow-up drills like she was warming up for WrestleMania. Drop down. Leapfrog. Turn. Pop up. Roll. Repeat. Over and over, smooth as silk, fast as lightning. She didn’t look winded. Hell, she looked bored. No partner. No coach. Just her and the ropes. Randy watched her for a moment. Her outfit didn’t help his mood. A black tank top hung loose down her back, knotted just enough to tease skin and tattoos. Her leggings were dark gray, worn tight, clinging to lean legs that moved like a dancer’s — precise, deadly. Her boots were matte black and beat up in the way that told him she’d earned every scuff.

“She looks like trouble,” Randy muttered.

“She is trouble,” Shawn replied. “But damn if she doesn’t look good doing it.”

Randy shook his head. “Alright. Let’s meet the hurricane.”

Shawn cupped his hands. “Y/N!”

She didn’t rush. Didn’t jog over with wide eyes or eager hands. She strolled. Casual. Calm. That same smirk on her lips that said she’d already clocked both men’s weaknesses before she even stepped through the ropes. “Yeah?” she asked, like they’d interrupted her beauty sleep.

Shawn gestured. “Y/N, meet Randy Orton. He’ll be your trainer for the next two weeks.”

Y/N turned her head slowly toward Randy, eyebrows raised. Then she looked him up and down. Twice. And snorted. “No offense, but… Randy Orton? That’s who you sent?” she asked Shawn directly. “You couldn’t get Seth Rollins? Or like, literally anyone who still wears gear that doesn’t match his orthopedic schedule?”

Randy blinked. “Wow,” he deadpanned.

She turned back to him, clearly amused. “What? You’re kinda like the retirement home’s final boss, right?”

“Cute.”

“I’m not wrong.”

He stepped forward, towering over her, letting his voice drop a register. “Here’s how this is gonna work, princess. I don’t care how many indies you crushed or how many Instagram fans think you’re hot shit. You’re not running this ring. Not with me. You get one shot to show me you can be coached. Blow it, and I walk. Got it?”

Y/N looked at him for a second. Just long enough to make him think maybe, maybe, she’d take it seriously. Then she laughed. Actually laughed. “Wow. You’ve still got that whole ‘grumpy daddy with neck pain’ thing going for you, huh?” she said, folding her arms. “Let me know when you’re done with the tough love monologue, Randal. I’ve got drills to run.”

She turned her back on him and walked off like he was the one wasting her time. Randy stared after her. “…She just called me grumpy daddy?”

Shawn was wheezing behind him. “Yup.”

“She just laughed in my face.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She turned her back on me.”

“Yep. It’s adorable.”

Randy growled. “You know what, Michaels? Next time you call me for a favor, I’m blocking your number.”

Shawn grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Good luck, Viper.”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The PC rang with noise. Whistles, claps, distant grunts — but none of it registered for Y/N. She was focused on the man in front of her. Unfortunately. Randy stood with his arms folded, stone-faced as always, staring at her like she was a problem he hadn’t decided whether to fix or ignore. Y/N L/N was in the ring again, flipping the tire like it was made of cardboard. Her form was perfect. Not just technically — but effortlessly perfect. The kind of natural movement that made others jealous. That made Randy suspicious.

She tossed the tire down with a grunt, wiped sweat from her brow, and locked eyes with him like she was already annoyed just looking at him. “You gonna actually come in here to teach me something?” she said flatly.

He leaned against the ropes, arms crossed. “Eager to learn, huh?”

“No,” she said. “Eager to wrestle. Pretty big difference, grandpa.”

Randy’s nostrils flared. “Alright. Let’s start slow.”

Her head cocked. “Why? Afraid I’ll show you up too early?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t warm. “You talk a lot for someone still waiting on a contract.”

She stepped closer to the ropes, hands on her hips. “And you talk a lot for someone who hasn’t had a good promo since 2016.”

Jesus Christ. Randy blinked once. That one hit. “You done?” he said.

“Not even close,” she shot back. “But I’ll pretend to behave if you give me something worth doing.”

“You think you’ve earned that?”

She leaned her arms on the top rope, giving him a lopsided grin. “I know I have.”

And that was the problem. Because she was right. She was the most athletic person in the room. Her technique was tight. Her timing was sharp. And she carried herself like the business already belonged to her. Like someone had forgotten to print her name on the damn WrestleMania poster. It was exactly how he had been. At her age, he’d been cocky. Unchecked. Untouchable. He’d walked around backstage like he owned the place — and part of him had. But he’d been a nightmare. And watching her now, arms folded, smirking like she couldn’t be touched… He saw himself. And it made him want to throw a damn chair.

“Alright,” he snapped. “Rope drills. Go.”

She made a show of groaning as she rolled back into the ring. “Oh good. More gym class.”

“Keep talking and you’ll be doing them until tomorrow.”

“Sure, drill sergeant.” She hit the ropes anyway — but with no urgency. No respect. Just sass. She bounced off the ropes with the grace of a veteran and landed a clean drop-down-leapfrog-bump combo without even breathing hard.

“Again,” he said.

“You trying to break me in or just watch me bounce?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you were enjoying it. But you’re definitely watching.”

He clenched his jaw. She ran the drill again, this time faster. Cleaner. She popped to her feet at the end and did a mocking little bow. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. She rolled her eyes. “You know, if I’d wanted this much cardio, I’d have stayed on the indies. At least there, I get paid in cash and shots of Fireball.”

“You keep mouthing off, and the only shot you’re getting is out the door.”

“Yeah?” she stepped close to him, voice lower now. “Then go ahead. Call Hunter. Tell him his little problem child isn’t worth the trouble.”

“I might.”

“Do it.”

Their eyes locked — blue steel on wildfire. Neither of them flinched. “I don’t need this,” he said, voice hard. “I didn’t sign up to babysit. You want to make a name for yourself? Fine. But you’re not gonna do it mouthing off to me while you half-ass drills you think you’re too good for.”

Y/N’s shoulders lifted as she drew in a slow breath, and for a second — just one second — it looked like she might actually take the dressing down. But no. She smirked. “You’re real cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

Randy snapped. “I don’t give a damn how talented you are. You can’t keep that tongue in check, I’ll call this off right now. You either do what I say, or you go back to calling spots with whatever local clown wants to bleed with you for fifty bucks and a handshake.”

Silence. The gym wasn’t quiet — not really. But it felt like it. Tension hung like fog. Y/N blinked. Slow. Deliberate. Then— “…So is this the part where we go into a meaningful montage, or do I get yelled at for breathing next?”

He ran a hand down his face. She grinned. He hated her. She thrilled him. “Finish the last set,” he grumbled, stepping back from the ropes.

She didn’t argue. She sprinted through the ropes, hitting her drills one last time with more force than finesse — like she wanted to make the mat feel something. When she finished, she reached down for her towel, wiped her neck once… And chucked it directly at his chest. “Thanks for the motivation, Randy,” she said, fake-sweet. “You’re a real inspiration.”

Then she turned and walked off toward the locker rooms, braid swaying, attitude trailing behind her like smoke. He stared after her, towel in hand, fury brewing in his chest. Behind him, a young trainer chuckled. “She always like that?”

Randy didn’t look back. “No.” Then, under his breath— “Apparently she’s worse.”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The air around them was dead silent. No cameras. No trainers. Just the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the rhythmic squeak of Y/N’s boots as she paced the ring, arms crossed over her chest and expression nothing short of murderous. Randy Orton stood by the ropes, sipping water like he hadn’t just dragged her in before the sun came up. “I swear to God,” Y/N muttered, glaring. “You pick the dumbest hours to play coach.”

“It’s quiet,” he replied, unbothered. “No distractions. Just me, you, and the mat.”

“That sounded a lot creepier than I think you meant it to.”

He smirked. She scowled. Randy rolled under the ropes and stood. “You want to impress the suits? Then stop treating this like high school gym class and start acting like someone who gives a damn.”

“I do give a damn,” she snapped, “but not at four in the morning. Some of us don’t have ten kids to wake us up before dawn.”

Randy raised an eyebrow. “I have five. Not ten.”

“Still explains the dark circles,” she said, motioning to his face.

“Keep running your mouth,” he drawled. “You’ll be doing lunges until noon.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You said we’re wrestling today. I’m waiting.”

He motioned to the center of the ring. “Start with the combo you’ve been working.”

Y/N stepped up, bounced once on her toes, and launched into a clean sequence—duck under, twist, a sharp arm drag, then an attempted snapmare into a rolling elbow. She landed on her feet, smirking. “Boom,” she said, proud.

