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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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 😮💨💅🏽
