allyisbrooding - Tumblr blog

allyisbrooding · 6 days ago

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𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒚?

☾ Pairing: Coach Rhea Ripley x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: You're a young mom trying not to go crazy raising your kid when you meet her soccer coach, Rhea Ripley, and you kind of lose your mind for other reason.

⚠︎ Warning: sexbian lex, cunnilingus (r receiving), scissoring, dirty talking.

Words: 9K ish (I got a little carried away)

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Not that there’s a lot you can elaborate to a 10-year-old kid.

The stale scent of yesterday’s coffee and antiseptic hand gel still clung to your scrubs, a ghost of the double shift you’d just survived. But today was Saturday. A mandatory day off. The silence in your small house was a physical weight, thick and heavy with all the things you and Emma weren’t saying to each other.

You’d slept, a deep, dead-to-the-world sleep born of pure exhaustion, and woken up feeling… clear. It was a dangerous feeling. Clarity meant room to think, and thinking was a luxury you couldn’t afford.

A soft thump from down the hall signaled Emma was awake. You found her in her room, struggling to pull on shin guards over her socks.

“Need a hand?” you asked, your voice a little too bright, too forced.

She didn’t look up. “I got it.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching your ten-year-old daughter, a perfect, furious copy of the man you’d finally escaped. The same defiant set of the jaw, the same stormy eyes. She’d needed a ride weeks ago and had reluctantly admitted, in a mumble, that she’d joined the school’s soccer team. You’d jumped on it like a lifeline. A shared activity. Common ground. Something, anything, to bridge the chasm between you.

“You excited?” you tried again.

She shrugged, a masterpiece of pre-teen disdain packaged in a small body. “It’s okay. Coach Rhea is cool.”

The drive to the school was a study in quiet tension, the radio filling a space your words could not. The school field was already buzzing with energy when you arrived. Girls in blue and white uniforms darted across the crisp green turf, their shouts and laughter slicing through the cool morning air. A handful of parents were scattered on the metal bleachers, sipping coffee from travel mugs.

You spotted the coach immediately, her back to you. She was a presence even from behind—tall and powerfully built, muscles rippling under a simple black tank top and gym shorts. Dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, revealing a neck tattoo that curled just behind her ear. She was demonstrating a footwork drill with a surprising grace for someone her size.

“C’mon, Emma!” one of the girls called out. Your daughter, without a backward glance, sprinted onto the field to join her teammates.

The coach turned, a wide, easy smile already on her face for Emma. And then her eyes—a startling, clear blue—landed on you. The smile didn’t fade; it shifted, intensifying, sharpening with a flicker of open interest. She finished her instruction to the girls and started walking toward the bleachers, her stride a confident, almost swaggering roll.

Up close, she was… a lot. Chaos in eyeliner, as the school rumor mill stated. The three delicate studs along the curve of her nose, the silver on her ears, the hint of a tongue barbette when she spoke—it all should have been intimidating. The tattoos snaked down her strong arms, intricate patterns and symbols you couldn’t decipher. But her eyes were warm and crinkled at the corners.

“Well, hey there,” she said, her voice a low, pleasant rumble that felt like it vibrated right through your chest and down other ways. “You must be Emma’s mom. I’m Rhea. Rhea Ripley.”

You managed a nod, painfully aware of your rumpled scrub top and the fact you’d barely run a brush through your hair. “Yeah. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Emma talks about you.”

Rhea’s grin widened. “All good things, I hope.” She leaned a hip against the bleacher railing, crossing her arms. The movement made the muscles in her biceps flex. You felt a hot flush creep up your neck. This woman was…A lot. “She’s a tough kid. Got a real fire in her. I like that.”

“She gets it from her—” you started, then cut yourself off, the words ‘father’ sticking in your throat like glass. You swallowed. “She’s… determined.”

Rhea’s gaze was intent, missing nothing. She seemed to sense the aborted sentence, the flicker of something deeper. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. “It’s a good quality. On and off the field.” She looked you over, not in a judging way, but in a way that made you feel truly seen. “Long night? The scrubs give it away.”

“Something like that,” you mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Nurse. Just got off.”

“No kidding?” she said, her interest visibly piqued. “Respect. That’s a hell of a job. Punishing hours.” She gestured broadly to the field. “This is my vacation. Well, my other vacation. I teach P.E. and wrestling here during the week. The soccer coach bailed mid-season, so…” She shrugged, as if volunteering her free time to herd a pack of ten-year-olds was the most natural thing in the world.

“That’s really nice of you,” you said, and you meant it.

“Nah, it’s fun. They��re maniacs, but I love ‘em. And it gets me out of grading papers.” She winked, and your stomach did a ridiculous little flip. “So, a nurse, huh? You work at County General?”

You nodded, surprised she’d guessed. “The ER.”

“Brave soul,” she chuckled. “I’m there at least twice a month with one of my wrestlers. Maybe I’ll see you around.” The way she said it wasn’t a casual remark; it was a hopeful suggestion, laced with a playful challenge.

Before you could formulate a coherent response, a soccer ball came sailing toward the bleachers. Rhea’s hand shot out and caught it without even looking, her reflexes terrifyingly fast. She tossed it back to a giggling group of girls.

“Oi! Watch it, you lot! You’ll take out my favorite mom,” she yelled, her tone full of mock sternness.

Favorite mom. The words hung in the air between you. Your face was definitely on fire now.

She turned back to you, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. She clearly enjoyed the effect she was having. “Sorry about that. They’re animals.”

“It’s okay,” you breathed out, your voice weaker than you intended.

She leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. The scent of her, clean sweat and something darkly sweet like sandalwood, washed over you. “So, since you’re new to the sideline squad… a few of us, the cool ones obviously, sometimes grab a beer after practice on Saturdays. At the place down the street. You should come. Emma can hang with the other kids, they’ve got an arcade.”

Your brain short-circuited. A social invitation. From her. This walking, talking, gothic-daydream of a woman who was so entirely your type it was almost offensive. The part of you that was a terrified, newly-out lesbian who hadn’t so much as held a woman’s hand in public wanted to stammer an excuse and run. The part of you that was a lonely, overworked mother, desperate for a single adult conversation and a glimpse of something that felt like life, screamed yes.

“I… I have to see how Emma feels,” you hedged, a pathetic, cowardly response.

Rhea’s smile was understanding, but no less potent. “Sure. No pressure, darl. The offer’s open.” The nickname, delivered in her rough-around-the-edges something australian accent, sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

A whistle blew from the field. Rhea straightened up, all business again. “Duty calls. Gotta go put these little beasts through their paces. Stick around, yeah? Watch your kid. She’s got a hell of a kick.”

She gave you one last, lingering look that felt like a physical touch before jogging back onto the field, her presence once again commanding the space.

You sank onto the cold metal bleacher, your legs suddenly weak. You watched her, this vibrant, chaotic force of nature, effortlessly organizing the giggling girls. You watched your daughter, a small figure in blue, actually smiling as she listened to Rhea’s instructions.

And It was good. Just watching. For now.

(...)

The week was a blur of charting vitals, code blues, and the relentless beep of monitors. You didn’t have the bandwidth to think about a certain goth P.E. teacher with stupidly blue eyes and stupidly big arms and a smile that felt like a physical blow. You packed the thought of Rhea Ripley away with the same clinical efficiency you used to compartmentalize a traumatic injury. It was the only way to function.

But Saturday came anyway, barreling into your life with the force of a freight train. The air at the school field was different today, crackling with a nervous, excited energy. This wasn’t a practice; it was a playoff game. A spot in the regionals was on the line.

The bleachers were packed, a sea of blue and white. You found a spot near the front, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. On the sidelines, Rhea was a portrait of intense focus. She wasn't the teasing, flirty chaos from last week. She was a general, her eyes tracking every movement, her voice cutting through the din with sharp, clear instructions.

"Push up, Sofia! Don't let them settle! Emma, watch the overlap! Watch it!"

You watched her, and a thought slipped through your defenses. Your ex-husband had never had any patience for children. Your pregnancy had been a consequence, not a choice, and from the moment Emma was born, you’d felt like you were playing a role you hadn't auditioned for, trying to be both a comforting mother and a strong father figure. You could bandage a scraped knee, but you couldn't teach her how to kick a soccer ball. You could hold her during a nightmare, but you didn't have that innate, commanding presence that made a kid stop arguing and just listen. Rhea did. She’d somehow, in just a few weeks, become a figure Emma respected. The dishes got done now without a ten-minute negotiation. It was a miracle.

The game was a tense, back-and-forth battle. Then it happened. Emma, a flash of blue on the left wing, stole the ball. You shot to your feet. She dribbled past one defender, then another, her small face a mask of concentration. A taller opponent closed in on her, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought she’d lose it. But she didn’t. With a deft little flick, she passed the ball across the goalmouth, a perfect, selfless assist. Another girl in blue, Mia, met it with a thunderous kick that sent the ball screaming into the net.

The crowd erupted. You were screaming, clapping, your heart hammering against your ribs. Rhea was pumping her fist on the sideline, her focused mask breaking into a fierce, proud grin.

"That's it! That's what I'm talking about! Now reset! One goal is not a victory! Get back in position!"

The final minutes were agony. The other team pressed hard, but the Dolphins' defense, galvanized by Rhea’s roaring from the sideline, held firm. And then, in the last thirty seconds, a cleared ball landed right at Emma’s feet. She didn't hesitate. She took two touches and launched it. It wasn't a powerful shot, but it was placed perfectly, sneaking just past the goalie's fingertips and into the bottom corner of the net.

The whistle blew. The Dolphins had won.

Pandemonium. The girls on the field swarmed Emma, a jumping, shrieking pile of blue and white jerseys. You stood by the chain-link fence, your hands over your mouth, tears you didn't even know were there welling in your eyes. The weight of it, the pure, unfiltered joy for your daughter, was almost crushing.

Emma broke from the celebrating pack, her face flushed and sweaty, and sprinted toward you.

"Did you see? Mom, did you see?!"

You laughed, a wet, choked sound, and reached through the fence to brush the damp hair from her forehead. "I saw, baby. I saw every second. It was beautiful. You were amazing."

You were so caught in the moment you didn't see Rhea approach until she was right there. She smelled of grass, sweat, and that same dark sandalwood. She slung a muscular, tattooed arm around Emma’s shoulders, giving her a rough, affectionate shake.

"Absolute legend, this one! What a finish!" Rhea beamed, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She was a glorious, sweaty mess, her eyeliner slightly smudged, her hair coming loose from its bun.

Just then, a chorus of young voices erupted. "Coach Rhea! Coach! We're going for ice cream! Emma, come on!"

Emma looked from her teammates to you, her eyes wide with pleading. "Mom, can I? Please?"

You didn't even think. You pulled your wallet out and handed her your card. "Of course. Text me if you need a ride home. And don't get sprinkles everywhere this time."

The words were barely out of your mouth before Emma threw her arms around your waist, squeezing you tightly and planting a quick, sticky kiss on your cheek. "Thanks, Mom! Love you!"

And then she was gone, sprinting back to her friends. You stood frozen, your hand touching the spot on your cheek where her kiss had landed. It had been months. Maybe a year. The ghost of her affection was warmth, and a profound, aching nostalgia settled in your chest.

Rhea was still leaning against the fence, watching you. Her usual teasing smirk was gone, replaced by a softer, more understanding look. She’d seen it all.

"She's a good kid," Rhea said, her voice quieter now, meant just for you. "You're doing a good job with her."

The simple words, coming from her, felt like a balm. You just nodded, afraid your voice would break if you tried to speak.

Rhea pushed off from the fence and jerked her head toward the parking lot. "So. They're off to get a sugar high that'll last until Tuesday. What about you? Feel like a proper drink to celebrate? Something a bit stronger than a chocolate-vanilla swirl?"

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual chaos returning to her eyes. You looked at her—all sweaty and gorgeous and kind—and you couldn't, for the life of you, think of a single good reason to say no.

"Yeah," you said, your voice finally steady. "A drink sounds perfect."

(...)

The bar was a dim, noisy haven a few blocks from the school. It was the kind of place with sticky floors and a good jukebox, not somewhere you’d usually go. But with Rhea Ripley leading the way, it felt like the most natural place in the world. She’d commandeered a small, high-top table in the corner, and now you sat across from her, a cold beer sweating in your hand.

Rhea was… charming. The word felt too small for her, but it was the only one that fit. She was beautiful, of course, in a way that made your brain stutter. But it was more than that. She was funny, her humor dry and delivered with a deadpan expression that made you snort-laugh into your pint glass. And she was shockingly intelligent. The conversation had already zigzagged from the best strategies for teaching ten-year-olds how to properly head a soccer ball to the socioeconomic implications of public school funding.

“Wait, you studied chemistry?” you asked, incredulous, after she’d made a surprisingly apt analogy about molecular bonds.

She took a long pull of her beer and nodded. “Yep. Pre-med, actually. Got a full-ride wrestling scholarship. Graduated top of my class.”

You just stared. This woman, with her muscles and tattoos and piercings, this force of nature who coached peewee soccer for fun, was a genius. The dichotomy was dizzying. You felt small in her presence, not in a bad way, but in the way one feels looking up at a star-filled sky—subdued by the sheer scale of it all.

“Stop that,” Rhea said, her voice cutting through your thoughts.

“Stop what?”

“That thing you’re doing. It’s nonsense.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes intent. “I wanna know about you. Your turn. What’s your story?”

You shrugged, tracing a pattern in the condensation on your glass. “There’s not much to tell. Got pregnant with Emma at eighteen. Finished my nursing degree after she turned two. It was… a lot.”

“Nursing’s no joke. Why not medicine? You seem like you could’ve handled it.”

The question, asked so casually, hit a deep, old wound. “I wanted to,” you admitted, the words feeling raw. “Wanted to be a doctor. Just… never found the time. Or the money. Or the energy. Life got in the way.” You took a sip of beer, the hops bitter on your tongue. “Then, after years of it, I’d just had enough. Of him. The mind games, the constant criticism. I filed for divorce.”

“Was it difficult?” Rhea asked, her voice softer now.

You shrugged again, a practiced, defensive motion. “Maybe not as much as for some people. The house was mine from my grandma. He moved back in with his parents. Last I heard, he’s working the line at the auto plant.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped you. “Doesn’t surprise me. He was the popular idiot in high school. Guess some things never change.”

You were looking down at your glass, so you didn’t see Rhea’s reaction to your next words, spoken more to yourself than to her.

“After he finally left the house… it was so quiet. For the first time, I could actually think. And I realized that… well, I was only ever married for convenience, you know? For the ease of it. Because it never even occurred to me that…” You finally looked up, meeting her gaze. “That I didn’t even like men. At all.”

Rhea, who had just taken a large gulp of her beer, choked. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as she coughed violently, beer sputtering. You reached out instinctively, patting her firmly on the back between her shoulder blades.

“Whoa, you okay?”

She waved a hand, still coughing, her face turning red. When she could finally speak, her voice was a ragged croak. “Bloody hell, darl. A little warning next time you’re gonna drop a bomb like that.”

The ridiculousness of it—this massive, intimidating woman nearly taken out by a sip of lager and a personal revelation—hit you all at once. You started to laugh, a real, full-bodied laugh that came from your stomach. It felt foreign and wonderful.

Rhea wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at you with mock severity. But as your laughter filled the space between you, her glare melted away, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated fondness. She just watched you, a small smile playing on her lips, as if she was trying to capture the moment.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she murmured.

You finally got your laughter under control, wiping a tear from your eye. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ambush you.”