“Boom,” he repeated dryly. “And if you ever do it like that in front of an audience, they’re gonna laugh your ass back to the indies.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re dragging your left foot,” Randy muttered, watching Y/N reset her stance.

She threw her arms up. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes,” he snapped, “you are. It throws off your momentum, and you’ll land sloppy every time.”

Y/N huffed and dropped her hands to her hips. “You landed sloppy when you came back from that back fusion, and no one told you to start over.”

Randy blinked, stunned into silence for half a second. “You wanna run that back?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

She didn’t even flinch. “I said what I said, old man.”

He clenched his jaw. The urge to rip into her was strong — but the little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth told him that’s exactly what she wanted. She lived for this. The push-pull, the jabs, the dominance game. She was antagonistic, mouthy, and talented as hell — a volatile mix that made him want to yell and laugh at the same time. And she knew it. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "You are exhausting."

"Better than boring," she shot back, shaking out her arms and dropping into position again.

Randy stepped forward, fighting every instinct in his body to not throw up his hands and walk away. Instead, he exhaled slowly and crouched down beside her. “Alright. You think you’ve got it? Then prove it. But first, fix your hips.” He didn’t wait for her permission this time. His hands landed on her again—one on the curve of her lower back, the other gently gripping her hip. Guiding. Correcting. But the contact was fire. And this time, he didn’t recover as quickly.

She was warm and sweat-slick, muscles tight and coiled with energy. His fingers brushed the elastic seam of her shorts, his thumb accidentally grazing the dip of her spine. It was a flash of bare skin, nothing more, but it was enough. Goddamn. Randy’s throat went dry. Focus. You’re here to fix her form, not fantasize about it. But he couldn’t stop noticing the way her body moved under his touch, how she exhaled—steady and sharp, but not uncomfortable. She was letting him do this. Letting him touch her. That in itself felt like some kind of concession, like her body was saying what her mouth never would.

And when she spoke? “You sure you’re adjusting my hips?” she asked, her tone slow and syrupy. “Because from here it feels like you’re enjoying yourself a bit too much.”

Randy’s hand dropped like she burned him. His jaw tensed, but not before she caught the flicker of red rising up his neck. She grinned like a devil. “Kinda adorable that you get flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” he snapped.

“You’re beet red, Randy.”

“It's the lighting.”

“Oh, sure. Must be the fluorescents making your ears blush.”

He turned and walked a step away, muttering a low, “Fuckin’ hell,” under his breath.

Y/N watched him with something close to amusement. Maybe curiosity. There was a flicker in her expression—something softer, almost intrigued—but it vanished quickly behind her usual shield of sarcasm. Randy turned back. “Try it again. Proper form this time.”

She executed the sequence — and this time, it was perfect. Crisp, controlled, and fluid. She landed and turned toward him, smug. “Well?”

He paused. Then gave a single nod. “Better.”

She sauntered to the ropes, grabbing her towel. “But don’t expect me to thank you,” she called over her shoulder. “Your ego’s already tall enough to hit the ceiling fans.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you talk like you invented wrestling.”

“I just talk like I know what I’m doing. You should try it sometime.”

Randy let out a low groan. “You know you’re going to kill your own chances at a contract running that mouth, right?”

“Not if I outshine everyone else,” she said, tossing her towel onto her shoulder. “Which I usually do.”

He leaned back on the ropes, watching her stretch. The movement pulled her top up just enough to flash another glimpse of ink. She bent forward, long legs flexing as she touched her toes, entirely unaware—or more likely completely aware—of the way it drew his gaze. Randy quickly looked away. This is bad. This is so bad. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how much trouble he was in. She wasn’t just mouthy and arrogant. She was smart, bold, magnetic in a way that got under your skin and stayed there. She was chaos wrapped in a five-foot-whatever firecracker body. And she was getting to him. Fast. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that same dumb flicker of a smirk crawling across his lips. She’d be the death of him. And maybe he’d let her.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Randy slammed the door to the Performance Center’s private apartment with a grunt and the subtle twitch of an eye that meant he was done. He’d taken powerbombs on concrete that hurt less than dealing with her mouth. He yanked open the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and downed half of it in one go. Then, because he hated himself, he collapsed on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and heard her voice again.

“You sure you’re here to mentor me, or are you just avoiding retirement?”

“I’m not sure whether to call you Coach Orton or Grandpa Viper.”

“Took you long enough. At this pace, we’ll be done by the time I’m your age.”

Randy squeezed the bottle in his hand until it crinkled. She was unbearable. She also had the fastest snapmare he’d ever seen outside of Regal. That was the problem — she was that good. If she were mediocre, he could write her off. Let her flame out and take her attitude with her. But no. She had the footwork of a 10-year vet and the timing of a surgeon. All wrapped in the snark of a college dropout with zero fear of God — or him.

He stared at the ceiling. Then caved. YouTube. Search bar. Her name. Y/S/N vs Dean Rush (intergender match) – IndieWrestleCon 2023. It was the first result. Grainy camera. Loud crowd. Makeshift indie lighting. But there she was. Strutting down the ramp with confidence bordering on arrogance. Her gear — black and crimson, minimal and bold — clung to her frame in a way that made Randy sit up slightly. But it wasn’t just the look. It was her body language. Shoulders back, chin lifted. She was already in control and hadn’t even touched her opponent.

Dean Rush was tall, older, clearly a local favorite. But once the bell rang, it became her match. She opened with a clean collar-and-elbow tie-up and quickly transitioned into a standing switch, grabbing wrist control and kicking the back of his knee out with surgical precision. He went down to one knee and she paintbrushed the back of his head. Randy let out a low whistle. Disrespectful as hell. Just like me back then.

Rush charged. She sidestepped, caught his arm, and twisted into a Fujiwara armbar variation that had him scrambling for the ropes. She let go at four, just to be a bitch. Next came a judo-style hip toss — smoother than it had any right to be — then a slick transition into a grounded neck crank. When Rush tried to roll out, she popped up, hit the ropes, and came back with a brutal knee drop to his collarbone. “She’s got ring vision,” Randy murmured to no one.

She didn’t just move — she hunted. Her timing was relentless. She feinted a lariat, baited him into ducking, then kneed him in the face the second he looked up. She followed with a rolling Russian legsweep — and when he tried to crawl away, she pulled him back by his ankle like a horror movie villain and kicked his ribs in. Then came the finish. He went for a desperation clothesline. She ducked, whipped behind him, hooked both his arms, and delivered a spike butterfly DDT that folded him like laundry. The crowd exploded. But she wasn’t done. As Rush tried to roll onto his back, she straddled him, hooked her legs tight, and locked in a dragon sleeper with a twist. Her hips rolled into the hold with smooth, practiced rhythm, her torso arching in a way that made the audience go unglued.

The ref called the match. Randy just blinked. She stood up like it was a Tuesday. Smirked. Didn’t shake hands. Didn’t acknowledge the ref. Just stepped over Rush’s body and walked to the back. Cocky. Smug. Cool. Dangerous.

He opened the comment section.

MidnightSuplex: Can’t believe how good her transitions are. Every movement counts. She’s brilliant.

TagTeamTrashTalk: She made that dude look like a rookie. Unreal.

ProblematicWrestler69: She didn’t even LOOK at the guy after. Cold as hell.

DDTManagement: She’s good. But god help you if you offer notes. She’ll fillet you alive.

YNSimpsUnited: She could drag me by my hair across a mat and I’d say thank you.

GrizzledVet2008: Reminds me of a young Randy Orton. Mouthy. Talented. Nightmare to train.

Randy barked a laugh at that last one. Exactly. She was too much like him. But that meant he knew exactly how to break her down. And maybe—maybe—put her back together into someone they could actually use. The problem? He was already thinking about her more than he should. His jaw tightened as he closed the laptop. But he still saw her — in the video, in the ring earlier, sauntering away from him after calling him “the crypt keeper.” And worse — he heard her again.

“Hope you’re charging extra for this mentorship. I don’t want people thinking you’re this slow for free.”

He ran a hand over his face. This wasn’t a rookie. This was a reckoning. And he had exactly thirteen days left to survive her. Or fall headfirst into the fire.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Performance Center was buzzing with low, fluorescent energy and the faint sound of bodies hitting canvas in the far corners of the gym. Y/N laced up her boots without looking up, already in a mood. The morning was far too early, the coffee machine was broken, and she was too damn tired to deal with her supposed mentor. She didn’t need to be babysat. She especially didn’t need to be paired up with the most tightly-wound man on the roster who looked like he could snap her spine with a glare. But here they were.

