WWE Smut One Shots

Brock Lesnar (1, Part 1 of 2)

To not face your problems is one thing.

To attack them while their back is turned is another.

It is cowardice.

Something your brother, the ignorant Samoa Joe, expresses on an almost weekly basis.

He does the dirty work for the head honcho and attempts to eliminate any signs of trouble. First it was Seth Rollins, and it soon escalated to the advocate for the Beast Incarnate Brock Lesnar. You watched in horror as Samoa Joe laid the Kokina Clutch on Paul Heyman himself. Horrible visions of the destruction to come plagued your mind as Paul lost consciousness in the middle of the ring.

You pleaded with your brother to release Paul, saying enough was enough. But Joe was never one to listen to you, his own flesh and blood, his precious baby sister.

Some time had passed and Paul was now conscious, being surveyed by the medical team of the WWE. Wrapping your arms tightly around your frame, you inhaled deeply and walked through the door.

"Mr. Heyman?"

He looked up at you with a blank stare. "Madam... to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

You didn't like his emphasis. "I wanted to apologize for Joe's actions. Believe me when I tell you I had no idea he would attack you like that. I can't even imagine what must be going through your head right now, let alone your client's."

Paul gave a half smirk. "I actually just finished a call with my client. He'll be here on RAW next week to address what had happened."

"About that," you looked to your Louboutin heels, "I wanted to also extend my apologizes to your client. What my brother did was unacceptable. And I believe I know the best way to teach him a lesson."

"Oh really?" Paul raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Just have your client contact me for details." You took a pen and prescription pad from the nearby medical examiner, writing your number. "I'm available to talk at any hour of the day, afternoon, and evening. Nighttime calls will need to be quick."

Paul took the paper from you hesitantly. "And you can't share your plan with me because...?"

"Well, one reason is the fact that there are other people here. The second is because I don't want you to try and talk Brock Lesnar out of making contact with me."

Leaving the pen and pad at his side, you walked out of the room with your head held high and you knees shaking.

(Time Skip)

You sat with your back against the headboard of the hotel's bed, toying with your phone with one hand and the drawstrings of your pajama shorts with the other. The time read 11:46, sixteen minutes past the expected time Brock Lesnar was meant to arrive.

He called you around 10 this morning, six days after the incident with Joe and Paul on RAW. The first two days you thought nothing of not receiving a call, since Brock is a busy man. But by the third day you feared the lesson you planned to teach Joe would not go into effect. You had given up when the clock struck midnight, entering day six, but clutched your phone in your palm as you slept just in case.

The conversation still ran through your head.

*bzzt bzzt* *bzzt bzzt* *bzzt b-*

"Hello...?" You groaned in a sleepy haze.

"Is this (Y/N)?"

You popped up at the sound of a familiar voice. "Brock? Yes, I'm here."