“Don’t be,” she said, her voice low and serious again. “Seriously. Don’t ever be sorry for that.” She leaned in closer, the silver in her nose catching the dim light. “So. Just so I’m clear on the rules. When you decide you’re… I don’t know, entertaining suitors,” she said, the old teasing glint back in her eyes, but warmer now. “You have to do me a solid, yeah? Give me a heads-up. A bit of advance notice. So I can, you know, properly position myself for a tactical advantage.”

You felt a blush explode across your cheeks. You shoved her shoulder, the solid muscle barely moving under your push. “Oh, cut it out. You must say that to all the soccer moms.”

Rhea’s smile didn’t falter. She captured your hand where it rested on her shoulder, her grip surprisingly gentle. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Nope,” she said, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial rumble that did things to your insides. “Just my favorite one.”

A text from Emma lit your phone: Home. Chloe’s mom dropped me off. Gonna do math homework then Fortnite. Thx for ice cream.

You smiled, showing the screen to Rhea. “She’s home. And doing homework first. I’m shocked.”

Rhea shook her head in mock awe. “You’ve raised her right, you know that? If my mum had handed me her credit card at that age, I’d have come home with a stolen motorbike and a truly awful tattoo of a snake eating its own tail. Probably on my face.”

You laughed, the sound feeling freer now. “I think you’re giving me too much credit. I’m pretty sure you’re the one she’s trying to impress now. She actually listens to you. It’s a miracle.”

A proud, almost possessive smile touched Rhea’s lips, but she swiftly batted the compliment away, leaning her elbows on the rickety table. The wood groaned in protest under her weight. “Enough about the mini-you. Hobbies. What does the incredible nurse and super-mum do for fun when she’s off the clock? And if you say ‘laundry,’ I’m ordering us another round of tequila as punishment.”

You sighed, a dramatic, world-weary sound, and swirled the last golden inch of beer in your glass. “My schedule doesn’t allow for hobbies. It allows for a negotiated ceasefire with my exhaustion. Sometimes.”

“Nope. I’m not buying it,” Rhea pressed, her intense blue eyes locking onto yours, pinning you in place. “Everyone’s got a secret escape hatch. What’s yours?”

Defeated, but with a small smile, you relented. “I read. Probably more than is medically advisable for someone who needs to be alert. And… okay, promise you won’t laugh… I have a thing for horror movies.” Rhea’s eyes blew wide, a genuine, electric spark of excitement igniting within them. She slammed her palm flat on the table, making the glasses jump and your heart lurch.

“No. Way. Get out! So do I! It’s my not-so-secret shame. I try to make my year sevens watch ‘Alien’ during the ‘human body’ unit. They think I’m cool. It’s a lie, but it works. What’s your poison?” The passion in her voice was a live wire, buzzing between you.

“Uh, it’s a bit of a cult one,” you admitted, feeling suddenly shy. “Robert Eggers’ ‘The Witch’?”

Rhea pointed a finger gun directly at your heart, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Knew it. I absolutely knew you’d be an artsy horror type. The vibe is impeccable. All that quiet, creeping dread that gets under your skin. Brilliant.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that felt like a physical caress in the noisy bar. “I’m more of a… splatter gal, myself. I unironically, passionately adore the ‘Terrifier’ saga. It’s so gloriously, monumentally stupid. It’s a masterpiece of nonsense.”

A giggle escaped you, the image of this impossibly cool, goth-rock teacher gleefully watching a murderous clown unleash cinematic carnage was too deliciously absurd. “That is a legitimately terrifying choice.”

“Terrifier. Terrifying. See what I did there?” she winked. “Look, the third one comes out in a few months. We’re going. I’m not taking no for an answer. I need to see you jump at all the messy bits.”

It wasn’t really a question. It was a statement of fact from Rhea Ripley, delivered with such charming arrogance that all you could do was nod, a helpless, happy smile breaking across your face. “Okay. It’s a date.” The word slipped out before you could catch it, hanging in the air between you.

The moment stretched, comfortable but charged. You glanced at your phone again. The real world was waiting. “I should… I should probably get going. Early shift tomorrow. And, you know. Mom.”

“Right. Of course,” Rhea said, her voice softening. She stood up as you did, towering over you, suddenly making the space around you feel intimately small.

The night air outside was a cool slap, a sharp contrast to the warm, beer-scented cocoon you’d just left. You turned to say goodbye, the amber streetlights carving her face out of the darkness, highlighting the sharp, elegant line of her jaw, the glint of silver in her ear.

“I had a really good time, Rhea. Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime, darl. Seriously.”

Acting on an impulse that shot from your heart to your feet, you stepped forward, rose onto your toes, and pressed a quick, achingly soft kiss to her cheek. Your lips brushed against skin that was unexpectedly smooth, and you inhaled the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and the cool night air. You pulled back quickly, your own face flaming, but not before you saw it—her eyes had fluttered shut for a breathtaking fraction of a second. When they opened, her gaze had dropped, heavy-lidded and intense, to your mouth. It was a silent, blatant question.

The air itself seemed to crackle with the weight of it. The desire to answer it, to close the minuscule distance and discover the taste of her, was a physical ache, a magnetic pull deep in your core.

But you couldn’t. Not yet.

You took a shaky step back, wrapping your arms around yourself like a shield. “It’s just… soccer. It’s the first thing Emma’s ever truly liked. And you’re her coach. I can’t…”

Rhea’s expression didn’t fall. It just… settled. Into something profoundly patient and unbearably kind. She reached out, and with a touch so gentle it made your breath catch, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Her knuckles grazed the line of your jaw, a whisper of contact that burned like a brand.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice so low it was almost a vibration you felt in your bones. “It’s okay. I get it.” She offered a smile, a real one, gentle and sure, that reached all the way to her eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “I’ll wait.”

The simplicity of it, the certainty, stole your breath. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, your voice trembling for some reason.

“Why not? It’s true.” she asked, her thumb stroking a slow, soothing pattern on the back of your hand before she gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze. Her fingers brushed over the frantic flutter of your pulse point as if to quiet it. “You’re worth it.”

The blush that spread across your face felt like it could power a small city. Rhea chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “Now get out of here. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

You nodded, unable to form words, and turned to walk to your car.

(...)

The week had bled away, one grueling shift after another. The ER was its own special kind of purgatory—a world lit by the sickly glow of fluorescent lights and scored by the relentless symphony of beeping monitors and hushed, urgent voices. You moved through it on autopilot, a specter in scuffed clogs, your world reduced to sutures, sanitizer, and sympathetic nods. It was routine. It was numb. A stark, sterile contrast to the thrilling, confusing whirlwind that was Rhea Ripley and her piercing blue eyes.

You were finally charting your last patient’s discharge papers, the promise of your couch and then you heard it. A voice. Low, raspy, and familiar enough to short-circuit your carefully constructed calm. It was a sound you’d replayed in your head more times than you’d ever confess to anyone, least of all yourself. Your head snapped up, your pen freezing mid-scrawl. And there she was.

Rhea.

Rhea Ripley, in the flesh, slouched in a waiting room chair. She was in her typical uniform of black cargo pants and a faded band t-shirt that stretched across her shoulders. And she was, infuriatingly, too pretty for her own good, even with a makeshift ice pack held to her temple.

A woman was perched on the seat beside her, a bundle of nervous energy in a chic blouse and slacks, gesturing sharply as she lectured. Rhea looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Your feet were moving before your brain could engage, pulled by a force stronger than professionalism. Your pulse was a wild, fluttering thing against your ribs, a traitorous drumbeat completely at odds with your nurse’s cool exterior.

“Rhea?”

Her head turned, and the scowl vanished, replaced by a wide, devastating smile meant just for you. She tried to lever herself up. “Hey, darl! Fancy meeting you he—”

The blonde woman planted a firm hand on Rhea’s shoulder and shoved her back down into the chair with surprising strength. “Sit. You have a possible concussion. Stop fidgeting.” Her sharp, hawk-like gaze then sliced to you. “Do you work here? The service is atrocious. We’ve been waiting an eternity.”

A hot flush crept up your neck—a mix of professional shame and a sudden, fierce spike of something possessive and entirely unprofessional. “It’s triage,” you said, your voice clipped. “We see the most critical first.”

Rhea waved a dismissive hand, her eyes never leaving yours. “Liv, quit being a nightmare. I’m fine. It’s a scratch. She’s dramatic.”

“A beam fell on your head, Rhea!” Liv exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “From the ceiling! It’s not a stubbed toe!”

“It was a small beam,” Rhea grumbled, looking like a chastised giant. “More of a… assertive piece of timber. And it was a love tap. Builds character.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, a soft, breathy sound. Of course it did. “Let me be the judge of that,” you said, your professional mask clicking firmly back into place, even if your insides were doing somersaults. “Come with me. I have a free bay.”

Liv’s eyes narrowed, a silent, protective challenge, but she stayed silent as you guided a slightly wobbly Rhea to a private room. Your hand on her lower back was meant to steady her, but the heat of her through the thin cotton of her shirt seared your palm. You helped her onto the gurney, the paper crinkling in protest under her weight.

You began the concussion protocol, your movements efficient, practiced. “Follow my finger. Good. Any nausea? Dizziness?” Your fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as they gently probed the angry red mark on her scalp. The cut was superficial, already clotting. “Your vision okay?”

Rhea, for her part, was a terrible patient. She happily swung her legs, her heavy boots knocking against the metal frame, and answered every question with a cheeky grin.

“Nope, no nausea. Unless you count the feeling I get when Liv starts lecturing. Vision’s perfect. I can see a very pretty nurse looking very concerned.”

You focused on dabbing antiseptic on the cut, ignoring the way your heart hammered against your sternum. “Be serious, Ripley.”

“I am deathly serious,” she purred, her blue eyes dark and intent, tracking your every move. “Devastating. And you’re frowning. It’s cute.”

You applied the bandage a little too firmly, earning a theatrical wince from her. “There. No concussion. Just a minor contusion. You’ll have a spectacular bruise tomorrow. You need to take it easy.”

Rhea hopped off the gurney the second you were done, radiating restless energy. “Told you. All part of the aesthetic.”

You turned away to dispose of the wrappers, your back to her. The image of the perfect, worried Liv was burned onto your retinas. “Well, I’m glad it’s nothing. I’m sure… Liv… will be happy to get you home. Is she… your ride?” You aimed for neutral, but the question landed with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, tight and clipped.

The air in the small room shifted. Went still. You could feel her gaze burning into your back. Then, a slow, delighted chuckle rumbled through the silence. She moved closer, leaning her hip against the counter to trap you in her line of sight. The scent of leather and antiseptic filled the space between you.

“Wait a second…” she murmured, her voice a low, velvet tease. A finger gently hooked your chin, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling with mischief. “Are you… jealous, darl?”

You rolled your eyes, a pathetic defense against the heat flooding your cheeks. “Don’t be absurd. It’s called patient aftercare. If you’re discharged, I have other people to see.” You tried to sidestep her, but she was immovable.

She didn’t grab you, but her hand settled on your arm, her touch branding your skin through the sleeve of your scrubs. “Hey.” Her pout was an weapon of mass destruction. “That’s unfair. Liv teaches Shakespeare to hormonal teenagers. She’s my friend. And she’s hopelessly devoted to some bloke who thinks a good date is yelling at the football on telly. She’s just… aggressively caring.”

You stared stubbornly at a point on the wall behind her, refusing to concede. “It’s none of my business.”

“It could be,” she whispered, her thumb stroking a absent, soothing circle on your arm before she let go. The spot tingled. “Look, to ease your mind, I’ll call an Uber. No need for a chaperone.”

The mental image of her, almost concussed, trying to navigate a rideshare app was somehow infinitely worse than the one of her with the beautiful blonde. You sighed, the last of your resistance crumbling. A glance at the clock confirmed it: your shift was over 15 minutes ago.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you muttered, finally meeting her gaze. The triumph in her eyes was blinding. “An Uber from here will cost a fortune. Just… go wait. I’ll clock out and drive you.”

The smile that broke across her face was worth every second of the soul-crushing, internal gay panic that was about to descend. “Yeah? You sure?”

“Yes,” you said, giving her a light shove toward the door, your hand lingering on the solid muscle of her back for a heartbeat too long. “Now go. Before I change my mind and tell Liv you’re her problem again.”

Her laughter, rich and warm, followed her out the door. You slumped against the cool counter, pressing your icy hands to your flaming cheeks. This woman was going to be the death of you. And you were starting to think it might be worth it.

(...)

The drive to Rhea’s was a study in contrasts. In your car, the silence was a thick, tangible thing, broken only by the frantic rhythm of your own heart. You gripped the steering wheel like it was the only solid anchor in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. Next to you, Rhea was a live wire. She hummed, she tapped, she fiddled with the radio until a throbbing bassline filled the space, her long fingers drumming an infectious rhythm on her thigh.

“That diner,” she announced, pointing with a smirk that was utterly inappropriate for someone who’d recently been intimate with a falling beam, “has pancakes that’ll ruin all other pancakes for you. We’re going. Oh, turn left here, darling.”

You obeyed, your mind a whirlwind of shouldn’t and can’t and oh god, what is happening? You expected her house to be a metal album cover come to life—a gothic tower or a hidden warehouse. You did not expect the charming craftsman bungalow that appeared, with its deep, welcoming porch and a garden that was lush and just a little bit wild. A pristine white picket fence stood guard. It was devastatingly normal. It was a home. And it fit the chaotic, beautiful enigma beside you perfectly, because of course nothing about Rhea Ripley was ever what you expected.

You killed the engine, the subsequent silence ringing in your ears. “Okay. Home safe.” You stared rigidly ahead, already calculating the fastest escape route back to your sensible, Rhea-free life.

“My hero,” she purred, unbuckling her seatbelt with a click that sounded far too loud. She pushed the door open and swung her legs out with her usual fluid grace. But as she moved to stand, a sharp, pained gasp cut through the air. Her knees buckled, and she caught herself hard on the door frame with a grunt that was all frustration.

Your heart leapt into your throat. “Rhea!”

You killed the engine, yanked the keys from the ignition, and was out of the car and around to her side in seconds. She was leaning heavily against the car, a hand pressed to her bandaged temple.

“Dizzy spell.” she mumbled, sounding genuinely annoyed. “S’nothing.”

“It is not nothing,” you insisted, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hands. You slid your arm around her waist, and the world narrowed to the feel of her. Solid. Unyielding. Warmth seeped through her shirt and into your skin. Your body slotted against hers as if it had been designed for it, the curve of her hip a perfect fit against yours. “Come on. Inside. Now.”

The fact that she didn’t argue—that she simply let you take her weight—sent a fresh bolt of fear-laced adrenaline through you. You half-walked, half-carried her up the path, your heart a wild drum against your ribs, syncopated with the frantic beat of your own. She fumbled for her keys, finally unlocking the door to a living room that was so her it made your chest ache. Books piled high, a wrestling trophy holding up a precarious stack of novels, band posters tacked carelessly to the walls. It was chaos. It was comfort.

You guided her to the large, inviting couch. “Ibuprofen? Where is it? I’ll get you water,” you said, turning to find the kitchen, needing a moment, a breath, anything to distance yourself from the scent of her—sandalwood, leather, and the sharp, clinical tang of hospital antiseptic.

You never made it.

A low, playful ‘woof’ was your only warning before the thunder of galloping paws erupted from the hallway. You turned just in time to see two muscular, barrel-chested comets of pure joy launch themselves into the room. A bull terrier with a head like a perfect egg and an American bully with a grin wider than the Cheshire Cat’s skidded to a halt at Rhea’s feet, their entire bodies wiggling in ecstasy, tails whipping the air into a frenzy.

The sheer, unexpected force of their love missile attack made you instinctively jump back. Your heel caught on the edge of a rumpled throw rug. A startled yelp escaped you as the world tilted, the hardwood floor rushing up to meet you.

The impact never came.