Randy stood near the ring, already stretching and clearly annoyed to be sharing a corner with her. He was dressed in his usual dark gear, arms veined and tense, jaw set like stone. He didn’t speak, and neither did she. Not until Shawn Michaels came walking toward them, clipboard in hand and that annoyingly chipper morning face. “I’ve got a treat for you two,” Shawn said. “You’re tagging tonight. I’ve got Mia and Tommy suited up, ready to go.”

Randy turned. “No. She’s not ready for that level of teamwork.”

Y/N’s head snapped toward him like a whip. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. Loud and clear. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to call you out for the condescending bullshit. You think because you’ve been doing this for two decades that you invented tag wrestling?”

Randy stared at her like she was a mosquito that wouldn’t stop buzzing. “I think I know what works and what doesn’t. And you don’t work with people.”

Shawn stepped between them, hands up like he was refereeing already. “Think of it as a test. Let’s see what’s sticking, huh?”

Y/N crossed her arms. “Fine. But don’t expect me to hold hands and sing Kumbaya.”

“You?” Randy smirked. “You’d burn the campfire down just to prove you could.”

She grinned. “Damn right.”

They climbed into the ring while Mia and Tommy waited in the opposite corner, already warmed up and stretching like they knew they had the advantage. Y/N pulled on her elbow pads, then turned to Randy. “Try to keep up, Grandpa.”

He scoffed. “Try not to blow a gasket.”

The bell rang. Y/N made it clear she was starting — not with a tag, not with a question, just with movement. She stepped into the ring without so much as a glance at him. Randy looked annoyed but didn’t stop her. Tommy stepped forward to meet her. They circled, and Y/N struck first — fast and clean. A quick series of jabs forced Tommy onto the defensive. He ducked one, went for a clothesline, but she slid under and kicked his leg out from beneath him. He fell hard. She glanced at Randy with a smug expression. “Still not ready, huh?”

Tommy scrambled up and caught her with a surprise suplex, taking her down for a moment. She bounced back fast, tagging herself out on Randy’s chest before he could say a word. He entered with that slow, methodical gait of his — eyes locked on Tommy like a predator sizing up dinner. He got a few good hits in — a standing dropkick, a precision scoop slam — but before he could go for a pin, Y/N slapped his back and vaulted over the ropes. Randy turned, jaw clenched. “What the hell—”

“Relax,” she called mid-air, planting a low-angle hurricanrana on Tommy that sent him flying.

“Tag me back in,” Randy barked.

“I will when I feel like you’ve earned it.” Mia tagged in next, forcing Y/N to remain in. The two women locked up, and Mia tried to bulldoze her with a series of elbow strikes, but Y/N slipped out and caught her with a rolling neckbreaker that snapped across the mat like thunder. She was on fire — but still a smartass. “I hope you’re taking notes over there,” she yelled at Randy.

“Only on how not to behave,” he muttered.

Mia rallied, hitting a spinning back elbow that dropped Y/N to one knee. But just as Mia cocked back for a running knee, Randy shouted, “Duck!”

Y/N did — barely. She rolled through and tagged Randy in for real this time. But the moment he stepped in, Tommy tried to cheap-shot him from the apron. Y/N launched into motion without thinking. She yanked Tommy off the apron by the ankles, dropping him face-first onto the mat with a loud thud. He groaned and rolled away while Randy, half stunned, turned to look at her. She just winked. “You’re welcome.”

It was the turning point. After that, the chaos between them morphed into something dangerous — synchronized. Randy hit a quick snap powerslam on Mia before tagging Y/N back in, and she used his knee as a platform to leap off into a twisting splash that flattened her opponent. When Tommy got back in, Randy whipped him toward the corner, and Y/N hit him with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker on the rebound that made the watching recruits audibly gasp. Their rhythm clicked. They didn’t speak, just moved — Randy setting her up for a perfect slingblade, Y/N ducking so Randy could hit a clean superkick behind her. It wasn’t showy — it was violent. Sharp. Slick. The final moment came when Y/N countered Mia’s charge into a brutal spike DDT, leaving her laid out. Randy moved toward her, eyes on the downed opponent. “Your pin,” he said quietly.

She arched a brow, surprised he didn’t go for it himself. “Don’t make me say please,” he added, almost begrudgingly.

She grinned and dropped into the cover. 1… 2… 3. The bell rang. The match was over. There was a brief pop from the others in the PC — nothing huge, but enough to register. As the ref raised their hands, Y/N didn’t look at Randy. Not really.

But she felt it. The subtle brush of his fingers against hers. The barely-there curl of a smile. The acknowledgment. And that’s when it happened. She let the smallest smile slip… just for a second. Then it vanished. She yanked her hand away and slid out of the ring, not bothering to shake Mia or Tommy’s hands. She didn’t acknowledge the other trainees either. The second the match was over, the walls slammed back into place. Randy followed a few seconds later, rolling his neck as he made his way toward Shawn, who stood watching from the corner with his arms folded and an amused expression on his face. “She’s not quite there,” Shawn admitted. “But that’s the most progress we’ve seen in her since she got here.”

Randy didn’t even hide his eye roll. “Three days of attitude and a semi-functional tag match. You better be paying me overtime.”

Shawn chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Randy didn’t answer. He just turned to glance back at Y/N’s retreating form, her ponytail swaying with purpose as she grabbed a towel and marched off. She was maddening. Infuriating. Sharp-tongued and cocky and so sure she was better than everyone else. But when they worked together, she made the crowd feel something. Made him feel something. And that? That was worrisome.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Performance Center was dim now, the overhead lights buzzing low like even they were tired. It was late — too late for anyone to be training, really — but of course, they were. Randy stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Y/N was pacing the opposite side like a caged animal, her slick hair plastered to her temples, chest heaving with frustration. “You’re not planting your feet,” he said, voice even but already annoyed. “That’s why I keep flipping your ass over.”

“I am planting my feet.”

He raised a brow. “Then your hips are off.”

“My hips are—”

“Off,” he cut in flatly. “Again.”

Y/N let out a guttural groan and lunged at him, attempting the same takedown she’d tried three times already — and just like before, he blocked it, twisting his hips and knocking her onto her back with a practiced sweep. She hit the mat with a smack and stayed there for a second, eyes burning holes in the ceiling.

“Mother fucker,” she muttered.

“You want a pity round?” Randy asked dryly. “I could let you win one.”

“Eat me, Orton.”

He smirked faintly, but only for a second. “You’re talented, but you’re hardheaded as hell.”

She sat up and flipped him off without making eye contact. “I’d rather be hardheaded than washed-up.”

He exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and leaned on the ropes. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Oh, I can,” she said, climbing to her feet. “Let’s talk about how you’re pushing forty-five and still haven’t figured out how not to screw up your marriage.”

That one landed like a sniper shot. Randy’s eyes went sharp — no blink, no breath — just a sudden, bone-deep stillness that filled the entire space. Y/N saw it. Felt it. And if she were a smarter woman, she might’ve regretted it. Instead, she stood her ground. He stepped forward slowly, dropping between the ropes like a lion out of its den. “You don’t get to talk about things you don’t understand.”

“What, marriage?” she shot back, eyes narrowed. “Or raising kids you barely see because you’d rather be here babysitting me for a paycheck?”

Silence. And then— Randy’s voice dropped low, quiet enough that it made her strain to hear it. You really wanna talk about families, sweetheart? You mad that I’m here instead of home with my kids, or are you just pissed that at least I’m a dad who shows up?”

Her whole face shifted. Not anger. Not shock. Something deeper. Something more exposed. She blinked once. And that was all it took for him to know. He didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Not like that. Not really. But it was too late to take it back. For a second, Randy almost said something softer. Almost. But then she smirked — cold and sharp. “That supposed to hurt?” she asked. “You really think I give a damn about some guy who bailed before I could even remember his face?”

He stared at her. And suddenly the fire between them wasn’t just heat anymore. It was gasoline. She took another step, toe-to-toe with him now. “Try again.” She laughs in an almost mocking way.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out after a week? You’re not as clever as you think.”

“And you’re not as untouchable as you think.”

That made her tilt her head. “You keep talking like I’m just some kid you’re babysitting. But I’ve been grinding for a decade. I bled for this. I broke bones for this. I buried friends for this. So don’t you dare stand there and act like you’ve got the moral high ground because your name gets printed on posters.”

