#wwe smackdown

[alexablissdaily]

ALEXA BLISS WWE SmackDown, May 16th, 2025

[mamiobesssionfics]

Crushed Velvet and Cherry Kisses

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Warning: Non-Explicit Smut

Summary: You’re the vision no one forgets, black and red, heels like weapons, and lips like sin.

The crowd was roaring, sweat and adrenaline thick in the air, and yet, she only saw you.

Rhea Ripley had someone in a headlock, her body coiled with power, all teeth and heat and leather. But her eyes?

Her eyes drifted to the front row, where you sat like you didn’t belong. And you didn’t.

You were elegant, sharpened into danger.

A silk black dress hugging your curves, slit high enough to tease, matched with blood-red soles.

Nails perfectly manicured, red like lacquered sin.

Lips painted to match.

And a scent—cherries, dark and syrup-sweet—carried over the ropes and burned itself into her brain.

You were watching her.

Legs crossed, lips curled, eyes half-lidded in something between amusement and challenge.

You were the kind of woman men tripped over.

But you didn’t trip.

You let them fall.

Rhea’s opponent squirmed beneath her grip, and she brought him down hard, just to prove a point. Not to him. To you.

The bell rang. The crowd roared.

Rhea raised her arms. And you…?

You clapped.

Not a scream. Not a cheer. Just that coy smirk and the faintest lift of your brow.

She was hooked.

She saw you again the next week. Different outfit, same colors. Crimson and black like blood and smoke.

Your heels clicked on concrete like gunfire.

Your eyes met hers again from ringside, bold and unflinching.

She tried to approach you once after a match, stepping past fans, security, lights, but you were already gone.

A smear of red lipstick on a wine glass.

A whisper of cherry perfume left behind.

It became a ritual. You were there every week. Always dressed to kill.

And always watching her.

But you never gave her more than a glance.

Never approached her.

Never fawned.

You made her chase. And it thrilled her.

Rhea wasn't used to chasing. She was used to being wanted. Thirsted after. Obeyed.

But with you, it was different.

You never gave her what she expected.

And that made her want you.

It was after a particularly brutal match—blood at her temple, sweat on her chest, rage still simmering in her fists—that she saw you waiting backstage.

Leaning against the wall like you owned the place.

Red lipstick flawless.

Heels crossed at the ankle.

Nails gleaming like claws.

“You always stare,” you purred.

“Maybe I want a taste,” she said, voice low, lips brushing your ear.

You tilted your head and smiled slowly. “Then earn it.”

What followed was weeks of tension so thick it could choke.

Rhea brought you water once after a match.

You took it. Didn’t drink. Just ran the bottle across your collarbone and watched her watching you.

She offered you a ride once. You slid into the passenger seat, let her look, let her want, but you didn’t stay the night.

She texted. You replied hours later. Sometimes not at all.

You drove her crazy.

And yet, she kept coming back.

Because when you did touch her arm, just barely…

When your perfume clung to her shirt…

When you bit your lip and leaned in to whisper something trivial, then pulled away…

She knew you were pulling her in like a tide.

And she was already under.

It wasn’t until a charity gala—an event where she was forced into a tight black suit and a forced smile—that she saw you again in something soft.

Red satin.

Backless.

Heels higher than any rational woman should wear.

And for once, you approached her.

You touched her arm.

Leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"You clean up well," you said. "But I liked the bruises better."

“You like bruises, huh?” she asked, smirking.

“I like you,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

The night was hot and hungry.

Hands tangled in silk.

Your heels digging into her back.

Her mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your thighs.

Red lipstick smeared between kisses.

Cherry perfume clinging to the sheets.

Her breath fastened as you whispered her name like a secret.

Yours trembling as she made you fall apart, slow, worshipful, determined.

You were coy no longer.

You were hers.

And she made sure you knew it.

She’d always been feared. Desired. Respected.

But with you, it was different.

You saw through the violence.

Tamed the storm with one look.

And when you curled into her chest after, lipstick smeared and perfume lingering, you whispered something she hadn’t expected.

“I don’t play hard to get, Rhea. I just wanted to make sure you were worth it.”

She smiled then, kissed your temple, and held you close.

“I am,” she said, voice rough. “And so are you.”

[dream-4-the-dead]

I don't know why they needed a ladder match for dominik if it was obviously a son of two fathers via mpreg. just look at them trying to cover the baby bump.

[moxleyrollins]

#sister abigail in front of the "fireflies fly forever" sign 🤍 FRIDAY NIGHT SMACKDOWN | 05.16.25

[punksrhea]

DREW MCINTYRE WWE SmackDown, May 16th, 2025

[turnbuckletalk]

MY BABY BOYS

[cosmicdes]

I like her gear

[hartbreak-motel]

WWE calling Jeff Cobb JC is fucking my millennial ass up. When I hear JC my brain immediately goes to JC Chasez from N'SYNC.

[onlyangel4]

kayfabe. cm punk. part one.

dark!cm punk x superstar!reader

synopsis: you and punk are placed into a long-term onscreen pairing. a storyline romance meant to boost ratings. the chemistry is undeniable, but offscreen, punk is distant. until he’s not. he begins texting late at night. watching. testing boundaries. you realise he’s not method acting. the possessiveness, the tension, the jealousy, it’s all real. and if the storyline ends, he won’t take it well.

part two

you were used to surprises in wwe. sudden call ups. last minute rewrites. plans changing five minutes before showtime. that was just how the business worked.

but you hadn’t expected this.

sitting in the producer’s office with a cold bottle of water sweating in your hand, you blinked once. then again. bruce was smiling, that managerial, rehearsed grin that always meant he thought he was giving you a gift.