A strong, iron-hard arm shot out and hooked around your waist, yanking you sideways. Instead of cold, unforgiving wood, you landed in a soft, warm, and impossibly firm lap. Rhea’s lap.

You froze. One hand was splayed against the solid wall of her chest, the other gripping the corded muscle of her shoulder for dear life. You were sprawled across her, a mess of limbs and shock, your faces mere inches apart. Her blue eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. The dogs, mission accomplished, plopped down with contented sighs as if they’d planned the whole thing.

Rhea’s arm remained a secure band around your waist, holding you firmly in place. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face, erasing any trace of pain or dizziness. Her voice was a low, husky rumble that you felt vibrate through your entire body. “Well, hello there. This is a much better view.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a furious blush you were powerless to stop. “I’m so sorry, I— the dogs, I slipped— I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh,” she murmured, her free hand coming up to gently, so gently, brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead. Her touch was electric. Her gaze dropped to your lips for a heart-stopping second before returning to your eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize. They were just… helping. Weren’t you, guys? Good babies. Meet Barry and Bella. Luna’s probably judging us from the porch.” Her beautiful, proud smile was back, but it was softer now, meant only for you.

You were trapped. Not by the arm you could easily push away, but by her. By the proximity that short-circuited every rational thought. By the scent of her that was now your entire universe. By the feel of her powerful thighs beneath yours and the steady, strong beat of her heart under your palm.

All the weeks of stolen glances across the school parking lot, of flustered blushes at her teasing comments, of late-night fantasies you’d fiercely buried—it all condensed into this single, supercharged moment. Every careful wall you’d built about Emma, about soccer, about not ruining your life, crumbled into dust, meaningless in the face of this want.

You desperately wanted to kiss her.

You desperately, recklessly, needed to kiss her.

So, throwing caution and the entire fucking reason, you did.

It was tentative at first, a soft, questioning press of your lips against hers. You hovered there for a heartbeat, waiting, giving her every chance to pull away, to laugh it off, to remind you why this was a spectacularly bad idea.

She didn’t.

Instead, a low, approving groan vibrated deep in her throat, a sound you felt in your very soul. Her hand slid from your waist up to cradle the back of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair with a possessiveness that made you weak. Her other arm tightened, pulling you flush against her until not a sliver of space remained between you.

And then she was kissing you back.

It wasn’t tentative. It was sure and deep and devastating, tasting faintly of mint and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Rhea. It was all her confidence and chaos channeled into a single, perfect action. Her lips moved against yours with a skill that stole the breath from your lungs and made the world spin far more effectively than any dizzy spell. You melted into her, your hands sliding up to cup her jaw, your thumbs stroking the soft skin of her cheeks as you kissed her back with everything you had.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, she didn’t let you go far. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes still closed. Her voice was a rough, breathless whisper that ghosted over your kiss-swollen lips. “About damn time, darl.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips, but it was strangled, breathless, swallowed whole by the searing heat of Rhea’s mouth on yours. Every point of contact between your bodies was a live now, buzzing with a current of pure, undiluted want that set your very nerves alight. The sweet, tentative exploration from before had vanished, incinerated in the sudden conflagration.

You wound your arms tighter around her neck, pulling her down to deepen the kiss until you were both dizzy and gasping. A low, primal growl vibrated against your chest, rumbling from deep within her, and before your oxygen-deprived brain could even process the movement, her powerful arms were sliding beneath you. In one effortless, heart-stopping motion, she rose, cradling you against her chest as if you weighed nothing at all.

“Rhea!” you gasped, your arms instinctively locking around her neck in a death grip. “Your head! You shouldn’t be—”

She silenced you with another swift, devastating kiss, her blue eyes glinting with a dark cocktail of desire and wicked amusement. “Stop worrying,” she commanded, her voice a husky whisper against your swollen lips. Then, a ridiculous, devastating pout formed on her fierce features. “Carrying my pretty nurse to bed is the best medicine there is.”

You buried your burning face in the strong column of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and pure Rhea, laughing a shaky, breathless laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” she murmured into your hair, her breath a hot caress against your scalp, and god, you really, truly couldn’t deny it.

The world became a blur of motion. One moment you were drowning in the cozy dimness of her living room, the next your back was meeting the impossibly soft expanse of her dark comforter. And then she was there, a magnificent, towering woman blocking out everything else, her powerful frame lowering over you. The sheer, glorious size of her, the solid, delicious weight settling with intent between your thighs, sent a thrilling jolt of fear and anticipation straight through your core. A flicker of old panic, faint but familiar, sparked in your chest.

She saw it. She always saw you. Her movements stilled instantly, every muscle locking in place. Her hands gentled, coming up to cradle your face as if you were something so precious.

“Hey,” she breathed, her voice a soft, gravelly rasp that scraped over your senses. “Look at me. Whatever you want. Just say the word.”

You took a shuddering breath, falling into the earnest, stormy blue of her eyes. This wasn't a trap. This was Rhea. Your Rhea. You nodded, forcing your tense muscles to melt under the warm weight of her. “I know. I’m okay. I just… need a second.”

The smile she gave you then was a tender, heart-stopping thing. She dipped her head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was entirely new. It was a perfect, devastating blend of care and raw hunger, her lips moving over yours with a reverence that made your toes curl into the sheets. Her hands slid from your face, a slow, burning trail down your neck, over the slope of your shoulders, mapping the territory of your body through the frustratingly thin fabric of your shirt. They found your waist, squeezing gently, her thumbs brushing maddening circles over the sensitive skin just under your ribs, and you gasped a broken sound directly into her mouth.

She broke the kiss, her forehead coming to rest against your neck, her breath coming in ragged, hot puffs against your skin. “Take this off,” she whispered, her fingers finding the hem of your shirt and tugging with a barely-there pressure that felt like a brand. “Please. I need to see you. All of you.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed, fingers fumbling for the bottom of your top. Emboldened by the dizzying need in her eyes, you found your voice, barely a whisper. “Yours too.”

A brilliant, wicked grin flashed across her face, all sharp canines and promised sin. “Gladly.” In one swift, fluid motion that showcased the incredible definition of her abdomen, she grabbed the back of her own t-shirt and pulled it over her head, tossing it to the floor without a second glance.

The air left your lungs in a rush. She was… a masterpiece. A sculpture of smooth skin and sleek muscle. Every line of her torso was defined, from the cut of her abs to the formidable curve of her biceps and the powerful swell of her shoulders. A tapestry of dark ink swirled over her sun-kissed skin, telling stories. She was the most breathtaking, intimidatingly beautiful thing you had ever seen.

Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, drank in the sight of you as you finally shimmied out of your own top, her gaze so hot you felt it like a physical touch. “Fuck,” she breathed out, the word a prayer of disbelief. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

She lowered herself again, and the feeling of her skin, warm and soft, against yours was an electric shock. She kissed you deeply, a claiming of your mouth, before she began a slow, torturous descent down your body. She worshipped every inch with her lips and tongue—the hollow of your throat, the frantic pulse at your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, the quivering plane of your stomach—leaving a trail of fire in her wake. She was panting, lost in the taste and feel of you, her strong hands gripping your hips to hold you steady, her own need a palpable thing.

She paused, her face nestled in the warm, sensitive skin of your stomach, her blue eyes, now nearly black with want, looking up at you. A flicker of vulnerability shone through them. “I want you so bad…” she confessed, her voice rough with the admission. You ran your fingers through her dark, silken hair, and Rhea sighed, nuzzling against you as if she could live there.

“Is this… are you okay with this? Me on top, like this?” Your face flushed with a fresh, searing wave of heat. The theory was one thing; the breathtaking reality of her over you was another entirely.

“I’ve… I’ve never…” you admitted softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

The admission seemed to both thrill her and soften her edges. A possessive gleam lit her eyes even as her touch became impossibly more tender.

“It’s okay, love,” she soothed, shifting her weight to hover over you more completely, a protective arch. “I’ve got you. I’m on top. Just…If anything is too much, you tell me. Yeah?” A flash of her familiar, cocky confidence returned, a playful smirk tugging at her pierced lip. “But just so you know… I plan on being very, very good at this for you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the nervous tension shattering under the weight of her charm. “Oh, you plan on it, do you?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, the sound vibrating through your core as she placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel. “Let me prove it.” She made quick, shockingly graceful work of your pants and underwear, the ease of it so absurd you giggled into the crook of your arm.

And she did.

She breathed you in, nuzzled the heat of you, before her tongue finally, finally found its home. The world didn't just tilt. Her tongue was wicked soft, tracing deliberate circles around the aching bundle of nerves between your legs. Each languid stroke coiled the tension in your belly tighter, until you were seeing stars, your fists tangled in her hair, a litany of pleading moans falling from your lips. You could feel yourself fluttering around the teasing flick of her tongue and the cool, maddening press of her piercing.

She was relentless, attuned to every hitch of your breath, every tremble of your thighs, pulling sounds from you that were utterly foreign and completely uncontrollable. Just as you were teetering on the edge, she pulled away, leaving you gasping, aching.

“Rhea… please…”

“Shhh, I’ve got you, baby,” she promised, her voice thick with her own unbearable need. She rid herself of her own remaining clothing with impatient urgency. And then she was there, positioning herself. She guided your leg over her hip, a possessive hand on your thigh, and shifted her own limb over yours, locking you together in a perfect fit. The new angle, the profound, stretching fullness of her, was overwhelming. You felt yourself trembling again, a full-body shudder wracking through you as she slowly, so agonizingly slowly, sank home.

Her eyes were locked on yours, watching every flicker of you, every wisp of surprise that crossed your face. “Okay?” she breathed, her own body trembling with the Herculean effort of holding still, of giving you this.

You could only nod, your voice stolen, pulling her down for a desperate, messy kiss that tasted of salt and her and yes. It was your answer, your permission, your plea for more.

And then she began to move, and every coherent thought evaporated into pure, blinding sensation. She built a rhythm that was both grounding and maddening—long, deep, rolling thrusts that stole your breath, followed by teasing, shallow circles of her hips that made you whimper. She kissed you everywhere she could reach—your lips, your jaw, your shoulder—murmuring your name like a sacred mantra against your skin, as if its repetition could bind you to her forever.

The control she exerted, that absolute, self-afflicted restraint for your pleasure, was more intoxicating than anything. You felt the coiled tension in her own frame, the damp sheen of sweat on her back under your palms, yet her focus remained entirely on you, on the coiling tight in your belly.

“C’mon, baby,” she urged, her voice a ragged whisper against your ear, her thrusts becoming more precise, hitting a spot that made you see white. “Let go for me. I want to feel you come, all over me.”

Your resistance fractured into a million glittering pieces as you came apart, a broken cry torn from your throat, your back arching off the bed as waves crashed over you. Feeling you clench around her was Rhea’s undoing. Her own rhythm faltered, then broke. With a broken groan that was the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard, she buried her face in your neck, her entire body shuddering as her own climax ripped through her.

The world slowly, sluggishly, pieced itself back together. The only reality was the four walls of her bedroom, the feel of her rumpled sheets against your oversensitive skin, and the solid, comforting weight of her body, now slack and heavy, half-draped over you. You were curled into her, your head on her shoulder, one leg still thrown possessively over hers.

A soft sigh escaped you, your fingers tracing idle, lazy patterns on the warm skin of her back. You never wanted to move. You could happily stay right here, in this dim, quiet room that smelled like her, until the sun burned out and the world ended.

“Comfy?” Rhea’s voice was a low rumble, her lips moving against your hair.

“Mmmhmm,” you hummed, nuzzling closer. “Don’t ever make me get up.”

She chuckled, the sound vibrating through her chest and into you. “Deal. I’ll just call in sick for the rest of our lives. Liv can handle the prom decorations.”

You smiled against her skin, your eyes closed. This was peace. This was safety. It was a feeling you’d forgotten existed.

That’s when you heard it. The soft click-click of claws on the hardwood floor in the hall. Then a quiet, whining snuffle at the base of the door.

Your eyes fluttered open. Rhea tensed slightly beneath you, listening.

“They’ll go away,” she whispered. “They’re just checking.”

A more insistent whine answered her, followed by a heavy thump as a large body leaned against the door. Then a second thump joined it.

Rhea sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “Or not. They’re stubborn little shits.”

Before you could ask what she meant, the doorknob turned. It wasn’t an aggressive turn, just a slow, deliberate one. The door swung inward.

Silhouetted in the dim light from the hall were two hulking shapes. Barry’s egg-shaped head tilted, and Bella let out a soft woof of inquiry.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Rhea muttered, but there was no real anger in it.

They didn’t charge. They padded into the room with a sense of solemn purpose, their nails tapping on the wood floor before being muffled by the large rug beside the bed. They stopped at the edge, two sets of hopeful eyes peering up over the mattress.

“No,” Rhea said, her voice firm. “Bed’s full. Go to your beds.”

Barry let out a pitiful whimper, resting his chin on the comforter. Bella followed suit, her big, blocky head landing next to his with a soft thud. They stared, unblinking.

“They have their own beds,” Rhea explained to you, though you could feel her resolve crumbling. “Very expensive, orthopedic beds.”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at the two sad faces. “They look so lonely and so cute. ”

“Don’t you start,” Rhea warned, but she was fighting a smile. “They’re con artists. The both of them.”

You reached down and scratched behind Barry’s ear. He leaned into your hand with a happy grunt. Bella, not to be outdone, nudged your other hand with her wet nose.

“I think they just want to be near you,” you said softly.

Rhea watched the interaction, her expression softening. “Yeah, well. The feeling’s mutual most of the time.” She sighed in dramatic defeat. “Fine! But just at the foot! And no snoring!”

It was all the permission they needed. In a coordinated, surprisingly graceful move, both dogs launched themselves onto the bed. The entire mattress dipped and shuddered under the sudden addition of nearly two hundred pounds of canine. They circled twice, a ritual of pawing and shuffling, before collapsing in a heap of muscle and contentment at the foot of the bed, their combined weight pinning the comforter down securely.

Rhea burst out laughing, a real, full-bodied sound that shook the bed. She wrapped her arms around you and pulled you back down against her.

“Well,” she said, her voice rich with amusement as she kissed your temple. “Congratulations. You have four children now. Two big, drooly, bed-hogging ones.”

You snuggled back into her embrace, the warmth of the dogs a heavy, comforting presence at your feet.

“I always wanted a big family,” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep and something dangerously like love.

You felt Rhea’s smile against your hair. “Careful what you wish for, darl.”

But as you drifted off, lulled by the sound of her heart and the soft, snuffling snores of the dogs, you knew you’d never wished for anything better.

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#fanfic #rhea ripley #smut #wlw smut #wwe #rhea ripley x reader #prompt #lesbian

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allyisbrooding · 8 days ago

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𝟱𝟬𝟱

☾ Pairing: Abby Anderson x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: just Abby fucking you senseless. That's it.

⚠︎ Warning: strapsex (reader receiving), mouth fucking (reader receiving), dirty talking.

Words: 500 ish

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦MDNI✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Her eyes, blue eyes, are dark pools of pure focus.

On you. Only you.

“Look at you,” she rumbles, her voice a velvet growl vibrating through your spine. She presses her chest to your back, the curve of her breasts heavy against you. “Taking it so fucking well.” Her harness buries itself in you again, the smooth hardness stretching you open, claiming you deeper with every surge.

Her left hand glides from your hip, trailing up the curve of your side until it cups your throat. Not a crushing hold, but a possessive claim —calloused skin against your jaw. You arch back into her hand, breath catching as tiny sparks explode behind your eyelids. Her thumb circles the pulse point beneath your jaw, each soft stroke igniting a flash of heat.