Randy stared at her, expression unreadable. Something in his jaw ticked. She wasn’t done. “You think I like being here at your mercy? You think I wanted this arrangement?” she snapped, voice rising. “No. They brought you in because I don’t ‘play well with others,’ right? Because I made a girl cry and embarrassed some guy in front of Shawn Michaels. And now suddenly I need daddy Orton to come teach me a lesson?”

The air left his lungs. It was fast — a flicker of something feral in his eyes before he forced it back down. Did she know what she just said? Worse — did she mean it that way? She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just let it hang there between them, like a live wire waiting to snap. Randy’s jaw flexed, hard enough to crack. “Call me that again,” he said lowly, “and I’ll drop you on your ass for real.”

“Promises, promises.”

“You think you’re invincible because you’ve spent ten years running the indies like a big fish in a small-ass pond. But this?” He pointed around them. “This isn’t the same game.”

“No,” she said, eyes glittering. “This game’s full of men clinging to the past and hoping no one notices their knees are shot.”

He almost laughed — but it was bitter. His eyes dipped again, and this time they landed squarely on her mouth. Her lips were parted slightly, chest still heaving, sweat glistening on her collarbones. She was flushed and furious and vibrating with something unnamable. He looked away. Tried to. But her voice hooked him again. “You gonna correct my form again, Daddy?” she asked, sweet and mean at the same time. “Or just keep staring at me like you wanna drag me into a corner and teach me some manners?”

His spine went rigid. His fingers twitched. God, she was unbearable. And dangerous. And hot in a way that made everything more complicated than it already was. Randy took a full step back, like her presence was physically suffocating him. “You need to learn when to shut your damn mouth.”

“And you need to admit you’d miss it if I did.”

They stared at each other for one long, pounding second — rage and desire bleeding into each other like smoke and fire. He turned and climbed out of the ring, jaw tight, hands shaking with restraint. She watched him go, pulse still wild, adrenaline still high. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Because for the first time since they’d met, he’d lost. And he knew it.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The tension between them hadn’t cooled—it’d solidified. For two days, the Performance Center was a warzone of silence and snarls. Y/N wasn’t chirping anymore, wasn’t tossing out snarky comebacks or cocky one-liners. She was angry now—frustrated and distant in a way that clung to her like humidity. And Randy? He noticed.

She didn’t look at him unless she had to. Didn’t speak unless she was spoken to. She ran drills with precision, her movements sharper, faster, more dangerous. He could see the way she barely restrained herself when they locked eyes. That fire hadn’t dimmed—it’d just refocused. Which is exactly why, when they were told they’d be running a match against each other for the PC crowd that afternoon, Randy didn’t bat an eye. He’d been doing this for over two decades. He could handle a pissed-off rookie with daddy issues and a death glare.

They didn’t talk while lacing their boots. Didn’t so much as nod when the coaches called for the match to begin. A few of the other trainees leaned against the ropes, watching with folded arms and half-amused expressions. They were expecting a massacre. Randy stood in his corner, arms relaxed over the ropes. Y/N cracked her neck once, rolled her shoulders, and stepped forward. She didn’t hesitate. The second the bell rang, she launched herself at him.

He caught her easily in a waist lock, planting her face-first onto the mat in a classic takedown. “Too easy,” he muttered under his breath. Y/N responded with a sharp elbow to the ribs and twisted her body, catching his leg and flipping them both. He rolled, smoothly getting to his feet—but her speed surprised him. She was already upright, circling him like a wolf.

They went back and forth, exchanging hold for hold. He countered one of her irish whips with a clean powerslam, but she responded by chaining into a slick reversal, slipping under him and wrenching his arm behind his back. Her moves were fast—almost too fast. Calculated, technical, confident. But Randy was patient. He let her push, let her burn out some of that fury, and then—he caught her in a snap headlock takedown and held tight. “Still mad?” he grunted, voice low in her ear.

“Still old,” she growled back.

The other trainees laughed, and Randy’s jaw ticked. He applied pressure, tightening the hold. Y/N groaned, but there was no quit in her. She twisted, arched her back, and—pop—slipped from the headlock and used the momentum to roll into a deep arm drag, followed by a spinning leg sweep that caught Randy clean and took him off his feet. That got a few gasps from the crowd.

Randy recovered, this time with a smirk tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he muttered to himself. “You wanna dance.”

They locked up again, this time with Randy taking a bit more seriously. He lifted her like he was going for a scoop slam, but Y/N shifted midair and locked her legs around his neck, flipping them into a modified tilt-a-whirl DDT that slammed him to the mat hard. Cheers. Someone whistled. And for the first time, Randy blinked up at the ceiling, genuinely stunned.

Y/N stood over Randy Orton, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a damn marathon. Her jaw was locked, eyes burning, fists clenched like she was holding back a scream. Her entire body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline-fueled fury. This wasn’t just about wrestling anymore. This was about power. Respect. And payback. He’d underestimated her. Again.

“Come on, then,” Randy muttered from the mat, wiping at his mouth with the back of his forearm, refusing to let her see he was winded. “Thought you were gonna show me something.”

The crowd of trainees had started murmuring again, a few even shifting forward in anticipation. Y/N didn’t respond. She just stepped back, fastened her wrist tape tighter, and circled. Randy got to his feet, shaking out his arms, smirking like he had the match in hand. Still cocky. Still careless. So she dropped the act. She lunged. Randy went for a side grapple, expecting her to try for a takedown again. But she twisted around him like water—one fluid, vicious motion—and latched onto his back with lightning speed. With one fluid transition, Y/N hooked her legs around his waist from behind and yanked him backward into a roll. Randy’s weight flipped with hers, and she immediately snapped her legs upward and around his neck as she arched into a bridge.

She called it The Guillotine Crown. A brutal combination of a headscissors takedown and a double knee neck lock. But the way she executed it? Pure art. Her back bowed like a dancer's, thighs locked around his head in an almost intimate grip, arms planted for leverage as she cranked his neck at just the right angle. It was a submission setup—but she’d hit it so fast and hard, his shoulders were pinned before he could react.

One… Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Two… The way she held him down—body arched, hair falling slightly into her face, sweat glistening on her skin—was unintentionally provocative. Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Just… dominant… Three.

The bell rang. The room exploded. Someone dropped their water bottle. A coach muttered “holy shit” under his breath. Another trainee flat-out cheered. Randy lay beneath her, stunned. Y/N didn’t immediately move. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t pump her fists. She just slowly unraveled her legs and sat back—still straddling him—for a half-second too long. When she finally stood, it wasn’t victorious. It was furious. Her chest rose in short, angry bursts. She wouldn’t look at him. Her jaw clenched as she wiped her forearm across her forehead and pulled her ponytail tighter, trying to regain control. But her hands were shaking.

It hadn’t been about pinning him. It’d been about proving him wrong. And she had. Randy sat up slowly, eyes trained on her like she was something completely different now. Something more dangerous. More real. That was no rookie move. That was calculated. Brutal. And flawless.

Y/N finally looked down at him. Her lips parted like she was about to say something—something cutting, something final—but she stopped herself. Instead, she just exhaled, took a step back, and muttered with venom in her voice, “Guess I finally corrected my form, huh?” Her tone wasn’t triumphant. It was sharp. Bitter. Quietly heartbroken. She didn’t wait for a response. She climbed through the ropes, boots hitting the floor with more force than necessary, and stormed past the stunned recruits. A few tried to congratulate her. She ignored them. Someone tried to fist bump her—she didn’t even look at them.

Because she wasn’t proud of what just happened. She wasn’t even satisfied. She was pissed. And hurt. The minute she stepped out of the ring, it was like a wall went up again—harder, taller, colder than before. Randy sat there, still catching his breath, watching her go with a look that was part confusion, part awe. He reached up and rubbed his jaw. “What the hell was that…”

Shawn Michaels chuckled quietly nearby, his arms crossed. “That?” he said. “That was your ass getting humbled.”

Randy glanced sideways at him. “She’s pissed.”

“She’s always pissed,” Shawn replied. “But that? That’s the first time she wrestled from somewhere deeper. You felt that, didn’t you?”

Randy didn’t answer right away. Because yeah. He did feel it. In his ribs. In his jaw. In his ego. And somewhere he really, really didn’t want to admit. Because her body had felt too good wrapped around him like that. And the way she looked at him before storming off? Like she hated him. Like she wanted him. Like maybe she didn’t know the difference anymore. He shook his head. Nope. Not going there. She was infuriating. Rude. Younger. Reckless. And still the only one who’d pinned him clean in the past six months. He rolled his neck, stood, and watched the doors she’d disappeared through like they might swing open again. They didn’t. But the damage had already been done.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Performance Center had emptied quickly after their match. The recruits were still buzzing from the shock finish—murmurs about Y/N’s finisher, the way she’d pinned Randy clean, the way she'd just walked out like none of it mattered. Even the coaches were quieter than usual, a mix of impressed and unsure what the hell to do with someone like her. Randy, still sweaty and sore, leaned over the ropes and cracked his neck. His pride was bruised, sure—but the ache in his ribs wasn’t just from the hold she’d locked in. It was from the realization that she wasn’t just talented. She was something else.