"you’re serious?" you asked, voice flatter than you intended.

"dead serious", he said, still smiling. "you and punk. onscreen pairing. starting next monday."

you opened your mouth. closed it. punk? cm punk?

"he signed off on it?" you finally asked. not because you didn’t believe it, but because you had to believe it. no way they were putting you with him unless he’d agreed. cm punk didn’t just go along with creative. he was creative.

bruce leaned forward, hands clasped. "he liked the pitch. said it had legs. real chemistry potential."

you sat back, heart stuttering in your chest. you’d only worked a few segments anywhere near him. a backstage pre-tape three months ago. a passing comment on once. that was it. he was always distant. Professional, but cold. not cruel. not rude. just deliberately detached. like nothing backstage was worth touching.

and now, apparently, you were.

you gave a tight nod and stood, hearing your name called elsewhere in the hallway. "i’ll start prepping for monday", you said.

bruce called after you. "think of the buzz. you two? twitter’s gonna melt."

you didn’t look back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

outside the office, the hallway buzzed with the usual chaos, crew shouting, boots thudding on concrete, someone arguing about pyro in gorilla. you moved through it on autopilot, heart still ticking faster than it should’ve.

you passed catering, ignored two texts, nodded at a ref you didn’t quite know, and slipped into the women’s locker room without a word.

you needed a minute.

cm punk.

it wasn’t that you didn’t respect him. everyone did, even the ones who pretended not to. his return had changed the air in the company, sharpened it. like something dangerous had crept back into the bloodstream. he had this weight. like the room bent around him even when he wasn’t speaking.

but working with him? in a romantic angle?

you weren’t naïve. you knew what that meant, more screen time, more heat, a fast track to main-event storylines. you’d earned your spot, climbed out of undercard purgatory with sweat and stubbornness. but this was another level. this was headlines.

and it wasn’t just the cameras you had to think about. It was backstage. locker room politics. fan perception. everything blurred when storylines got too close to the bone.

you pulled out your phone and scrolled, half-hoping to see something. a message from creative. a heads-up from punk himself. nothing.

your stomach tightened.

maybe that was what bothered you, that he hadn’t said anything. no professional courtesy. no "hey, we’re working together now." just silence.

a knock hit the door, quick, two taps and before you could respond, it opened.

a crew runner peeked in. "hey. they want you on set in ten. promo run-through."

you nodded, grabbed your jacket. "who’s running it?"

the runner hesitated. "uh punk. it’s his segment."

your pulse skipped.

"right", you said. "tell them i’m on my way."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the soundstage was dim, backlit by the soft blue wash of a test spotlight. cameras weren’t rolling yet. one of the pas was fiddling with cords by the monitors. a stagehand rolled a fake brick wall into frame, part of some moody backstage backdrop. it smelled faintly of smoke machines and spilled coffee.

you spotted him instantly.

punk stood near the far wall, arms crossed, black hoodie zipped up over his gear. he wasn’t speaking to anyone. just watching. waiting.

he didn’t look up until you stepped fully into the light.

then his eyes lifted, slow and deliberate and locked with yours.

no smile. no nod. just that unreadable stare.

you moved toward him anyway, steadying your expression. "guess we’re finally working together."

a beat passed. two. then. "seems that way", he said, voice low, dry.

you tilted your head. "any thoughts on the script?"

he shrugged one shoulder, but it wasn’t careless, more calculated. "doesn’t matter what’s written. what matters is what sells. this is just a chemistry test"

you crossed your arms. "and what sells, according to you?"

he stepped a little closer, not enough to invade your space but enough that the air changed. he smelled faintly of leather and old cologne. his voice stayed even, but there was something under it. a slow current.

"tension", he said. "real tension. people don’t buy perfect love stories. they buy the kind where someone could burn for it."

you felt that line hit, low in your spine.

before you could reply, the floor director called, "run-through in thirty! get your marks!"

punk nodded toward the taped x on the floor. "let’s see if this works."

you moved to your spot. he moved to his.

the red light blinked on.

and then he looked at you, really looked and when he spoke, it wasn’t just scripted lines anymore. it was the kind of voice that curled into your bones and stayed there.

"don’t act like you’re not curious", he said, tone dark with challenge. "about what happens when you stop pretending this is just business."

you blinked.

That wasn’t in the script.

your chest lifted with a slow breath. you didn’t look at the director. didn’t break. instead, you stepped forward, right into the fire.

and you answered.

"don’t mistake curiosity for interest", you said, calm and sharp. "you’re not the only one who knows how to play the crowd."

his eyes flashed, not with anger. with something more dangerous. amusement. interest. maybe even approval.

the light cut.

someone clapped. "perfect. that’s money."

but he didn’t stop looking at you.

and suddenly, you understood: whatever this was, it had already started. and punk wasn’t playing a character.

[d-lanx]

[lifeatthebottomofthesea]

They're gonna air R-truth funeral on broadcast, cause you know Cena is gonna straight up murder him😭😭😭

[alexablissdaily]

ALEXA BLISS WWE SmackDown, May 16th, 2025

[tommyflanaganfan-blog]

I cannot wait for this!!!!

[punksyeet]

happy for him heartbroken for him

[rheasbrvtality]

she’s taking it