“That’s it,” she breathes, voice husky with need. Her hips plunge deeper, angling just so to find that sweet spot that makes your vision swim. Her fingers tighten at your throat, coaxing a darker haze of pleasure out of you. A soft whimper slips free.

Then her grip shifts—up your throat, up along your jaw—fingertips slick with your mix and sweat. They pause at your lips. “Open.” she commands, a tremulous purr against your spine.

You obey without hesitation, mouth parting for her. Her thick index and middle finger slide past your lips, insistent, tasting of salt and gunmetal. Her strap pumps in time with the drag of her digits. She groans—a deep, raw sound that resonates through both of you.

“Suck.” she orders, and when you wrap your lips around her fingers, she hammers her hips forward so brutally you choke on the sudden loss of breath. You suck—that hot, wet pressure drawing her deeper, your tongue swirling around her digits, desperate to pleasure her as she’s relentlessly pleasuring you.

She drops her mouth to your shoulder, teeth grazing the slick skin with exquisite lightness. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she whispers, voice vibrating through you. Her free hand slides under your back, hooking at your hip to tilt you up, angling your body for harsher, more exquisite friction. You catch your breath only to have it ripped away again as she pounds into you, that delicious, punishing rhythm spiking your nerves.

Her breath falters. “Yes…Good girl.” she rasps, her fingers plunging deeper into your mouth, pressing on your tongue as her hips slam in. The strap inside you thrusts at that perfect angle that splits you open between pain and bliss. Her hand grips your hip with bruising force, anchoring you to her need.

Pleasure coils through you like electricity, every nerve ending ablaze where she fills you, stretches you, utterly possesses you. The realization cracks you wide open. You sob around her fingers, body convulsing in a thunderous climax that rattles your bones, silent only in the absence of breath. Abby stiffens—her thrusts stutter, then resume in a brutal rush. Her groan tears from her throat as she shatters over you, burying herself wholly inside, shuddering through you as her release pounds out in tremors.

If it were possible, you would be getting pregnant right now. Filled. Claimed. Hers.

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Notes: Okay. Judge me. Played too much TLOU II yesterday and well.

#fanfic #the last of us ii #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #abby tlou #drabble #smut #wlw smut #lesbian #abby anderson

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allyisbrooding · 9 days ago

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i just read the “abby being sexy and careful on your first time” and that was the hottest thing ever ! i need more of that !!

Hey thanks 🖤 I've been working on something similar to that actually 🫠 honestly can't wait for kinktober when I'm just another one and not this obsessed with muscular women

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allyisbrooding · 11 days ago

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Okay no offense but fix what?

General Armstrong: *says or does anything*

Me: I could fix her.

#honestly #there are very few things I wouldn't let this woman do to me

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allyisbrooding · 12 days ago

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𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

Abby Anderson

Drabble #1

Drabble #2

Late Bloomer

Mereoleona Vermillion

Stormcloud

Olivier Armstrong

Drabble #1

Rhea Ripley

Drabble #1

Drabble #2

Sunshine - Part 1 & Part 2

Wrestling

It's just in my nature

#masterlist #rhea ripley #fanfic #wwe #rhea ripley x reader #smut #prompt #wlw smut #rhea ripley smut #abby anderson #drabble #olivier armstrong smut #olivier armstrong x reader #olivier armstrong #the last of us ii #fullmetal alchimist brotherhood

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allyisbrooding · 12 days ago

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How my favorite buff girls would fuck you...

Abby lives to give—every inch of her, every muscle honed for devotion. Tell her exactly what you want, whisper it against her mouth and she will make you her mission. She thrives on instructions, on the soft, shivering confessions you can barely voice. Want her to take you on all fours? Sweetheart, she’ll ruin you for anyone else. She'll be the most careful of them all, her touch starts like a promise—slow, deliberate—her lips brushing your trembling thighs, lingering just long enough to make your heartbeat stutter. She works her way upward with kisses that are both worship and warning, her mouth trailing a molten line along your stomach as if mapping holy ground, pausing to savor the taste of your skin. She watches you come undone like it’s her favorite art form: the ragged breaths breaking free, the way your fingers twist in the sheets, the tremor that runs through your body when she presses her mouth just where you need her most. That’s her poison, the heady rush of knowing she’s the reason you’re unraveling. But cross her, play the brat? Her grip turns, pinning you down with those strong, calloused hands, her hips finding yours with purpose. Each thrust winds the coil inside you tighter, dragging moans from your throat until your voice is hoarse, until your legs are trembling and your body is slick with sweat. She fucks you until you’re gasping, sobbing against her shoulder—spent, or so you think. That’s when her mouth finds your ear, her voice low and velvet-soft, her blue eyes wide and pleading as they lock on yours. “Just one more, baby. Please… do it for me.” And you know you’re lost.

Olivier takes you like a general taking ground—precise and utterly silent save for the soft rustle of sheets. Her touch isn’t a question; it’s an order, one you obey without thought. One moment you’re upright, the next you’re flat on the mattress, her weight pinning you down, hips locked in her steel grip. Every thrust lands with precision, each movement a calculated strike at your every weakness, as though she’s mapped your body the way she’d map a battlefield. She could finish you in seconds—overwhelm you, dismantle you—but that would be a waste of good strategy. Instead, she draws it out, a siege of slow, merciless pressure until your breath is ragged and your voice trembles around her name. Builds character. Her fingers—calloused from years of swordplay—curl just right, pressing exactly where you’re most undone, pressing that sweet swollen bundle of nerves until you’re arching off the bed, dragging desperate sounds from your lips. The only hint of her own release is the vise of her thighs tightening around you, a silent tell in an otherwise impenetrable façade. When it’s over, she doesn’t collapse into you, doesn’t murmur sweetness—only slings a strong arm across your stomach, her possession quiet and absolute. And then, when you least expect it, a fleeting kiss at the damp curve of your neck, her voice a low, velvet murmur: “You did good.” From her? That’s a fucking symphony.

Rhea Ripley? She’s a fucking tease, and she revels in every second of your torment. Every smirk, every lazy drag of her gaze down your body is a promise she’ll make you ache for her long before she lets you have her. She’ll draw out the foreplay for an eternity if it pleases her, leaving you a writhing, begging mess beneath her. But oh, when she finally decides to definitely fuck you? It’s a reward. Her tongue tracing over you with sinful precision, the glint of her piercing teasing your most sensitive spots, her fingers curling deep until your thighs shake. She lives for the sight of you bouncing in her lap, riding her strap like you were made for it, her voice low and rough in your ear: “Arch up, baby… you wanted this, didn’t you? Spread your legs for Mami then.” She’s tall enough to feel like she owns every inch of you, loud enough to make the walls blush, and relentless enough to keep going until you’re drooling into the pillow, wrecked and glowing from the inside out.

#fanfic #rhea ripley #wwe #rhea ripley x reader #smut #prompt #wlw smut #rhea ripley smut #abby anderson #drabble #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #olivier armstrong #olivier armstrong x reader #olivier armstrong smut #fma #the last of us ii

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allyisbrooding · 13 days ago

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𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘳

☾ Pairing: Abby Anderson x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: you’ve been friends with Abby since forever but right now you’re not exactly close. But then there’s this one night where she kicks your jerk boyfriend out of the way and one thing leads to another.

⚠︎ Warning: swearing, cunnilingus (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), cheating (it’s a man so fuck it), a little bit of dirty talking.

Words: 4.5k

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The stale tang of sweat, wool, and something vaguely dump hung thick in the dimly lit rec room. Raucous laughter erupted from a knot of fireflies near the boarded-up windows, swapping exaggerated patrol stories punctuated by the clink of tin mugs. You leaned against the cold concrete wall, trying to melt into the shadows, your stomach a tight knot. Dinner sat like lead.

Derek’s arm snaked around your waist, pulling you sharply away from the meager shelter of the wall. His breath, smelling of the weak potato moonshine circulating, hit your ear. "Been avoidin' me," he muttered, his voice low and rough. His other hand slid down, groping your hip possessively.

"Not now, Derek." you whispered, trying to twist away. The familiar dread pooled cold in your gut. "People are watching."

"Let 'em watch." he growled, pressing his body against yours, pinning you. His lips were hot and wet against the side of your neck. "Missed you." His hand moved higher, squeezing. You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your face away, bracing. Just get through it. Just get through it.

The pressure vanished so abruptly you stumbled. Derek staggered back with a surprised grunt. Abby stood between you, her broad shoulders blocking Derek from view, one hand still clenched in the fabric of his shirt where she’d hauled him off you.

"The fuck, Abby?" Derek snarled, adjusting his pants, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Rec room's for rec, Derek.” Abby stated, her voice flat, cold, cutting through the nearby chatter. A couple of fireflies glanced over, then quickly looked away. "Not your personal fuck corner. Keep it in your pants or take it somewhere else."

Derek glared, his eyes flicking from Abby’s stony expression to your face, his lip curling. "Bitch." he spat, shoving past her. "Always stickin' your nose in." He stalked towards the exit, muttering curses under his breath.

Abby watched him go for a second, her jaw tight, before turning to you. The harsh fluorescent light caught the scar above her eyebrow. Her bright blue eyes searched yours, concerned. "You okay?"

You nodded quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself, trying to stop the slight tremor in your hands. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just... Derek being Derek." You forced a weak smile. "Thanks, Abby."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face – maybe frustration, maybe something else. You hadn’t been close like you used to be, not since Owen. Not since Derek. Her gaze dropped to your hand, clenched white-knuckled at your side. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out. Her fingers, calloused, brushed against yours, then gently closed around your wrist. The touch was startlingly soft.

"Come on." she said, her voice losing some of its earlier ice. She tugged gently. "Sit with us." She nodded towards a quieter corner table where Manny sat nursing a mug, watching the scene unfold with a raised eyebrow.

You let her lead you, the warmth of her hand a stark contrast to the cold dread Derek had left behind. The smell of unwashed bodies and damp concrete was momentarily replaced by the faint scent of gun oil and leather that clung to Abby. Manny scooted over on the bench as you approached.

"Hey, hermosa." Manny grinned, pushing a chipped ceramic mug towards you. It sloshed with a murky, amber liquid. "Courtesy of the kitchen rookies. Tastes like ass, but it's wet."

Abby released your wrist and slid onto the bench beside you, her shoulder bumping yours lightly. She grabbed her own mug. "They swear it's improving.” she said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. "Drink fast. Helps."

You took the mug. The liquid inside smelled vaguely yeasty and sour. You took a cautious sip. It was awful – bitter, thin, with an unpleasant aftertaste. But it was cold, and as it hit your stomach, a different kind of warmth began to spread, unknotting the tightness just a little. Not the warmth of comfort, exactly, but the warmth of not being alone against the wall anymore.

Manny launched into a story about a Runner getting tangled in its own cordyceps tendrils during patrol. Abby snorted, adding a dry comment. You took another sip of the awful beer, the sounds of the room fading slightly. You weren’t happy. But you weren’t pinned against the wall, either. Not right now.

You drink. For now.

✮⋆˙

The walk back through the serpentine concrete corridors felt lighter than air. The harsh fluorescent bulbs, usually buzzing like angry wasps, seemed dimmer, softer. Your shoulder bumped Abby’s as you navigated the narrow passage, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the terrible beer. You’d forgotten the sheer, infectious feel of Abby’s laugh – deep, genuine, rumbling from her chest like distant thunder – and your cheeks ached pleasantly from echoing it.

"Seriously." you chuckled, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye. "Damn, I forgot how funny Manny’s impression of your dad is."

Abby grinned, shaking her head. "Right? The eyebrow thing? Spot on." She paused outside her door, her usual room shared with Manny. A flicker of something crossed her face. "Hey... wanna see something cool?”

You frowned, glancing down the hall towards Manny's usual haunts. "Won’t Manny mind?"

Abby snorted, pulling a key from her pocket. "Please. He’s probably trying to serenade Isabel with patrol stories again. Or passed out on her floor." The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open. "Come on."

You stepped in, and your eyes instantly flew to the far wall. "Oh, come on!" you groaned, a playful whine in your voice. The massive window dominated the room, a panoramic view of the sprawling, dimly lit base below – guard towers silhouetted against the night sky, the hulking shapes of storage buildings, pinpricks of light marking patrol routes. "This is so unfair! You guys get the best view!"

Abby chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Perks of seniority and scaring off the previous occupants." She moved towards the sturdy metal bunk beds, rummaging on the top bunk where she kept her stuff. "Here." she said, turning and holding something out. "Found this."

Your breath hitched. It was a book. Thick, slightly yellowed, the cover worn but unmistakable. The bold title: The Mark of Athena. Percy Jackson. The last one. The one you and Abby had spent years searching for fruitlessly as kids, only ever finding tattered copies of the earlier books in abandoned libraries.

"No way." you whispered, taking it reverently. The weight felt familiar, comforting. You traced the embossed lettering, turning it over in your hands like sacred treasure. A wide, disbelieving smile spread across your face. "Abby... this is it! The holy grail!" You looked up at her, eyes shining. "Did you... did you like it?"

Abby shrugged, scratching the back of her neck – a gesture you recognized as nervousness. "Haven't read it yet."

Your jaw dropped. "What? Abby! How could you find this and not read it?"

She chuckled, a little sheepish. "Found it a few weeks back, tucked in a dry box under some rubble near that old bookstore off 5th. And... well," she gestured towards a battered paperback copy of A Clash of Kings lying in a pile of clean clothes. "Got sucked into this mess. But..." She met your gaze, her blue eyes earnest in the low light filtering through the giant window. "I thought... maybe we could read it? Like we used to?"

A wave of warmth, tinged with nostalgia, washed over you. The image was vivid: huddled in a dusty corner of the fireflies library annex, knees touching, lost in separate worlds yet together, breaking the silence only to excitedly share a passage or debate a character's choice. It felt like a lifetime ago, a fragile piece of peace preserved only between you two. You looked at Abby – really looked at her, the familiar lines of her face softened by the low light of the room, the strength in her frame, the vulnerability in her offer.

"Yeah." you breathed, your smile softening into something deeper. "Yeah, Abs. I'd love that. Anytime."

Abby nodded, looking relieved. The air shifted, growing heavier. She sank onto the edge of her lower bunk, the mattress springs groaning softly. "So..." she started, her voice dropping a fraction. "Things with Derek... you okay?"

The warmth receded a little. You shrugged, moving to sit cross-legged on the worn shag rug near her feet, leaning your back against the cool metal frame of the bunk. The book rested heavily in your lap. "Nothing special. Just... Derek."

Abby raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh huh. Looked pretty 'special' in the rec room." She leaned forward, resting her thick forearms on her knees. The pose made her shoulders look even broader.

You picked at a loose thread on the rug. "He's pissed I don't wanna jump him every night." You sighed, the frustration bubbling up. The words felt stupid, childish, but they tumbled out. "It's just… sex sucks, Abby."

Abby burst out laughing, a sharp, surprised bark. "What?"

"I'm serious!" you insisted, looking up at her. "Remember when we were like, fourteen? Talking about it? I thought it was supposed to be… I dunno… fireworks? Fun? Not for me. It's like... waiting for it to be over."

Abby's amusement faded. She studied you intently. "It should be fun. For you too. What's... what's the problem? Is he hurting you?" Her voice hardened slightly.

"No! No, nothing like that. He's just... Derek. I just... I don't know. I don't feel anything." The admission felt huge, hanging in the quiet room.

Abby's eyes widened slightly. "Have you ever... you know...have you ever cum? With him? Or… ever?"

Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked down at the book cover. Probably Percy and Jason, on horses, fighting? "I don't know." And you don't really. Just talking about it made you feel mortified.

Abby stared at you, incredulous. "You don't know? Honey, you'd know. Trust me. It's kinda… unmistakable." Her expression grown heavy. "So, no. Which means Derek is a grade-A piece of shit."