He stayed behind after everyone left, pretending to clean up a few things—truthfully just needing a minute. That girl was driving him insane. Smartass. Sharp-tongued. Reckless.

And yet… he hadn’t stopped thinking about how she looked when she pinned him. Not because of the position—though yeah, that sure as hell didn’t help—but because of the look in her eyes. It wasn’t triumph. It was rage. It was something buried so deep that he hadn’t seen it until it burned through her.

Randy grabbed his water bottle and started toward the back exit when a voice stopped him. It was low, muffled—coming from the women’s locker room down the hall. He paused. He wouldn’t have stopped if it had been just noise, or humming, or venting. But her voice cracked. Just for a second. He stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, just outside the slightly cracked door. Inside, Y/N was on the phone. He could hear her pacing, the floor creaking faintly beneath her boots.

“...I know what they think. I’m not stupid.” She paused, voice taut. “They think I’m a bitch. Or impossible. Or… whatever word fits the day.”

Another beat. Her voice was lower now. Slower. She sounded tired. “But if I don’t act like I’m the best in the room, no one else will ever believe it.”

Randy froze, barely breathing. He felt like a goddamn intruder—but couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

“I didn’t come here to make friends,” she muttered. “I came to take someone’s spot. I’ve spent ten years clawing my way up from dive bars and VFW halls. Getting paid in hot dogs and gas money. You think I had time to learn how to be likable?” She laughed bitterly. It didn’t sound like her. It sounded younger. “But now that I’m here, it’s like that attitude’s what’s holding me back. And I don’t know how to just… be softer.”

Randy swallowed hard, pressing his shoulder to the wall. She was quiet for a few seconds. Then… “I’m screwing this up, aren’t I?” The voice on the other end was too faint to hear. Probably whoever she called when the world got too heavy. “He makes it so hard,” she said quietly, frustration curling every word. “I mean, I get that he’s a living legend, but he’s just so– he’s so—so smug. And yeah, okay, I pushed first. I said awful things. But he digs in like he knows exactly where to hit me. I hate how much better he makes me.”

That stunned him. “I’m wrestling cleaner. Thinking sharper. He calls me on my bullshit before I can even spew it. And the worst part is, I’m actually listening.” Another beat. Then her voice cracked again. “He’s making me better. I just… I don’t know how to show that without looking weak.” She was quiet after that. Long enough that Randy’s heart started hammering in his chest. He had no right to be hearing any of this—but he couldn’t un-hear it either.

This whole time, he’d thought she was all bark and bravado. Just a mouthy upstart with too much talent and no leash. But now he saw it. She wasn’t just performing. She was defending herself. Against rejection. Against being underestimated. Against a world that made her feel like she had to fight for every damn scrap of validation.

And now here she was, finally somewhere that could change her life—and it was slipping through her fingers because she didn’t know how to stop swinging. Randy turned and walked away before she caught him listening. Something shifted in him as he went. The woman in that ring and the woman in that locker room were the same person—but this version of her, the one who doubted herself, who admitted her faults, who wrestled not just opponents but her own damn instincts? That version got under his skin deeper than he was ready to admit. She didn’t need someone to fix her. She just needed someone to see through her. Maybe he could do that. Maybe he already had.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Performance Center was silent, save for the low hum of the overhead lights and the faint creak of the ropes as they shifted. Sunday meant rest for most of the roster. The rings were empty. The cameras were off. But for Randy Orton and Y/N, the grind didn’t stop — not when the deadline to prove she could work with others loomed just days away. She was already in the ring stretching when he walked in, gym bag slung over his shoulder and a bottle of water in his hand. Her hair was pulled up messily, skin already glistening slightly from her warm-up, and her expression — even from across the room — was cocky as ever.

“You’re late,” she said without looking at him, legs extending into a split like it was nothing.

Randy chuckled. “It’s literally 6:02.”

“Yeah, and I’ve already been here for twenty minutes,” she replied, standing and rolling her neck. “You’re lucky I’m generous enough to wait.”

“Generous. Right.” He stepped up to the ring apron and climbed through the ropes, eyeing her like she was the problem set he hadn’t quite solved yet. “You sure you’re not still pissed I handed your ego its ass last week?”

She smirked. “Ego’s fine. Knees are fine. You, however, are still recovering from that pin. I’ve got the footage if you need a reminder.”

The banter was lighter now. Still fiery, still sharp — but the venom had dulled over the past few days. They hadn’t apologized for what was said, not really. But something shifted since that night — since he heard her vulnerable behind the locker room door. And now, Randy wasn’t coaching her out of obligation. He was doing it because he saw something. Not just in her ability — but in her. “Alright,” he said, tossing his water bottle to the side and tightening his wrist tape. “Let’s see what you’ve got, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I plan on showing you. Hope your pride’s warmed up.”

They circled each other, bodies loose but alert. She moved with the same confidence she always did — but there was something else, too. A flicker in her eyes. A tension beneath the surface neither of them wanted to name. The match started clean — a tie-up, quick reversals, trading holds and counter-holds. Randy took her down with a wristlock; she popped up with a kip-up and swept his legs out from under him. They moved like they’d been doing this together for years — but it was laced with electricity now, every touch carrying a new weight.

A quarter of the way through, she caught him in a corner and nailed him with a stiff forearm. He grunted, half-impressed. “Getting cocky again, huh?” he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

“Just getting started,” she quipped, winking as she backed off.

But it was around the halfway mark when things really shifted. She hit a hurricanrana that sent him to the mat, and before he could fully register, she was already pivoting, wrapping her thighs around his head in a transition that felt a little too fluid. Randy stilled beneath her. Not because he couldn’t counter — he absolutely could — but because for a split second, he couldn’t think. She squeezed, just slightly, the muscle in her legs flexing around his skull. And when she looked down at him, her expression wasn’t just cocky — it was knowing. Bold. A slow, deliberate smirk pulled at her lips.

“You okay down there?” she teased, voice breathy with effort but sultry all the same.

He growled low in his throat. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not. I just know the view’s probably better for you than it is for me.”

Randy shoved her off with a sudden burst of power, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ.”

She rolled to her feet, licking her lips and brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What? Can’t handle a little pressure, old man?”

He charged at her before he could think twice. He stepped behind her, hooked one of her arms behind her back in a hammerlock, and pulled her down with him to the mat in a fluid motion. He kept his chest pinned to her back, his legs wrapping around hers in a modified body scissors. But the real trap was his arm — his free arm coiled firmly around her neck and shoulder, wrenching her into a grounded cobra clutch. The pressure was immediate — snug but controlled. His forearm pressed against her collarbone, tight enough to keep her still, not enough to hurt. His other hand gripped his own wrist to keep the hold locked. One knee dug slightly into the mat, his torso pressed flush to hers.

“Let’s see you talk now,” he murmured beside her ear, breath hot.

Her breathing hitched. The hold wasn’t just tight — it was personal. His chest against her back, her legs locked between his, her arms pinned. She could feel every inch of him: his heat, his strength, the tension in his muscles holding her there. She’d been in hundreds of holds before. But this one felt different. “This what you wanted?” he muttered, voice low in her ear.

She let out a breath that was more of a moan than a groan. “You wish.”

“Tap,” he commanded.

“No.”

“You’re not getting out of this.”

“Guess we’ll see,” she muttered, her breath starting to quicken as the pressure tightened.

Instead of struggling to find a way out, she stilled for a beat — and then slowly, deliberately, rolled her hips back into him. Just once. Barely a graze. Randy’s grip faltered for a fraction of a second. He blinked hard, his jaw tightening. Maybe he imagined it.

But then she did it again.

His breath caught this time. “The hell are you doing?” he asked, voice rough.

She tilted her head just slightly, brushing her lips near his jaw. “Trying to escape,” she said, all faux innocence.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” he muttered, but his grip had already loosened — not entirely, but just enough for her to feel it.

She grinned. And then she did it again — slower this time, her hips grinding back into him in a way that was far too intentional to ignore. She heard the breath hitch in his throat, felt his body go rigid behind her. “Cut it out,” he snapped. But his voice lacked heat — lacked command.