You shook your head mutely, the shame a hot coal in your stomach.

"Maybe not," you mumbled, the half-formed thought escaping before you could stop it. "Maybe... maybe I'm just a lesbian and don't even like men." You meant it as a weak joke, a deflection.

Abby didn't laugh. She just looked at you, her head tilted, considering. The seriousness in her gaze made your stomach flip. "Would you know?" she asked quietly. "If you were?"

"What?"

"If you were a lesbian. Would you know?" she repeated, her voice low.

You blinked. "Of course I'd know!" you protested, the defensiveness automatic.

"Have you ever been with a girl? Kissed one? Anything?" Abby pressed, her blue eyes locked on yours.

"Well… no. Obviously not." you scoffed, a nervous flutter in your chest. "Have you?"

Abby chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "You really didn't know? Thought it was kinda obvious." She paused, letting the words hang as she stretched her arms. "I'm bi. Don't exactly hide it."

The information hit you like a physical blow. Memories clicked into place: Abby's easy confidence, the way her hand lingered on Vanessa's waist at Jerry's birthday last month, the knowing glances you'd dismissed as you being jealous of your childhood friend. "So... you and Vanessa...?"

Abby shook her head. "Nah. That was just... a thing. Passed the time." She looked down at her hands, then back up at you, her expression shifting into something hesitant, almost shy. "Truth is… I kinda… had a crush on you. Back when Owen and I were falling apart." She let out a small, embarrassed huff of laughter.

The world tilted. "What?"

Abby let out a small, embarrassed puff of air, rubbing her face. "Shit. Yeah. Thought... thought maybe you knew? Which is why you kinda vanished. Why you jumped into dating that jackass Derek outta nowhere.” And it's the way you would never.

Your mind raced. "Knew? Abby, I had no idea! Zero! Zip! Nada!"

A disbelieving laugh escaped her. "Seriously?"

"Seriously!" You stared at her, the absurdity crashing over you. "So... all this time... we both... because of some giant, dumb miscommunication plot?”

Abby burst out laughing, the sound rich and warm, filling the small room. "Sounds about right for us, huh?" She reached out and ruffled your hair, the gesture familiar and comforting, yet now charged with new meaning. "World's biggest idiots."

You swatted playfully at her hand, your own laughter bubbling up, a release of years of tension. "Total idiots."

You loved Abby. Always had. She was your best friend ever. The one you told all your secrets. And yes maybe you had a massive crush on her, especially after she started working out for real. But you're always dismissed as something silly. Just a silly platonic crush, right? Everyone gets over it at some point. If it wasn't for Owen or maybe it would be another guy if it wasn't him but…

Abby's hand lingered near your head for a second before she pulled it back, her smile softening. Her gaze held yours again, steady and warm. "Well." she said, her voice dropping to a low murmur, a hint of playful challenge in her eyes. "If you ever wanna test that whole 'am I a lesbian' theory... you know. I’m around. I volunteer as tribute anytime."

The playful punch you aimed at her thigh was half-hearted, your face burning crimson. The thought – the offer – echoed in the silence, sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air seeping through the window.

The easy laughter faded, replaced by a thick tension. You looked at Abby – really looked. At the curve of her lips, the intensity in her blue eyes, the surprising gentleness warring in her expression. The memory of her hand on yours earlier, pulling you from Derek, the solid comfort of her beside you at the table… it collided with this new, terrifyingly – and at the same time wonderful – possibility.

You…You're best friends, right?

"Are you... are you serious?" you whispered, the words barely audible.

Abby leaned forward slightly, the bunk frame creaking softly. Moonlight caught the planes of her face, highlighting the scar above her brow, the determined set of her jaw, the softness in her eyes as they locked into you. That charming, lopsided smile touched her lips and suddenly your heart was fluttering against your chest. "Have I ever lied to you?"

The answer was immediate, instinctive. "No." Never. Not once in all the years. Trust in Abby was as fundamental as breathing.

Something broke loose inside you. A dam of confusion, resignation, and quiet longing.

Why not? What exactly is stopping you?

Half impulse, half desperate need to know, half an overwhelming desire just to be close to her – Abby. Who felt like safety and excitement all at once.

You moved. Pushing off the rug, you dropped to your knees, the rough fibers scratching through your pants. You shuffled forward, right between her legs where she sat on the bunk's edge. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't pull back, didn't tense. Heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, you reached up. Your hands, trembling slightly, cupped her strong jaw, the skin smooth and warm beneath your fingertips. You pulled her face gently towards yours, closing the small distance.

Your lips met hers. Tentative. A question mark pressed against her mouth.

It was nothing like kissing Derek.

Her lips were soft, yielding but firm. There was no scrape of stubble, no smell of stale sweat or the sharp tang of something like cheese that always seemed to cling to him. Instead, she smelled faintly of gun oil, leather, and the clean, herbal scent of the lavender soap Jerry sometimes managed to trade for. Underneath it all was just... Abby. Warm, solid, familiar, yet new.

And it felt... right. Not awkward, not like a duty, not like waiting for it to end. A spark ignited low in your belly, warm, chasing away the cold dread that had been your constant companion for a long time. A sigh escaped you, breathed against her lips. It finally felt good. Not just acceptable, but good. Like finding a piece of yourself you hadn't known was missing.

You lingered there for a heartbeat, two. The quiet sound of her breathing mingling with your, fragile and terrifying.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching, bracing for rejection, for anger, for the awkwardness that might shatter everything. Your eyes searched Abby’s face, expecting confusion or regret.

But Abby wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t angry. Her bright blue eyes held yours, wide and intense, pupils dilated in the dim light filtering through the giant window. There was a stillness in her, a coiled want held tightly in check. Waiting. Just… waiting.

The hesitation evaporated. You leaned in again, slower this time, giving her space to refuse. You didn’t need it.

Abby met you halfway, but where your kiss had been a question, hers was an answer. A hungry, claiming answer. Her lips captured yours, firm and insistent. A low sound, almost a growl, vibrated in her throat as her big hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against her where she sat on the bunk’s edge. There was no space, no air, just Abby – the solid warmth of her body, the insistent demand of her mouth, the scent of lavender and gun oil filling your senses. She wasn’t holding back. Not for a second.

A surprised laugh bubbled up in your throat, muffled against her lips. Her eagerness, the sheer certainty of it, was overwhelming, exhilarating. You tried to pull back again, just to breathe, just to process the dizzying rush.

Abby wouldn’t allow it. Her arms tightened like steel bands. "No." she murmured, the word rough against your lips before she buried her face in the curve of your neck. Her breath was hot on your skin. "Stay. Just… stay a little longer."

The command, softened by the plea in her voice, melted you. You smiled, a genuine, wide smile you hadn't felt in ages. Your hands, trembling slightly, lifted to cradle her head. Your fingers found the tight braid at her back. Gently, carefully, you began to unpick the elastic band holding it, then worked your fingers through the woven strands until her blonde hair spilled free, cascading over her strong shoulders.

Abby lifted her head then, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her hair framed her face, softening the sharp lines of her jaw, the intensity of her gaze. Moonlight caught the gold strands and the flecks in her blue eyes. She’d never looked more beautiful. More Abby.

You shifted, needing to be closer still. You stood up briefly, just enough space for Abby to understand. Abby’s hands were on your hips, guiding you, pulling you down smoothly until you were straddling her lap on the edge of the bunk. Her calloused hands, rough from years of patrols and hard work, were surprisingly delicate as they traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine beneath your shirt. You reached up, tracing the constellation of faint freckles scattered across her cheekbones, your thumb brushing the scar above her eyebrow. Then you kissed her again. And again. It wasn't tentative anymore. It was deep, searching, addictive. You lost yourself in the taste of her, the feel of her lips moving against yours, the little sounds she made low in her chest. You’d never known just kissing could feel like this – like drowning and flying all at once.

Your fingers sank into the thick silk of her unbound hair, tangling near the nape of her neck. You gave a gentle tug, testing. Abby responded instantly. A low, possessive growl rumbled against your mouth, vibrating through your entire body. The sound went straight to your core, a hot, liquid pull that made you clench involuntarily, seeking friction against the rough fabric of her pants where you sat astride her lap.

Okay, a dazed thought surfaced. Maybe I'm way more of a lesbian than I thought.

You shifted subtly, deliberately grinding down against the solid muscle of her thigh. A small gasp escaped you at the sudden, sharp jolt of pleasure.

Abby’s hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you still. Firm, but not painful. She pulled her mouth from yours, her breathing ragged. Her eyes, dark with pure want, locked onto yours.

"If you keep doing that," she warned, her voice husky, strained, "I am not responsible for what happens next."

A thrill shot through you, reckless. You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Promises, promises." you whispered, then gently nipped at her earlobe.

Abby sucked in a sharp breath. Her grip on your thighs tightened almost painfully for a split second before she relaxed it. You saw the resolve snap in her eyes, the last thread of restraint dissolving.

"Fuck it." she breathed, the words barely audible.

Then, with exhilarating ease, her hands slid under your thighs. In one fluid motion, she lifted you – like you weighed nothing – and tossed you backwards onto the soft expanse of her bunk. You landed with a soft oof, a giggle escaping you despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. So strong.

Abby was on you before the laughter fully died. She braced herself above you, one knee sliding between yours, her weight settling comfortably, possessively, in the cradle of your hips. She captured your mouth again in a searing kiss that left no room for thought, only her.

Her hands went to the hem of your worn t-shirt. “Off,” she rasped. You lifted your arms, breaking the kiss only for the second it took to pull the fabric over your head and toss it aside. The cool night air prickled your skin. Abby’s gaze raked over you, appreciative, before she sat back on her heels, straddling your legs. Her own hands went to the buttons of her flannel shirt. She shrugged it off, revealing a simple tank top beneath. Then, with a fluid motion, she pulled that off too.

The breath caught in your throat. Abby Anderson, your childhood friend…was breathtaking. Moonlight sculpted the powerful lines of her shoulders, the defined muscles of her arms and abdomen. Her breasts were full and beautiful, rising and falling with her quickened breath. She’d transformed from the lanky girl you knew into this… warrior goddess. "God, Abs," you breathed, the words escaping without thought. "You’re… you’re so hot."

“Took you long enough to notice.” A faint blush tinged her cheeks, visible even in the dim light, but her gaze remained steady, hungry. She lowered herself back down, her skin warm against yours. Her mouth found yours again, then trailed lower – a hot, open-mouthed kiss on your collarbone, then the curve of your breast. Her tongue flicked over your nipple, then her lips closed around it, sucking gently, then harder. You arched into the sensation, a moan tearing from your throat. She lavished attention on one breast, then the other, her tongue swirling, her teeth nipping playfully, until you were writhing beneath her, incoherent sounds spilling from your lips.Her hands roamed your sides, your stomach, mapping your skin with reverence and some urgency. It felt like worship. Like she was memorizing you.

She kissed lower, across your ribs, your stomach, her breath ghosting over your skin. She paused at the waistband of your pants, her eyes lifting to meet yours. The question was clear, unspoken but loud in the charged silence. Is this okay?

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yes. Please, Abby."

Her fingers hooked into the fabric, sliding your pants and underwear down your hips and legs in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your exposed skin, but it was instantly forgotten as Abby settled between your thighs. The look she gave you then – raw need mixed with some kind of sweet desire – stole your breath.

She shifted lower, settling between your thighs.She kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, her breath warm. The first touch of her tongue against you was electric, a jolt that made you cry out and jerk. She paused, looking up. "Okay?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, overwhelmed. "Just… sensitive."

She hummed, a sound of understanding, and then her mouth was on you again. Softer this time, exploratory. Her tongue touched you, a slow, deliberate stroke that made you gasp. It was so much, so intense, so different.Gentle licks, teasing circles. It felt… good. She was good. So good. Her mouth was hot and knowing, her tongue exploring with a confidence that Derek had never possessed, never even considered. Wet heat, skilled pressure, exploring, circling, finding the most sensitive spots with unerring accuracy. Pressure, intense, shot through you, coiling tight low in your belly. It was so fucking good it was almost frightening.

But then… you felt it. The familiar stiffness creeping in, the hyperawareness, whispering that you wouldn’t be able to let go. What if you can’t? What if you freeze? What if you disappoint her?

Abby sensed the shift instantly. She lifted her head, her lips glistening. Concern flickered in her eyes, replacing the haze of desire. Without a word, she moved back up your body, kissing a trail up your stomach, between your breasts, until her lips found yours again in a deep, reassuring kiss. You could taste yourself on her lips, an intimacy that should have shocked you but only felt right.

"Look at me." she murmured against your lips, her voice thick. "Just look at me."

You forced your eyes open, meeting her intense blue gaze. So beautiful. So pure.

Her hand slid down between your bodies, her fingers replacing her tongue. They were slick, warm, and patient. You stiffened just for a moment before she kissed you again…Deeply, swallowing your small, anxious whimpers as her fingers began to move, not with frantic urgency, but with a slow, building rhythm. She touched, circling, pressing, retreating, learning your body's responses as she went.

Her touch was different now. Slower. More deliberate. Not demanding, but coaxing. One finger slid inside you, then another, curling gently, finding a spot that made you gasp and buck against her hand. Her thumb circled that sensitive peak, applying perfect, rhythmic pressure. You trembled against her. "That’s it," she breathed, her eyes locked on yours. The fear receded, replaced by an overwhelming tide of pure sensation.

You sink your fingers into her hair, on her biceps, her back... Anywhere to anchor yourself. The coil tightened unbearably, shimmering on the edge. Her thumb pressed harder, her fingers crooked just so perfectly. You…You can’...

"It’s okay." she breathed against your mouth. "Let go. Just let go for me, baby. I’ve got you."

The coil snapped. Pleasure, shattering, exploded through you. It ripped a cry from your throat, muffled against Abby’s mouth. You clenched hard around Abby’s fingers. Your body arched off the bed, trembling as wave after wave crashed over you, pulling you under. It was fireworks. It was sunlight breaking through. It was everything you’d never known you were missing.

As the tremors subsided, leaving you boneless and gasping, Abby held you, her fingers still gently working you through the aftershocks, her lips pressed softly to your temple. You clung to her, burying your face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her, of lavender and sweat and something uniquely Abby.

When you finally found the strength to lift your head and look at her, dazed and utterly spent, the truth settled over you with perfect, crystalline clarity. It wasn't just about sex being good. It wasn't just about realizing you preferred women.

It was about her.

You reached up, tracing the line of her jaw, your voice a ragged whisper filled with wonder. "I was right."

Abby smiled, a slow, beautiful, utterly satisfied smile that lit up her whole face. She brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. "About what?"

You leaned in, kissing her softly, pouring all the newfound certainty into it. "I think I'm a lesbian." You paused, your lips hovering over hers, your eyes holding hers. "For you, especially, Abby Anderson."

Her smile deepened. She kissed you back, slow and sweet, a promise whispered against your lips. "Good."

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#fanfic #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson smut #the last of us ii #wlw smut

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allyisbrooding · 18 days ago

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♡ Just thinking about Abby Anderson being all sexy and careful with you on your first time…

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The forgotten movie plays on the projector, casting dancing shadows across Abby’s bare shoulders and the tense lines of your stomach as she leans over you. All muscle and soft skin.

"I'm right here," she murmurs, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. Her voice is thick, husky, but the command is gentle. "Focus on how it feels." Her calloused thumb dips lower, a deliberate, teasing stroke along the sensitive crease of your thigh. You gasp, your fingers digging reflexively into the hard muscle of her shoulder. A low chuckle vibrates against your skin. "There you go. That’s it."

Her touch is a paradox. Utterly confident, knowing exactly where to linger, where the lightest brush sends sparks shooting up your spine. Yet, it’s also impossibly patient. She doesn’t rush. She explores the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the flat plane of your stomach with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on your face, reading every flicker of your eyelids, every catch in your breath.

"You okay?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. Her knuckles graze the elastic band of your underwear, a ghost of a touch that makes your whole body tense. "You need to tell me, baby."

"Yeah," you manage, the word strangled. "Just… new."

Her smile is a flash of white in the dim light. "New is good." Her fingers finally slip beneath the fabric, not diving in, but resting possessively, warmly, against the skin of your lower belly. The heat is immediate, intense. "God, you feel amazing," she breathes, nuzzling your neck. "So warm." Her hand shifts lower, a fraction of an inch. Her middle finger finds a sensitive spot, pressing in with just the right amount of pressure – firm, insistent, but not demanding. A choked moan escapes you, your head falling against her shoulder.

"Abby…"

"Shhh," she soothes, her lips finding yours again in a deep, distracting kiss. Her tongue sweeps into your mouth as her finger moves. A slow, deliberate slide downwards, through slick heat, finding the swollen, aching center of your need. The contact is electric, blinding. Your hips jerk involuntarily against her hand.

"Oh, fuck," she groans against your mouth, breaking the kiss. Her blue eyes are blazing, pupils blown wide with desire. "You're so wet for me already." You can't find the urge in yourself to blush. Not when her finger circles the sensitive bundle of nerves, applying perfect pressure. "So damn perfect."

Her strong arm tightens around you, supporting you as your legs tremble. Her finger starts to move in earnest now – firm, rhythmic circles that build a pressure deep inside you, coiling tighter and tighter. She’s not just touching you; she’s playing you, reading your body’s responses like sheet music. When your breathing hitches, she slows, drawing lazy patterns that make you whimper. When you push your hips towards her, seeking more friction, she increases the pace, the pressure, her finger a relentless, perfect instrument.

"Look at you," she rasps, her own breath coming fast. She's holding back. So bad. She dips her head, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Taking it so good. So fucking beautiful like this." Her free hand slides up your torso, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. "More?"

"Y-yes," you gasp, arching against her. "Please… Abby…"

"Like this?" Her circling finger becomes more focused, faster. The coil inside you snaps taut. "Or… like this?" Her finger slips lower, sliding into you with shocking ease, just the first knuckle, filling you with a sudden stretch. You cry out, fingers scrabbling against her back.

She stills, buried deep. "Okay?" Her voice is strained, thick with her own need, but the concern is paramount. Her eyes search yours. "Too much?"

You shake your head frantically, words failing. It’s intense, overwhelming, but good. So good. The stretch, the fullness, the heat of her inside you.

"Good," she breathes. She starts to move her finger, a slow, deliberate withdrawal, then a push back in. Then another. Establishing a rhythm. Deep, penetrating strokes that hit a spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "Feel that?" she murmurs, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Feel how deep you're taking me?"

Her thumb finds your clit again, circling it in time with the thrusts of her finger. The dual sensation is devastating. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one higher, more intense than the last. "God, you're tight," she groans, the sound primal. "Perfect." She withdraws almost completely, then slides back in, a slow, deliberate stroke that makes you moan. You’re panting, moaning her name, lost in the sensations she’s orchestrating. Her body is a solid presence wrapped around you, holding you up, controlling the pace. Her strength isn't intimidating now; it's the bedrock you're shattering against.

"You’re doing so good," she praises, her voice rough with arousal. Her thrusts deepen, her thumb pressing harder. "So fucking good. Let go. Come for me, baby." She leans in, capturing your gasp with a possessive kiss as her fingers work their magic – pumping inside you with confident strength, circling your clit with unerring precision. "Come on, sweetheart," she coaxes against your lips, her own breath ragged. "You gonna come for me, won't you? Do it. I’ve got you."

The coil, wound impossibly tight by her touch and, finally, gloriously, snaps. Pleasure detonates, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating out from where her fingers are buried deep inside you, washing over every nerve ending. You cry out, a sound muffled against her mouth, your body arching violently in her arms, trembling as the waves crash through you. She holds you through it, her finger still buried deep, her thumb still applying perfect pressure, riding the contractions with you, murmuring low, encouraging words against your sweat-slicked skin.

As the tremors begin to subside, leaving you boneless in her arms, she slowly, carefully withdraws her fingers. She brings her hand up, her eyes dark, satisfied as she looks at the glistening evidence of your pleasure on her skin. A slow, utterly sexy smile spreads across her face but when her thumb brushes your cheekbone her touch is nothing but careful. "You okay? Still with me?"

"I-I guess so?" And the way she chuckles makes your heart flutter.

"Round two then?"

#abby anderson x reader #fanfic #drabble #smut #wlw smut #abby anderson #the last of us ii #abby anderson smut

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allyisbrooding · 20 days ago

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𝑺𝑼𝑵𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑬 - 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑰𝑰

ᡣ𐭩 Part I

☾ Pairing: Firefighter Rhea Ripley x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: you're just closing the cafe when you get an unwelcome client. Lucky you the captain seems to smell trouble.

Notes: I wasn't planning to write another part of this one but what can I say. Rhea is sexy in any universe.

⚠︎ Warning: graphic violence, harassment, more flirting on the workplace.

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The fluorescent lights of the empty cafe feel like judgmental spotlights pinning you down. You slump on the stool behind the counter, the weight of your school dreams clinging heavier than the scent of stale coffee grounds. Your phone screen scrolls through a relentless parade of Instagram perfection. Sarah beaming in scrubs during neuro rotation. Ben posing with his "Nature Medicine" publication. The entire "Future Cardiologists Take Manhattan!" crew, all blinding white smiles and designer gowns at some exclusive gala. Each image is just a little twist in your gut, a reminder of the meticulously planned future that crumbled to dust. You make a face, sticking your tongue out slightly at Sarah's particularly smug caption. “Living the dream! #MedSchoolGrind #WorthIt”.

It’s not envy. It’s just…You deserved that too, right? It was grief. Grief for the normal college life, the late-night study sessions, the future that shimmered just out of reach while you poured coffee until your hands shook.

"Ugh, spare me." you mutter, the bitterness acrid on your tongue. Lost in your swirling vortex of envy and bone-deep exhaustion, you don't register the soft chime of the bell above the door. The wind, you think vaguely, having turned the sign to "Closed" a few minutes ago. You don't sense the presence until a shadow falls across your glowing screen, surely unwelcome.

You startle, looking up. A man leans casually against the counter. Generic handsome, you suppose – tall, gym-honed shoulders in a slightly-too-tight button-down, hair expensively tousled. He looks way older than you, though. Maybe in his 40’s. A confident smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes, assessing, hold no warmth. He radiates Wall Street happy hour and misplaced entitlement.

"Hey there." he purrs, his voice slick as spilled syrup. "Place looks shut down tight, but look at you. Must be my lucky night." His grin gets mischievous. "Can you get me an espresso? Or how about I buy you a real drink? Something that burns a little nicer than this swill?" He gestures dismissively at the gleaming espresso machine.

You sigh, the sound heavy with the weariness of the end of your shift. Honestly you've dealt with enough men today. You're frayed at the edges, hollowed out, and this guy is the last thing you need. "We're closed." you state flatly, your voice devoid of inflection. "Can't make you anything. And no thanks. Just waiting to lock up." You pushed back your stool, the scrape echoing sharply in the silence.

His smirk widened, undeterred, almost delighted by the refusal. "Feisty. I like that." He leans further over the counter, invading your personal space, the faint smell of bourbon and cologne washing over you. "C'mon, gorgeous. One drink. I promise I'll make it worth your while." His gaze slid over you, possessive.

Gorgeous. The word, dripping with false charm, ignites a spark of pure irritation inside you. You are done. Done with the shifts that bled into study time, done with the gaping hole where your future should be, done with men who mistake your 'no' for a negotiation. Your refusal isn't attitude. You’re tired. That's it. And even if you weren’t…Who this guy thinks he is? Carol Aird?

Wordlessly, you snatch your phone, pivot, and aim for the the kitchen door. Just get away. Start to lock up. Ignore him. Breathe.

You didn't expect the iron vise clamping around your upper arm, yanking you backward with force. It happened faster than a gasp. Your phone flies from your grasp, hitting the tiled floor with a sickening crack that echoes in the silent cafe.

Paralysis. Icy terror flooded your veins, freezing your scream in your throat. The grip isn't just forceful; it's familiar. Your breath hitches, trapped in a vise of panic. You hate violence. You hate men looming, touching, claiming. Your body locks, a rabbit caught in headlights. You know it’s stupid. Run, screamed your brain, but your limbs were lead. The street outside is crowded with people. You just need to run. But you can’t.

"Whoa, easy there, sweetheart." the man continues, his tone shifting to a patronizing drawl, tinged with annoyance. "No need for the dramatics. I just wanted a little—"

He never finishes.

Another hand shoots out – larger, more incisive - fast. It seizes his wrist, grabbing with such force he stumbles backwards. Then, it twists. Not slowly. Not gently. With brutal, efficient finality. A sickening snap echoes, a sound way more visceral than the shattering phone.

The man screams, an animal sound of agony. It kind of pleases you, being frank. His grip on you dissolves instantly as he crumples to his knees, cradling his grotesquely bent wrist, tears and snot streaking his terrified face.

You stumble back, gasping, your own arm throbbing where he’d grabbed you. You blink, trying to clear your head for a second.

And then she was there.

Rhea Ripley emerges from behind the whimpering figure like an avenging goddess carved from black lipstick and eyeliner. She isn't in her firefighter uniform. Black cargo pants hug her legs, scuffed Vans planted firmly on the tile. A faded band tee (something Scandinavian and ferocious) stretches across her broad shoulders, covered by a worn leather jacket. Her dark hair is tousled, her signature smudged eyeliner making her ice-blue eyes blaze with fury. She looks less like a fire captain and more like vengeance incarnate, stepping straight out of a mosh pit and into your nightmare.

"I can break something you'll miss a hell of a lot more than that wrist, mate." Her voice wasn't loud. A low, terrifying rasp that vibrated in your bones, stripped of its usual smoky amusement. "So why don't you value your future lineage and get the fuck out of here? Right. Now." The man on the floor scrambles backwards, crablike, babbling incoherent pleas and apologies, his face a mask of pain. He practically crawls over the threshold, vanishing into the night like a crying baby.

Rhea doesn't spare him a backward glance. Her entire focus snaps to you, standing trembling, one hand pressed to your heart, your eyes wide and haunted, staring at the shattered phone on the floor. The fury in Rhea’s gaze dissolves, replaced by a quick, almost tender concern that takes your breath away. "You okay, Sunshine?" Her voice was still gravel, but now it was a low rumble, warm and grounding, wrapping around you like warm cocoa.

You manage a jerky nod, your throat too tight, too raw for words. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to contain the tremors.

Rhea’s gaze doesn’t waver. She seems to absorb every tremor, the pallor of your face, the way your eyes dart nervously towards the door. Without a word, she bends down smoothly and picks up your phone. The screen is a spiderwebbed disaster, but the light stubbornly glows. She places it gently on the counter beside you, the gesture impossibly careful.

Then, Rhea walks around the counter - so calm - and heads straight for the massive espresso machine you’d just declared off-limits.

"Latte?" she asked, her tone casual, as if she hadn’t just shattered bone. She flipped switches with surprising familiarity. The machine growled to life. She grabbed the carton of milk. "Half milk, extra hot, yeah? Three sugars?" Her voice was steady, certain, like she’d known this by heart for years.

You stare, momentarily stunned out of your residual terror. Your brain kind of short circuits. "What?" Your voice comes out a shaky whisper. "Since when do you know how to operate La Bestia?" You gestured weakly at the chrome behemoth.

Rhea shrugs, the leather of her jacket creaking softly. She expertly tamps fresh grounds into the portafilter, her large hands moving with precision. "Before a certain distractingly pretty barista moved in across the street and ruined me for anyone else's burnt bean water, I had to fend for myself." The milk began to hiss and steam under her touch, a comforting, familiar sound that slowly unknotted the tension in the room. "Wasn't half bad," she added, a ghost of her usual smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she poured the steamed milk with a practiced swirl. "Though," she grumbled, the smirk widening slightly as she slid the large, steaming mug towards you, "I might be a bit rusty on the fancy stuff."

Nestled perfectly in the creamy, velvety foam was a shape. Not perfect, a little lopsided, but undeniably, an attempt at a heart.

You blink, your breath catching. "You… you made a heart."

Rhea leans against the counter opposite you, crossing her arms. The dim light caught the silver glint of her nose chain and softened the fierce blue of her eyes. "Yeah, well," she rumbled, a faint, uncharacteristic blush creeping up the strong column of her neck. "Don't let that get around, yeah? Got a reputation to uphold. ‘Captain Eradicator’...Not exactly known for..." she gestured vaguely, almost bashfully, at the mug, "...foam artistry."

The sheer, beautiful absurdity of it – the rescue, the snapped wrist, and now this intimidating, pierced fire captain presenting you with a perfect latte heart (okay not perfect, but still) – hit you like a warm wave. A startled laugh bubbles up, shaky at first, then blossoming into something genuine and bright, chasing the lingering shadows from the corners of the cafe and lighting up your own face. It does feel like Sunshine.

Rhea’s low grumble melted into a full, breathtaking grin at the sound, transforming her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. The sight sent a different kind of warmth flooding through you.

Driven by a surge of gratitude and something way more embarrassing - warm and fluttering in your chest - you impulsively step forward. Standing on your tiptoes, you press a quick delicate kiss to the curve of Rhea’s cheek, just beside her mouth. Your lips brush surprisingly soft skin. "Thank you." you whisper, the words thick.

Rhea freezes. Utterly still. For a split second, the world seems to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the familiar glint of mischief returns to her big blue eyes, heated. She lifts a hand, her thumb brushing slowly, over the spot where your lips had touched. A slow, smoky smile curves her lips. "Hmm," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a low purr that vibrates straight through your core. Her gaze locks onto your lips. "Missed." She tapped her own lips lightly with her index finger. "Aim a little to the left next time, Sunshine."

Heat explodes across your face, delicious and mortifying though. "Oh, shut up, you stupid buff goth." you muttered, shoving her solid shoulder playfully, your fingers lingering for a heartbeat against the worn leather, feeling the hard muscle beneath. Rhea just chuckled, the sound warm, rich, and deeply, deeply satisfying.

As you took a fortifying sip of the unexpectedly good latte – smooth, sweet, the heart still intact – Rhea picks up the shattered phone again. She swipes and taps, navigating the cracked screen.

"What are you doing?" you ask, peering over the rim of your mug, your pulse still fluttering. The sheer presence of this woman. Who breaks wrists and then looks at you like you hung the moon.

"Saving my number." Rhea states, her tone brooking no argument. She taps the screen decisively. "Emergency contact. Right at the bloody top." She slides the phone back to you.

On the fractured screen, under "Emergency Contacts", it now reads:

“Rhea Ripley (Your Buff Goth)”

Followed by her number.

You look at the listing, then up at Rhea.

Emergency contact. You trace the cracked glass over Rhea’s name. The cold knot of fear from the assault is still a dull ache, a ghost in the room. But looking at Rhea, at the number permanently etched onto your damaged lifeline, a different kind of warmth spreads through you – hopeful.

You take another slow sip of the latte, the sweet, warm liquid spreading comfort through your raw nerves. You glanced at Rhea through your lashes, a small, knowing smile curving your lips, mirroring the one still playing on hers. Yeah, you think, the knot loosening, replaced by a flutter of anticipation.

Next time… I definitely plan on not missing.