“Why?” she whispered. “Afraid you’re gonna lose twice?”

That was all she needed. In a flash, she shifted her weight, using his loosened grip to roll through. Her leg hooked behind his as she pivoted, dragging him onto his back while she straddled him in one seamless move. Her hands hit his chest to steady herself as she sat firmly on top of him. “One,” she whispered. He didn’t move. “Two.” His hands hovered near her waist — not pushing her off, not pulling her in. “Three.”

She was breathless. So was he. Neither of them moved. Not even a blink. Her thighs were snug around his hips. His hands, finally resting at her sides, gripped her skin like he wasn’t sure if he meant to hold her there or push her away. “I win,” she murmured, almost too softly. And yet — it echoed. Their chests rose and fell together, breaths syncopated. Her palms were still flat against his chest. His jaw ticked. She shifted slightly on top of him — an innocent adjustment, but one that sent heat flooding through both of them.

His eyes darkened. She smirked. They weren’t touching much. But the air between them was charged. Raw. Barely restrained. Randy didn’t move. Not even as her weight shifted on top of him. Not even as the slow smirk curled across her lips again — not cocky this time, but curious. Like she was testing something. Testing him.

"You gonna lie there all day?" she asked, her voice husky with amusement and something else. Her fingers toyed with the edge of his collar before trailing slowly down his chest, featherlight, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Randy exhaled, sharp and low. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, sparkling with mischief. “What’s the matter, Daddy Orton? Can’t take a little heat?”

The name hit him like a switch flipped. He wasn’t sure if it was the smirk. Or her voice. Or the way she said daddy like she knew exactly what it did to him. But he stopped thinking. Fully, completely. His hand shot up to the back of her neck, pulling her down roughly, and before she could say another smartass word, his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was punishing — all teeth and frustration rolled into one heated second. She gasped against him, more from surprise than anything, but she didn’t hesitate. Her fingers curled in his shirt, anchoring herself as she kissed him back just as fiercely.

“God, you’re such a pain in the ass,” he growled into her mouth.

She bit his bottom lip before tugging back just far enough to whisper, “You love it.”

He flipped them with one sharp movement, pinning her down beneath him. The mat thudded beneath their weight, but she didn’t flinch. Just grinned, wide and daring, like she was still in control. “You think you’re tough,” he muttered, brushing her hair back roughly. “You think you’ve got it all figured out.”

Her chest heaved. “I think you’re full of shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His thumb grazed her jaw. “Then why haven’t you told me to stop?”

Her smile faded for half a second. Her breath hitched. But then, with a half-laugh and that ever-present fire in her gaze, she whispered, “Because I don’t want you to.”

They stared at each other for a long beat, both breathing hard. Both waiting for the other to blink first. But no one did. That’s when his hand slowly moved down to her thigh, gently massaging the toned muscle. Y/N could feel her core growing warmer just by the simple touch. “Yeah? You don’t want me to stop?” He grins cockily, “Then what do you want?”

For the first time in her life, Y/N’s left speechless. Her mind is completely blank as she struggles to find a comeback. The deep smirk on his face enrages her and makes her want to climb him all in the same breath. She blinks slowly at him, her lashes fluttering softly as she shakes her head no.

Randy has to swallow the groan that threatens to leave him. She looks good like this. Underneath him. Innocent almost. But he can see past that. He can see the thoughts swirling around in her head and they’re anything but pure.

That’s when his hand moves higher, his thumb dipping below the hem line of her spandex. He watches, his cock straining against his pants as she practically arches into his touch. He can see a wet spot forming on her shorts just from the bare minimum he’s done. He tilts his head, inching just a little further up.

He raises an amused brow, “Now what do we have here…?” He mumbles, voice dark and husky in a way she wasn't accustomed to. “Who would’ve thought that the master of back talk doesn’t wear underwear when she works out?”

Y/N lets out a small whimper which causes Randy’s eyes to darken. The newly found flush on her cheeks making her look so much more… submissive than the shit starter he’s gotten to know. “They get uncomfortable during training,” she says quietly, almost embarrassed.

Randy laughs in a sultry manner, his finger slowly moving over the hill of her thigh and over to her growing heat. He gets close enough to make Y/N moan softly, begging him to just give her a bit of something. “There’s no need to explain yourself, princess…” He trails off, licking his lips as he takes in her form. How perfectly splayed out she is for him. “You just made it easier on me.”

Without warning he smoothly slips his finger inside of her. Y/N gasps at the intrusion but it’s most certainly not unwelcome. She throws her head back, eyes closing as all the tension she’s been carrying suddenly leaves her body. He only has one finger inside of her but it still feels bigger than some of the other people she’s experienced.

“Yeah… Ain’t got much to say now, do you?”

And she didn’t. She had absolutely nothing to say. Nothing but how good his finger feels inside of her. However, the slow pace he’s chosen isn’t enough for her. She’s always been a bit greedy, wanting to take more than she needed. So she slowly started to grind back into him, chasing that delicious friction she’s been craving. But Randy, of course, wouldn’t let her get away with it that easily.

She whines as he slowly pulls his finger out of her and out of her spandex. There’s a small slap where the fabric meets her skin and Y/N forces herself to sit up. Lips parted slightly as she pants, hair slightly disheveled and skin painted with lust. Randy could get used to seeing her like that. Laid out and clearly desperate for whatever he had to give her.

He glances at his finger, the appendage shining with her fresh juices. He can see her watching intently. So with a small grin, he slowly slips his finger in his mouth. He closes his eyes briefly, the taste being better than anything he could’ve ever imagined. He allows it to linger on his tongue before pulling it out sensually to make sure she saw everything.

“Damn sweetheart,” he says, slowly climbing towards her lips. “You taste that sweet just for me?”

Y/N nods along dumbly as he grows closer. His large and calloused hands grabbing her hips before yanking her closer to him. She wraps her legs around his waist tightly as he connects his lips to hers once more. Y/N doesn’t even bother to fight for dominance, her own taste on his tongue short circuiting whatever working power she had left in her brain.

Out of nowhere, Randy suddenly has a grip on her hair, pulling it back to remove her lips from his. The pain only spurts her one more, another breathy moan leaving her lips. Randy kisses down her neck for a moment before glancing up at her, “I asked you a question sweet girl… Don’t tell me you out of all people suddenly have nothing to say.”

Y/N’s suddenly very aware of how his hands start to fiddle with the top of her shorts, pulling them down ever so slightly. She’s so close to getting exactly what she wants. “Yes, Randy,” she admits, her own hands blindly reaching out and managing to find the bulge hidden behind his workout shorts. She feels his thighs tense beneath her touch as she starts palming him, despite her head still being pulled back. “S’all for you.”

The Viper tilts his head, “That’s not my name sweetheart…”

Y/N stills for a moment, her hand faltering in its movements. She feels herself clench around nothing, a new wave of arousal beginning to leak through her shorts and onto her thighs. Randy uses his free hand to cup her core, practically salivating at the feeling of her ruining her spandex.

He releases his grip on her hair, allowing her to look him directly in the eye. Y/N finally gets her thoughts in order, that deceivingly innocent smile returning as she begins massaging him through his own shorts once more. She leans up, lips brushing against the soft spot behind his ear. “Yes, daddy,” she enunciates. “So sweet just for you.”

Randy inhales sharply, not realizing how much he’d love hearing that come out of her mouth. With one swift movement, he captures her lips in another heated kiss while simultaneously yanking her shorts down to her ankles. Y/N assists him, lips still busy as she kicks the spandex across the ring.

It’s at this moment she realizes anyone could walk into the PC and see her like this. Writhing underneath the legend killed as the pad of his thumb runs up and down her soaked thighs. The thought alone makes her whine into his mouth. Her wrist flicks in all the right ways, stroking him through the fabric. She pauses for a moment only to pull at the elastic waistband of his shorts, silently begging him to let her take them off.

“Use your words, princess,” he mutters against her lips. “I can’t read your mind.”

“Take them off, please.” She begs him, feeling his fingers starting to probe her entrance once more.

“Please what?”

Y/N starts kissing down his neck with a desperate hum, “Please daddy.”

Randy groans, “God, I could get used to hearing that.”

He helps her move his shorts down his legs, Y/N sneakily grabbing the waistband of his boxers, pulling them off in the process as well. Her eyes widen as she watches his cock spring to life, smacking against his toned stomach. Her mouth waters at the sight, her hand looking incredibly small as she wraps her fingers around it.

The skin to skin contact makes the Viper shudder. He swipes his finger across her entrance, collecting her juices before licking them off in one fluid motion. “Go ahead… Show daddy how well you can work to help someone besides yourself.”

Y/N fights the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he makes this about her progress. Randy can see the attitude growing on her face, but before she can say anything smart, he cups his hand, slapping her thigh roughly. Y/N arches her back, moaning as the pain mixes with her arousal. “Don’t make me ask twice,” he chastises. “Remember, you’re the one with a contract on the line.”

Y/N stares into his eyes before deliberately and slowly stroking his length. She feels her ego grow just by watching the way he closes his eyes, his body shuddering from the sensation. She keeps her pace steady for the first few moments, Randy starting to grow impatient as he rocks forward into her hand.

Y/N waits for the right moment to strike. She picks up the pace and right when Randy lets his guard down, she flips them right back over. His eyes open back up, his expression nothing short of surprised. He goes to say something but Y/N cuts him off with a kiss. “Don’t worry, daddy. Just wanna show you what I learned.”

He watches, jaw slack as she begins kissing down his toned chest. She moves slowly, eyes never leaving his as she peppers his entire torso with kisses. His breath hitches as she stops right above his navel. She strokes him one last time before sticking her tongue out, licking a nice trail from the base of his cock to the tip.

“Fuck,” he exhales, his need for her growing. “Do that again.”

Y/N grins before repeating the exact same motion, except this time when she stopped at the top, she allowed the tip of his duck to slide right between her lips. Randy’s eyes darkened as he watched his cock disappear into her mouth. She maintains eye contact, her tongue swirling around the tip. She groans at the taste of his precum, the saltiness feeling oddly nice on her tongue.

Without even needing to be instructed, she begins taking him deeper. Her tongue does tiny ministrations as she moves. Her hand travels up to massage his balls, and that’s when he collapses backwards onto the mat. She doesn’t stop until his cock reaches the back of her throat, her eyes watering from the intrusion, but she forces herself to stay there. She gags around him softly, a moan escaping him. Y/N smirks before moving up once more and down just as deep.

Randy couldn’t get over how good her mouth felt wrapped around him. The way she skillfully moves her tongue makes it hard to remember he’s the one supposed to be in charge. “Your mouth was made for this dick, wasn’t it sweet girl?”

Y/N nods, her mouth still connected to him. Drool dribbles down her chin as she continues to bob her head up and down rhythmically. The sight makes him twitch in her mouth, and it doesn’t make it any easier when she moves her hands to the base of his dick and starts stroking.

The combination of the friction and how wet her mouth felt, it didn’t take long before he could feel himself slipping. She knew it too. By that smug look in her eye, she could tell he was getting close so she picked up the pace. But Randy stopped her efforts in their tracks.

Y/N whines, her mouth being removed with an almost pornographic pop. He smiles before pulling her towards him. He’s now sitting up fully, Y/N straddling his lap just above his fully erect cock. He kisses her neck, moving across her collarbone before focusing on sucking matching marks on each of her breasts.

“Don’t be sad, Princess,” he assures her as she starts bucking into him to try and release the pressure building inside of her. “Daddy just wanted to save the good stuff for his pussy, okay?”

Y/N’s nails dig into his biceps at the nasty words that came out of his mouth. She never would have expected Randy Orton out of all people to say such a provocative statement. Randy can see the way his words cloud her mind and it makes him grin even wider. He’s got her right where he wants her.

“You tell me if you need me to stop, all right?” He mutters against her neck before pecking her lips. “Can you do that for me? If I hurt you, you tell me.”

Y/N can see the genuine look of concern in his eyes and it makes her pause for a second. Her usually cold heart warms and she can feel herself wanting to be vulnerable with him. The same way he is with her. She nods, “Yes daddy.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing her once more.

Y/N gasps into his lips as his tip pushes into her. He doesn’t move fast, just slowly sinking her into him. The stretch burns, but in the best way possible. She can feel every inch of him sliding into her. When she woke up this morning, this is not where she thought the day would end up.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” He whispers.

Y/N moans quietly in his ear but nods rapidly, “So so good.” Her hips wriggle atop him, “More please,” she begs.

Randy chuckles darkly, “Yes ma’am,” he says teasingly before burying himself fully inside of her.

Y/N hisses, the burn from the stretch mixing with the pleasure of having him that deep in her. She can practically feel him piercing her cervix, his dick pulsating with need. She doesn’t want to adjust. She’s too desperate. She needs him and she needs him now.

Randy can see a shift in her demeanor but before he can ask, Y/N moves. She begins bouncing up and down on him like he’s hers to own. Which at this point, he might as well be. She throws her head back, a guttural moan leaving her. From that angle, he hits her deeper than she thought was even possible.

Randy watches, completely hypnotized as she bounces perfectly on top of him. His eyes go from the look of bliss in her face down to where his dick disappears perfectly inside of her. “Fuck you’re tight,” he praises, one of his hands going to her back to keep her upright. “Squeezin’ me so good baby.”

He smacks her ass, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her want to move faster. She places her hands in his chest, bracing herself as she continues to fuck herself on his cock. “Feels so good, daddy,” she babbles out, the coil in her stomach becoming tighter.

“Feels good for me too,” he nods. “You’re doing such a great job for me sweetheart. Fucking yourself nice and hard.”

His praise spurs her on more. She doesn’t know why. But even outside of this. Whenever he would smile at her just slightly or give her an impressed nod, it would always make her pump her chest out a little further. Hearing him tell her how great she is, how good she’s doing, it does something to her that she never expected.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” He continues worshipping her, hands moving up and down her sides. He can feel her walls fluttering around him at every word. “Even when you’re running that damn mouth, I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful you are. How gorgeous you’d look just like this. Turns out I wasn’t wrong.”

Y/N felt herself growing weaker at the confession. Randy can feel the way her thighs quake around him so he doesn’t waste a second. He grabs her gently before flipping them over and taking exactly what he wants. Y/N all but screams as he starts pounding into her with a newfound strength she didn’t have. She wraps her legs around him, this new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper. She looks down, watching as his dick begins to bulge through her stomach with each thrust. Her eyes roll back with a loud moan.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles kissing her neck. “You wanna come for me sweetheart? I can feel you clenching.”

Y/N nods, biting her bottom lip roughly to avoid alerting anyone who could be walking outside. She was losing control, and truthfully, she didn’t mind one bit. “Wanna come for you so bad daddy. Please can I? Can I come?” She blabbers, any form of embarrassment being thrown out the window.

Randy grins, sucking on her neck. Y/N didn’t even have the wherewithal to care about the fact he left a mark on her, her mind too focused on her own release. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair away from her forehead, “Only because you asked so nicely.” And just like that, the coil in her snapped. Randy watched in awe as she gushed around him, her grip on his dick becoming impossibly tighter. Y/N’s head was thrown back, the feeling of absolute pleasure being the only thing on her mind. She couldn’t hear a thing besides a faint ringing, her jaw completely slack.

Randy felt himself twitch at the sight. Seeing her come undone in such a way made him thrust into her even harder. She still manages to groan beneath him despite not being fully coherent. She subconsciously grinds into him, meeting him halfway, almost as if she was chasing another high. Randy’s thrusts start to become sloppier as he feels his own release approaching. He moves to pull out, but she digs her heels into his side, trapping him inside of her. He looks down to find her tired eyes looking up at him. She might not have the energy, but she is aware of the decision she’s making. Randy exhales heavily, “What are you doing? You gotta let me pull out sweetheart.”

She shakes her head, “Keep going,” she encourages, voice raspy. “Want it inside,” she reaches between her legs, stimulating her own clit with a loud cry. He curses as she tightens around him once more. “It’s okay. ‘M on the pill.”

That’s all he needed to hear. With one particularly strong movement, he spills inside of her. Y/N watches with a satisfied smile as he empties his seed. She uses her fingers to scoop up some of the residue that begins to leak out onto her thighs before lazily placing it in her mouth.

She sucks on her fingers happily as Randy comes to. He slowly lowers himself down, placing a kiss on her cheek before rolling over to lay beside her, both fucked out and completely breathless. The two of them lay sprawled in the middle of the empty ring, tangled in afterglow and silence, their heavy breathing the only sound in the arena. Sweat clung to their skin under the faint arena lights, and the ring ropes gently swayed around them like they’d just witnessed something they weren’t supposed to.

Randy turned his head slowly, gaze dragging to the woman beside him. She still had that fire in her eyes—even now, her chest rising and falling with defiance more than exhaustion. “You’re still glaring at me,” he murmured, voice low and scratchy.