#rhea ripley #fanfic #wwe #rhea ripley x reader #wlw #prompt #firefighter au #au #fluff

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allyisbrooding · 22 days ago

Note

If i were to ask for the task of eating rhea ripleys pussy for hours and hours until i develop lockjaw after cooking her a five star meal in a lacy langerie and an apron to celebrate 5 years dating, would you do it please? 🥺

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𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆

☾ Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: It's your and Rhea's anniversary. And you know very well what you want as a gift.

⚠︎ Warning: smut, swearing, cunnilingus (Rhea receiving), fingering (Rhea receiving), wearing lingerie (if that’s a thing).

Words: 2.5k

Notes: This request made me giggle so I hope it was some of what you were looking for. Sorry if I got a little carried away (I’m not really sorry).

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The aroma of garlic, baking dough, and bubbling cheese hung thick and warm in the apartment air as you placed the final plate beside Rhea’s. Your homemade pizza, a four-cheese masterpiece on your side and a culinary abomination topped with pineapple on hers (a necessary evil for the woman you loved), sat steaming on the trivet. The expensive oven she’d gifted you months ago had performed flawlessly.

The scrape of a key in the lock made your heart skip. The door swung open, and Rhea filled the doorway. Her signature cargo pants, scuffed tractor boots, and a well-worn Black Sabbath tee clung to her body like a goth goddess incarnate, radiating effortless cool. A small, sleek black bag dangled from her fingers.

Her eyes found yours, and that breathtaking slightly crooked smile broke across her face, softening the fierce lines, showcasing perfect teeth. Your knees liquefied. Always.

“Hey, you.” she rumbled, her voice already a low purr as she kicked the door shut behind her.

Before you could reply, she was across the room in two strides. Strong arms encircled your waist from behind, pulling you firmly against her. Heat radiated from her body. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. Her breath was warm, sending shivers down your spine. Her lips found the sensitive skin just below your ear, placing a soft, lingering kiss.

“Happy anniversary, baby.” she murmured, the words vibrating against your skin.

You twisted slightly in her embrace, capturing her lips in a quick peck. “Happy anniversary, gorgeous.”

As you pulled back, Rhea’s nose twitched. She sniffed the air, her arms tightening, pulling you impossibly closer, your backside pressed firmly against the hard line of her hips. “Is that…?”

“Pizza.” you confirmed, grinning. “Your favorite. Extra cheese, just how you like it.”

A low, appreciative groan escaped her. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” She released you just enough to hold out the small black bag. “For you.” Rhea wasn't big on forced gift-giving occasions, which made her gesture all the sweeter. You finished placing the last glass beside her plate and took the bag, your fingers brushing hers.

Your smile widened as you took it. The weight was negligible, the material smooth. You didn’t need to guess. Reaching inside, your fingers brushed against something impossibly soft and delicate. You pulled out the contents: a set of expensive white lingerie. The fabric was sheer lace and whisper-thin silk, intricate and sexy. Exactly Rhea’s taste.

A soft laugh bubbled up. “Predictable, Ripley.” you teased, holding up the delicate straps. “Let me guess. You bought this just so you could tear it off me later?”

Rhea didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pressed herself flush against your back again, her lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck. A soft, possessive growl vibrated against your skin, a sound that made your stomach clench deliciously.

“Saw it in the window,” she murmured, her teeth grazing your earlobe lightly. “Passing by. Couldn’t help it. Knew it would look…” She paused, her hands sliding possessively over your hips. “…devastating on you. Had to buy it.”

You traced the lace with your fingertip, then turned fully to face her. “Thought it could be my anniversary gift.” Her blue eyes, usually sharp, were dark, fixed on the lingerie in your hands, then on you. You held her gaze, a playful challenge sparking in your own.

“I’ll wear it,” you declared, your voice dropping lower. “But on one condition.”

Rhea’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of wary amusement in her eyes. “Oh yeah? What’s the price, pretty thing?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Your whispered request was short, specific. You felt the sharp intake of her breath, the slight tremor that ran through her.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Rhea’s face. She let out a low, breathy chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. "Cheeky." she murmured, her voice thick. “Consider it done, baby.” She punctuated that with a nip on your earlobe that drew a gasp from your lips.

✮⋆˙

Leaving the pizza momentarily forgotten, you slipped into the bathroom. The lingerie felt like cool water against your skin, the white lace and silk clinging and revealing in equal measure. You tied the flimsy matching robe loosely around you, more a suggestion of coverage than anything else.

Stepping back into the bedroom, you found Rhea sprawled diagonally across your double bed. Her boots were kicked off haphazardly near the door. She was scrolling absently on her phone, but her head snapped up the moment you appeared.

Her gaze raked over you – the sheer white fabric, the hint of skin beneath the robe, the way the lace cupped your breasts and hugged your waist. A look of pure, mesmerized hunger crossed her face, momentarily wiping away her usual cool facade. She dropped her phone without a second glance. Her eyes raked over you, darkening. "Fuck me," she breathed, the words rough. “Come here,” she commanded, her voice thick. Her hands reached out, wide and strong, aiming to pull you straight onto her lap.

You sidestepped her grasp smoothly, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Ah-ah,” you chided softly. “That wasn’t the deal, Rhea.”

A low growl rumbled in Rhea’s chest, frustration warring with arousal. Her jaw tightened, the tendons in her neck standing out. For a second, you saw the wrestler, the Eradicator, the woman who dominated rings, wrestle with restraint. Then, with visible, deliberate effort, she leaned back against the pillows, her gaze never leaving yours, smoldering. "Fine," she ground out, the single word laced with tension. "Your show."

The power shift was intoxicating. You climbed onto the bed, settling yourself deliberately astride her powerful thighs. You could feel the coiled energy beneath you, the way her fingers flexed restlessly at her sides. One fingertip finally dared to trace the delicate lace edging the lingerie high on your hip. Her touch, even that light, burned. Her hands settled lightly on your hips, a heavy, hot weight. Her gaze was locked on yours, waiting.

“Be good,” you murmured, leaning down to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss against the strong column of her neck. Her skin tasted faintly of salt, leather, and her unique, intoxicating scent – earth and something sweet. You trailed feather-light kisses along her sharp jawline, your fingers gently brushing over the powerful deltoids of her shoulders. She sighed, a deep, shuddering breath that lifted your body slightly against hers, betraying the tension thrumming beneath her skin.

You kissed the very tip of her nose, making her blink in surprise, before finally capturing her lips. It was like striking a match. Rhea’s control frayed instantly. Her mouth opened hungrily under yours, her tongue seeking yours. Urgent, demanding. The cool metal of her tongue piercing brushed against yours, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

You tangled your fingers in the dark hair at the nape of her neck, applying gentle but firm pressure, pulling her head back slightly, breaking the intensity of the kiss. Another growl, deeper and more dissatisfied this time, rumbled in her chest. Her hips shifted restlessly beneath you, seeking friction.

“Patience.” you whispered against her lips, a thrill running through you at the heady sensation of holding her back, even if it was just an illusion. You knew the raw strength coiled in her body; one decisive thrust of her hips could easily flip you onto your back, pin you, take control– made the surrender she offered achingly sweet. She was holding back. For you. Because you wore her gift. Because you asked.

“Tease,” she accused, her voice rough, but her hands remained where they were, knuckles white where they gripped your skin.

You just smiled, leaning down again. Your hands found the hem of her Black Sabbath shirt. “Off.” you commanded softly. She lifted her arms instantly, letting you peel the soft cotton over her head, revealing the sculpted planes of her stomach, the lines of her back. Her sports bra followed swiftly.

Your lips and tongue worshipped the newly revealed skin – the strong curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, sucking gently at a peaked nipple until she gasped. You lavished attention on the intricate tattoo between her breasts, kissing the wings of the inked creature. Her breath hitched, ragged, and her fingers finally moved, sinking into your hair, not pulling you closer, but holding on tight, grounding herself.

Then, you moved lower. You kissed your way down her toned stomach, tracing the lines of muscle, the scorpions tattoos. Your hands went to the button of her cargo pants, eager to shed the last barriers, eager to make her forget everything but the ache you intended to soothe.

The button gave way. You dragged the zipper down, the rasping sound loud in the suddenly quiet room, punctuated only by Rhea’s increasingly ragged breaths. Her cargo pants were stubborn, clinging to the curve of her hips. You hooked your fingers into the waistband, leaning back to use your body weight, pulling them down. Rhea lifted her hips obligingly, a low groan escaping her as the rough fabric finally slid past the swell of her ass, down her thick, sculpted thighs.

Beneath, simple black cotton briefs hugged her, already damp in the center. The sight, the potent, musky scent that bloomed between her legs, made your own pulse hammer against your ribs. You discarded the pants carelessly off the side of the bed, your focus narrowing to the heat radiating from her core.

You leaned down, brushing your lips over the taut plane of her stomach, tracing the defined ridges of her abs with your tongue. She shuddered violently beneath you. Your fingers found the elastic of her briefs. You hooked your thumbs into them, dragging them down her legs with deliberate slowness, kissing her thighs tattoos so gently she barely felt it. Rhea kicked them off the rest of the way with a frustrated grunt, her legs falling open, an implicit invitation.

She was laid bare before you. Her skin glowed faintly in the low light, muscles coiled tight with anticipation. The scent of her arousal filled your senses. You didn't make her wait any longer. Or yourself to be honest.

Lowering yourself, you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, just below the crease of her hip. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake that sounded like a sob. Her blue eyes were almost black, pupils blown wide, fixed on your face with an intensity that bordered on desperation. "Fuck..." she rasped, her hips giving an involuntary upward jerk, seeking friction. You felt the tremor that ran through her entire body. Your tongue followed, a slow, wet stripe upwards, tracing the sensitive skin towards her core but not quite reaching it. Rhea cursed, a guttural sound ripped from her throat. Her fingers tightened convulsively in your hair.

"Baby," she gasped, the word rough, almost unfamiliar on her tongue. It was surrender.

You finally gave her what she craved. Your mouth found her center, hot and slick, ready. You licked her slowly, deliberately, tracing the length of her slit, savoring her taste – salt and musk and pure Rhea. A choked cry tore from her lips, her head thrashing back against the pillows. Her thighs tensed, trying to close around your head, but you held them open with gentle pressure from your hands on her hips.

You focused then, your tongue finding the swollen, aching bundle of nerves. You circled it slowly, lazily at first, teasing, feeling her body arch off the bed. Her cries grew louder, less controlled, raw gasps punctuated by low, continuous moans. Her grip on your hair was bordering on painful now, but you welcomed it, the sharpness anchoring you in the haze of her pleasure.

You plunged your tongue deep inside her, feeling her clench around the intrusion. It was intoxicating, it's like you could never get enough of her.

You increased the pressure, flicking your tongue faster against her clit, alternating broad strokes with focused, rapid circles. You slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them upwards in that perfect spot as you sucked gently. She was so hot, so tight, clenching around your fingers instantly.

"Shit! Right there... fuck, baby.” Her voice was a wreck, stripped of its usual rumble, high and desperate. Her hips bucked now, meeting your mouth, driving herself harder against your tongue and fingers. You used your other hand to press gently against her lower stomach, holding her steady as you devoured her.

What a sight to behold.

You felt her body tightening like a bowstring, every muscle rigid. Her moans became one continuous, keening sound. You doubled down, sucking her clit firmly, pumping your fingers in a steady, insistent rhythm, your thumb pressing against her perineum.

It hit her like a physical blow. Rhea came, devastatingly beautiful. A raw, guttural moan ripped from her throat. Her back arched off the bed, lifting you with her for a heart-stopping second. Her thighs clamped around your head with bruising force as wave after wave of pleasure spread through her.

You think that would be a wonderful way to die.

You could do this forever. Until your jaw got limp and you couldn’t even remember your own name anymore.

Her entire body trembled, her fingers tearing at your hair. The sound she made – a choked sob, a low, continuous groan that vibrated through your own body where you were pressed against her.

Her muscles clenched and released erratically around your fingers. You gentled your touch, licking softly, tenderly, through the aftershocks, kissing the inside of her trembling thigh as the violent shudders gradually subsided into ragged tremors.

Finally, she collapsed back onto the bed, spent. Her chest heaved, sweat glistening on her skin. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her pale cheeks. Her grip in your hair loosened, hand falling limply to the bed. For a long moment, the only sounds were her harsh, uneven breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart.

You slowly withdrew your fingers and crawled up her body, settling beside her on the rumpled sheets. You brushed sweat-dampened strands of dark hair from her forehead. She didn't open her eyes, but a faint, utterly blissed-out smile touched her lips.

Proud. You feel so proud.

Her hand fumbled weakly, finding yours and tangling your fingers together. Her grip was surprisingly strong, even now.

"Shit..." she breathed, the word barely audible, wrecked. "You..." She cracked open an eye, the blue hazy and unfocused, looking up at you with an expression of overwhelming adoration. "You little devil... I fucking love you."

Before you can fully register her words, Rhea’s knee finds purchase on the other side of your legs, straddling your thighs. Her hands land firmly on your hips, fingers splaying possessively over the lace, tugging too dangerously close to your center.

Moonlight catches the playful glint in her eyes, turning them silver. Her voice is a low thrum that vibrates through your ribs. "But it’s Mami's turn now."

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#rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #smut #wwe #wlw smut #fanfic #rhea ripley smut #requests #fingering

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allyisbrooding · 22 days ago

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Not to be a lesbian but holy mother girl

SUMMERSLAM 2025 — day 2

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allyisbrooding · 22 days ago

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allyisbrooding · 25 days ago

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𝑾𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮

✮⋆˙ Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Female Reader

☾ Summary: you love to play wrestling with your girlfriend. But Rhea came back from the night of champions with a different kind of game in mind.

⚠︎ Warning: smut, fingering (reader receiving), dirty talking, swearing, Dom-ish Rhea

Words: 2.5k

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The stale hotel AC droned, a monotonous counterpoint to the distant roar of the Night of Champions crowd. You sprawled across the king-sized bed, bathed in the cool glow of your phone, absently scrolling Instagram. Rhea’s oversized band tee swallowed you and your silky pajama shorts beneath, the soft cotton smelling faintly of her perfume. You’d volunteered to skip the arena tonight – her quiet confession weeks ago about nerves seeing you ringside during big matches still echoed. Work stuff needed organizing anyway.

The sharp click-whirr of the electronic key broke the monotony. The door swung open, and Rhea Ripley filled the frame.

She looked like she’d been through a war, but emerged victorious. Her signature dark eyeliner was slightly smudged under one eye, the orange war paint making her look dangerously feral. Strands of her jet-black hair escaped her usual style, clinging damply to her temples and neck. Yet, she was radiant with post-match energy, poured into her head-to-toe black leather gear, the material gleaming under the soft room lights. The sight of her…Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"Rhea!" You scrambled off the bed, bare feet slapping the carpet as you launched yourself towards her.

She caught you effortlessly, a deep, rumbling laugh vibrating in her chest as her strong hands gripped your thighs, hoisting you up. Leather met bare skin. "Whoa there, firecracker! Miss me that much?" Her voice was rough, edged with some adrenaline and amusement. Her eyes raked over you in her shirt.

"Obviously!" you grinned, wrapping your arms around her neck, burying your face against the damp skin of her throat. Leather, sweat, and her signature perfume cutting through it all - Rhea. "How was it? Did you crush 'em?"

Her grin widened, showcasing that dangerous charm, her nose piercings glinting. "What do you think?" She chuckled again, the sound warm against your ear. Then, in a heartbeat, the playful grip shifted.

One arm slid firmly between your legs, the other locked around your back, high and tight. Before your brain could fully register the change, the world tilted. You weren't being lowered; you were being thrown. Not hard, but with practiced force. You landed with a soft whump on the plush duvet, bouncing slightly.