“I’m not glaring,” Y/N shot back, her tone clipped. “This is just my face.”

Randy let out a soft chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She looked away, brushing hair out of her eyes. But she didn’t move. Didn’t run. That alone told him something had shifted. “I meant what I said by the way,” he murmured, quieter now. “You’re fucking beautiful. And not just the ‘magazine cover’ kind. The kind that makes people nervous. Like they don’t know what to do with you.”

Her breath hitched, barely perceptible. She didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was small. Almost unsure. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not just saying it,” he said. “Trust me — I’m not the guy who says shit he doesn’t mean.”

There was a pause. Something settled between them. Then Y/N’s voice cracked through it, still stubborn, still rough around the edges. “…I was out of line. The other day. What I said about your family.”

He blinked. “You apologizing?”

She scoffed, turning her head away. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled softly, eyes flicking across her features. She was trying not to let it show, but there was guilt there. And something tender she hadn’t quite figured out how to hide yet. “You seem like a great dad,” she said, almost reluctantly. “I shouldn’t have—said all that. I was pissed and petty and just... I went for blood.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, with that signature smirk creeping back. “Well, technically you called me Daddy about four times, so I must be doing something right.”

She groaned again and shoved him, but there was no heat in it. “You’re the worst.”

“You started it.”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

They lay there in silence again, the tension now softened. Less sharp edges. Just breath and warmth between them. Then Randy spoke again, more measured this time. He turned onto his side, facing her completely. “Why’s it so hard for you to let people in?”

She flinched. Just slightly. Her mouth opened like she had something to say — something rehearsed, probably defensive — but then it closed again. She exhaled instead, long and shaky. “It’s easier to be difficult than it is to be disappointed,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but there was a waver underneath it. “People don’t stick around. They pretend to. But eventually they get tired of trying to figure me out and they leave.”

She glanced at him, just for a second. “So I don’t give them the chance.” Randy stayed quiet, eyes on her like he wasn’t going anywhere. She swallowed and kept going, as if the words had been waiting too long to be let out. “I’ve worked my ass off to be taken seriously. And I know I’ve got talent. But if I don’t act like I’m the best, nobody’s going to believe it. They’ll treat me like I’m just some girl who got lucky. So I make noise. I push buttons. I throw elbows.”

“And that works?” Randy asked gently.

She gave a humorless laugh. “No. But it makes it harder for people to forget me.”

His gaze softened. He reached over and brushed his knuckles along her cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. “You are good enough,” he said. “You don’t have to be an ass to prove it. You just are. Even when you’re being difficult. Especially then.”

Her eyes met his, a flicker of something vulnerable breaking through. “…You really think that?”

“Like I said, I don’t say shit if I don’t mean it.”

A beat of silence passed. Then she rolled her eyes to cover the emotion thickening in her throat. “I hope you know that you probably just violated, like, fifty company policies.”

He leaned in, his voice low against her lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She grinned and tilted her head. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Brat.”

Her smirk widened. “Takes one to know one.”

He kissed her again — slower this time, more deliberate. Like he was choosing her, not just wanting her. When they broke apart, her fingers idly traced the edge of one of the tattoos across his chest. “…You know,” she said casually, “you could’ve just kicked my ass tonight.”

He snorted. “I did.”

“Fair,” she muttered.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “But this was more fun.”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The crowd in the NXT gym wasn’t massive, but it was loud — clapping, hollering, stomping against the barricades as Y/N locked in the submission. Her arms cinched tight under her opponent’s chin, legs wrapped around the waist, every inch of her body working to hold the choke. Her opponent clawed at her arm, struggling, kicking, but it was locked in. Y/N’s eyes were sharp. Focused. She didn't flinch. Not even when her opponent’s hand slapped the mat.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The bell rang. Y/N didn’t immediately let go. Old habits died hard. But then she heard the ref call it — and she finally released, panting, muscles trembling with adrenaline. She sat up and stared at the ceiling for half a second, the win washing over her in slow motion. Then, instead of her usual storm-out, she did something different. Something no one expected. She turned back to her opponent, who was catching her breath on the mat, and extended her hand. The other woman blinked, hesitating, then accepted it. Y/N helped her up and gave her a firm nod — respectful. Earned.

The small crowd clapped again, even louder. She didn’t smile, not fully, but there was something different in her expression. Calmer. Less guarded. From ringside, Shawn Michaels gawked like he’d just seen Bigfoot. “What the hell did you do to her?” he asked, turning toward Randy. “Seriously.”

Randy smirked, arms folded across his chest. “You’re welcome.”

“No, I’m being serious. That’s not the same girl who tried to throw a chair at a ref two months ago. She just helped someone up. What the hell?”

“She’s always had it in her,” Randy said simply. “She just needed someone who didn’t try to tame it. Just… guide it.”

Shawn let out a low whistle. “Jesus. You turned the most difficult, hot-headed talent we’ve had in years into someone we can actually use.”

Randy’s eyes didn’t leave her. She’d slid out of the ring and grabbed a towel, wiping down her neck as she made her way toward them, still catching her breath but holding her head a little higher than usual. She had that fire — but for once, it wasn’t burning her from the inside out. It was directed. She stopped in front of them, chest rising and falling. “Was that clean enough for you?”

Shawn blinked. “That was… actually perfect.”

“You gonna tell me I’ve ‘got potential’ again?” she teased, tossing the towel over her shoulder.

He handed her a clipboard instead. “Nah. Gonna tell you you’ve got a contract.”

She stared at it. “What?” she breathed.

“NXT,” he confirmed. “That match just sealed it. You’ve earned it.”

Y/N blinked down at the paper, suddenly quiet. And then, with no warning, she turned and launched herself into Randy’s arms. He caught her on instinct, hands settling on her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist. Her head buried in his neck for a beat, all tension evaporating in his hold. “I did it,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

He nodded against her temple. “Yeah. You did.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his. “You really stuck around for the worst of it.”

“You weren’t the worst,” he said. “You were just... pissed off.”

She gave a short, quiet laugh. “Still am, most days.”

“Yeah, but now you know where to put it.”

They looked at each other for a beat longer than either of them intended. Then Shawn cleared his throat. “Alright, save some of that energy for your debut. You’ll get the official schedule and details in the next couple days.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Randy leaned in, voice low enough for just her. “That chokehold? Almost made me proud.”

“Almost?” she challenged.

“You keep showing up like that, I might have to start bragging about you.”

She smirked, bumping his shoulder. “You brag about me already. You just do it behind my back.”

He didn’t deny it. As she turned to follow Shawn to sign her papers, Randy grabbed her wrist just briefly — enough to make her pause. “I’m proud of you,” he said, softer this time. “And not just ‘cause you won.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining with something unspoken. She didn’t need to say it. The look said it all. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For not giving up on me when I made it very easy.”

He chuckled. “You're lucky you're hot.”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “And you’re lucky I didn’t choke you out first.”

Y/S/Nwwe

Liked by randyorton, maxxinedupri, wwe, and 40,793 others

Y/S/Nwwe: NXT, here I come. #WWE #NextinLine

View all 18,343 comments

randyorton: Told you. Now the whole world’s gonna see what I already knew. Proud of you. Try not to hurt everyone… yet. 😏

wwe: The future just got meaner. Welcome to #WWENXT 💥

trickwilliams_wwe: Ayo hold up 👀 You really here now?! Let’s gooo! Big win for NXT. Don’t hurt nobody too bad 😅💪🏽

solrvca: LET’S GOOOOO 🤙🏼 finally someone who scares the boys and the girls 😂 Can’t wait to train together!

reallaknight: NXT just signed a real one. Bet on yourself and cash that in, YEAH.

biancabelairwwe: Oh you about to tear it UP down there 🔥🔥 Y’all better get ready, she built different!

roxanne_wwe: My new favorite chaos partner is finally official 😭🖤

bronbreakkerwwe: Damn. Now I really gotta stay on my A game. Congrats, champ. 💯

heelqueen22: She really said "sign me or I’ll choke the whole roster out" and NXT said bet 😭😭😭

tricknationstan: Trick + her energy in one building??? i fear for the entire roster lmao

vipervenom88: Randy trained her like a killer, and now she’s legally allowed to raise hell. We won.

wrestlegirl98: She got signed AND Sol already welcoming her like they’re tag champs 😭 NXT gonna be real fun.

blackandgoldera: Y/N running through the NXT women’s division like a storm. Can’t wait.

heelturnhoney: The girls are shaking and the men are already obsessed. Yup, star behavior 😮‍💨💅🏽