Before the disorientation faded, Rhea was on you. Not beside you. On you. Her knees nudged your legs forward as her hips pressed down on your ass, almost pining your legs to the mattress over your head. The cool leather of her pants was a contrast to the sudden heat flooding your skin.

Playing wrestle with Rhea was your thing. That heart-stopping moment when you’d launch yourself at her back, scrambling up her powerful frame like a koala clinging to a tree. Her mock-surprise, the deep rumble of her laugh vibrating against your chest, the effortless way she’d scoop you up and deposit you onto the nearest soft surface – usually the bed. Playful. Harmless. Yours.

Tonight was different.

"Rhea?!" you gasped, blinking up at her. Shock held you still for a crucial second. That wasn't just a playful toss. That was... the set-up. She'd just hit you with the Riptide? Here? Now?

Then you saw her eyes.

All traces of amusement were gone, burned away by something raw and intense. Her big, blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or fierce determination, held a predatory glint you’d only ever seen directed at opponents in the ring. It was focused, hungry, and entirely on you. Her dark hair framed her face like a shadow, emphasizing the sharp angles and the intensity of her gaze. This wasn't playful Rhea anymore. This was Mami.

Your breath hitched, throat suddenly parched.

"Rhea... what are you doing?" Your voice came out smaller than intended.

A slow, devastating smirk curved her perfect lips. "What does it look like, baby?" Her voice was low, a purr sending shivers down your spine. She leaned down slightly, the leather creaking softly, her breath warm on your cheek. "Didn't realize how much I missed you until I walked in. Saw you... wearing my shirt... looking all cozy in my bed..."

You tried to shift, testing her hold. Her grip on your legs was iron, unyielding. "You… you just wrestled a championship match!" you protested weakly, even as heat pooled low in your belly, betraying you.

"Got the blood pumping." she murmured, her gaze dropping to your lips, then lower, where her hips ground subtly against yours. The friction of the leather against your inner thighs sending sparks through your nerves."Got me thinking... about a different kind of pin." She used one hand to drift down, fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt, tracing the sensitive skin of your stomach. "About claiming my real prize tonight."

Panic warred with a fierce, thrilling rush of desire. This wasn't play-fighting anymore. This was Mami staking her claim. Your breath came in shallow gasps. "Rhea..."

"Just relax," she commanded softly, the predatory gleam softening slightly into something molten. "Let me take care of you." Her hips pressed down again, more insistent, a promise of pressure. "Unless," her smirk returned, sharper now, "you wanna tap out already?"

The sheer audacity, the dominant challenge in her eyes, shattered your last shred of resistance. You weren’t fighting; you were surrendering. Deliberately, slowly, you let your legs fall open.

Rhea didn't hesitate. The predatory satisfaction that flashed in her eyes was electrifying. She slid forward effortlessly, the smooth, cool leather of her pants gliding against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as she settled herself firmly between them. Her weight settled fully on you now, pinning you completely, the heat of her body searing through the thin layers of fabric.

"Good girl," she breathed, her voice thick. Her hand left your stomach, cupping your jaw firmly, forcing your eyes to meet her burning gaze. The playful girlfriend was obliterated. The Eradicator was here. "Beautiful girl." Her thumb traced your lower lip, possessive and demanding. "Open your mouth for me, baby," she commanded, her voice a rasp that brooked no argument. It wasn't a question.

A shiver raced down your spine, the sheer dominance in her tone leaving you breathless. Your lips parted instinctively under the pressure of her thumb, yielding just as your body had moments before. Her gaze, locked intensely on yours, watched your compliance, a flicker of dark satisfaction passing through her eyes. Salt, sweat, adrenaline, Rhea. Rhea.

You suck it gently, your tongue swirling against the sensitive skin. But she soon pulls her thumb away, the friction creating a sinful, wet sound.

She dipped low, her hair, smelling faintly of leather polish and adrenaline, tickled your cheek. The heady cocktail of her perfume and sweat flooded your senses, intoxicating and raw. Her mouth traced yours. Just for a moment before pressing.

And gentle wasn't in her vocabulary tonight. It was a kiss that felt like a declaration. Deep. Possessive. Mirroring the firm grip she had on you – like she was pinning you to the ropes, but way, way more fun. Her tongue invaded with audacity, a dominant sweep that left you gasping and molten heat pooling instantly between your thighs. The little flicker – the cool glide of her tongue piercing dancing against your own. It teased, it promised. She kissed with the same focused intensity she’d shown in the ring: no quarter given, utterly relentless, leaving you breathless and absolutely certain who was running this show.

When she broke the kiss, leaving you gasping, her hand moved from your jaw, trailing fire down your throat, over the collar of her tee. Fingers hooked under the hem. With agonizing slowness, she pushed the soft cotton up, revealing your stomach, the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts. Cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of her gaze. Her large hand splayed possessively across your stomach, then slid up, her thumb brushing the sensitive underside of your breast before cupping, teasing the hardened peak.

A wave of self-consciousness mixed with the overwhelming arousal made you tense slightly under her scrutiny and the relentless pressure of her hips pinning yours to the mattress. Sensing it, Rhea lowered her head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shhh," she soothed, the command still present but layered with a rough tenderness that was uniquely hers. Her hand slid lower, past the waistband of your pajama shorts, fingertips brushing through the damp heat beneath. "Just feel. Mami’s got you. Gonna make it so good." Her promise was a low thrum against your skin, a counterpoint to the circling pressure of her thumb finding your clit through the thin barrier of your underwear.

Her touch, even through the fabric, was electric. It chased away the tension, replacing it with a sharp jolt of pleasure that made your hips jerk involuntarily against the leather still pressed between your legs. Her other hand, still holding your thigh firmly, kept you anchored as she began to move her thumb in slow, deliberate circles. Her eyes never left yours, watching every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes, reading your body’s responses like a map.

"You like that?" she murmured, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as your eyelids fluttered shut for a second, a soft moan escaping you. She increased the pressure slightly, her rhythm becoming more insistent. "So fucking perfect for me." Her fingers slipped beneath the elastic, finding your slick core. One thick finger pressed inside you without warning, curling expertly.

The sudden fullness, combined with the relentless assault on your clit, tore a sharp cry from your lips. Your back arched off the bed as much as her weight allowed, your fingers scrabbling weakly at the smooth leather covering her back. Your eyes flew open, meeting hers, dark and fathomless, utterly focused on your unraveling.

Rhea watched, her own breath catching, hips grinding subtly against yours. A second finger joined the first, stretching you, her thumb never stopping its maddening circles. She leaned in, her lips brushing yours, voice thick with arousal and pride. "Look at you. Taking me so well, baby. Look how perfect you feel around Mami." Her thrusts deepened, finding that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "Gonna watch you make a mess on my hand." Her thumb pressed harder, fingers plunged deeper, her entire being focused on driving you over the edge.

The climax hit like a tidal wave. Her mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your gasp. Her free hand slid into your hair, fisting gently but firmly, holding you exactly where she wanted you. Her hips ground down with purpose, adding pressure to her fingers inside you.

You saw white.

The dam holding back broke. You arched, writhed beneath her, in desperate, greedy need for more. Your own fingers tangled in the dark hair at her nape, anchoring yourself. Rhea watched you unravel with a predator’s satisfaction, a low, throaty rumble vibrating against your lips. "That's it, baby," she purred, her breath a scorching brand. Her hips kept up their roll, the friction against your core maddening, perfect. "Give it to me. Let go for Mami."

It built like a supernova – intense, consuming, inevitable. The coil inside you tightened unbearably until the world fractured into pure sensation. A ragged cry tore from your throat, echoing in the quiet hotel room. Your body arched violently against her pinning weight, trembling uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you gasping and boneless against the rumpled duvet.

The intensity in Rhea’s eyes softened. Her iron grip pinning you leg eased, replaced by a gentle sweep of her hand along your inner thigh. The predatory smirk vanished, replaced by a soft, almost sleepy smile.

"Shhh, there you go," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing rumble now, devoid of its earlier command but thick with satisfaction. "Good girl. So good for me." She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your sweat-dampened temple, then another to your fluttering eyelid. Her own breathing was still slightly elevated, a testament to the exertion, but her movements became deliberate, unhurried.

Carefully, mindful of her own strength, she shifted her weight off you, rolling slightly to the side but keeping her body curved around yours. One strong arm slid beneath your neck, the other draped protectively over your waist, pulling you back snugly against the cool leather of her chest. You could feel the rapid thud of her heartbeat gradually slowing against your back.

"You okay?" she asked softly, her lips brushing your nape. Her hand stroked lazy, comforting circles on your stomach. "Didn't go too hard on you, did I?" There was a hint of genuine concern beneath her smugness.

You could only manage a weak, breathless nod, still trembling slightly in the aftershocks, utterly spent. The contrast between the dominant force that had just pinned and claimed you and the gentle woman now cradling you was dizzying, yet profoundly comforting. You felt safe. Hers.

Rhea chuckled softly, the sound warm against your skin. "Yeah, thought so. Just needed to get that win properly celebrated." She nuzzled the back of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Fuck, you smell good." Her hand drifted up, carefully brushing tangled hair away from your face. "You were incredible."

She held you like that for long, quiet minutes. The only sounds were the hum of the AC, the distant, muffled city noise, and your slowly synchronizing breaths. The adrenaline that had fueled her seemed to finally ebb, replaced by a deep, contented exhaustion. Her fingers traced idle patterns on your belly, her breathing growing deeper and more even against your back.

Eventually, she stirred slightly. "Alright, c'mere," she murmured, gently urging you to turn in her arms. You complied, burying your face against the solid warmth of her chest. Her arms wrapped around you fully now, enveloping you. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers gently massaging your scalp. "Better?" she asked, her voice thick with impending sleep.

"Yeah," you whispered, your voice finally finding itself, rough but content. “You?"

"Perfect." she sighed. She pressed another soft kiss to the top of your head. “The title. And you." Her arms tightened possessively. "Best fucking night."

And as your eyelids grew heavy against your girlfriend’s chest you couldn’t find any reason to disagree.

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#rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #smut #prompt #wwe #fanfic #wlw smut #rhea ripley smut #lesbian sex

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allyisbrooding · 27 days ago

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𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑼𝑫

✮⋆˙ Pairing: Mereoleona Vermillion x Female Reader

☾ Summary: you're in a mission with the Captain of the Crimson Lions and you can't stop stuttering around her. Mereoleona's practical brain can't understand why...Until she does.

⚠︎ Warnings: slightly sexual I guess.

Words: 1.7k

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The Black Bulls base is your chaotic sanctuary. Always have been.

Magna’s latest explosion showers glitter (don’t ask) instead of debris this time, Grey squeaks and transforms into a steaming teacup mid-step, Gauche meticulously polishes a picture frame while muttering sweet nothings to Marie, Charmy’s woolly sheep are inhaling a mountain of sandwiches beside her.

It’s Luck who crackles with blue lightning, vibrating like a live wire and flies over your head, though. "Come on! Fight me!" He zips towards you, eyes wide with manic glee.

You don’t flinch. With a lazy flick of your wrist, the air thickens, humming with potential. A miniature vortex swirls playfully around your fingers, spitting tiny, teasing bolts that dance with Luck’s charge in a shower of harmless, sparkling crackle-fizz. He throws his head back and laughs, pure, unadulterated joy. "Yeah! That’s the stuff!" He beams, bouncing. Your grin matches his. Luck’s magic and childish energy feels like the excitable, slightly destructive little brother you never knew you needed.

Vanessa, draped elegantly over the back of the sofa nursing a bottle of wine, watches with a fond, tipsy smile. "Play nice with our little storm cloud, Luck." she whispers, her gaze warm and knowing. That’s the rhythm of your life here. Despite technically being older than most of them, you’re everyone’s little sister. Gordon whispers protective charms into your cloak’s hem when you leave, Gauche slides you a Marie cookie with a grunt if you yawn, and even Yami’s grunted "Don't die" carries a weirdly paternal weight. Vanessa treats you like her favorite, slightly chaotic protégé.

Life is a whirlwind of exhausting missions – retrieving grimoires from mischievous pixies, calming mana beasts with indigestion, exploring ruins that tickle your magic. It’s home. Pure, unadulterated, noisy home.

Until this very day where Julius Novachrono’s himself shimmers into existence via communication magic on the living room table, his youthful face unusually grave.

"Black Bulls," his voice resonates, quieting the usual din. "Critical mission. A newly discovered dungeon in the Forsaken Realm holds an artifact vital against the Eye of the Midnight Sun. Given the danger, you’ll partner with the Crimson Lion Kings."

A murmur ripples through the room. Crimson Lions? Fuegoleon’s squad. A pang of sympathy hits you. Their captain had been in a coma for months. "Makes sense." you murmur to Vanessa. "They could use the muscle." She nods, swirling her wine thoughtfully.

✮⋆˙

Arriving at the dungeon’s foreboding entrance, you expect Leopold or a stern vice-captain to lead the mission, since captain Yami wouldn’t be coming. Instead, a tall figure stands before the Lions, radiating such intense mana the very air crackles and warps. Crimson hair, wilder and brighter than Fuegoleon’s, cascades down her back like a molten bronze. Piercing blue eyes sweep over the assembled knights – not just assessing, but commanding. Corded muscles shift under practical leathers, hinting at strength. Pure strength. But it wasn’t just the power; it was the fierce, untamed beauty of her – a wildflower blooming amidst scorched earth – that punched the air right out of your lungs.

Mereoleona Vermillion. The Uncrowned Undefeated Lioness herself.

Your brain short-circuits. Heat floods your face, a blush so fierce it feels like twin suns igniting on your cheeks. Your palms grow clammy, and a traitorous little flutter erupts deep in your belly. You stare, utterly transfixed, the chaotic energy of the Black Bulls fading into a distant hum beneath the roaring static in your ears.

A soft, utterly delighted giggle erupts beside you. Vanessa leans in, her breath warm and wine-scented against your ear. "Oh, dear," she purrs, voice dripping with amusement. "Look at that blush! The little storm princess has a crush…" She nudges you playfully, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You stammer, trying desperately to wrench your gaze away, but Mereoleona’s eyes sweep over the group and land squarely on you. It’s only a second, but it feels like an eternity. Your blush deepens impossibly, spreading down your neck. "V-Vanessa! Shut up!" you hiss, your voice embarrassingly high-pitched. You focus intently on a fascinating crack in the ground as Yami and Mereoleona exchange orders.

The dungeon is a nightmare – shifting rock, groaning traps, and mana that writhed like trapped serpents. You throw yourself into the work, channeling your storm magic to blast debris, scout with swift winds, and create air bridges. You’re competent, focused… until she speaks.

"Stormcaster." Her voice, a low growl that vibrated pleasantly in your chest, cut through the dungeon's groan. She pointed towards a crumbling archway. "Can your winds hold that long enough for Magna to reinforce it?"

Your carefully constructed focus shattered. Your tongue felt thick and clumsy. "I... uh... y-yes! I mean... absolutely! The wind pressure... um..." You gestured vaguely, your words dissolving into incoherent mumbling under the weight of her intense blue gaze. Your face felt like a forge.

Mereoleona’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. It wasn't quite anger, but a profound impatience with… whatever this was. The next time she barked an order – "Disperse that dust cloud ahead!" – your attempt at professionalism crumbled into another flustered stammer. A muscle ticked in her jaw. This wasn't the fear she commanded; it was something irritating.

As twilight painted the cavern camp in deep violets and golds, the tension inside you was a coiled spring. You were helping Asta gather firewood (mostly preventing him from "gathering" vital support pillars) when a large, warm hand closed firmly around your bicep.

"Hey. You."

Before you could gasp, Mereoleona steered you effortlessly away from the firelight’s glow, deeper into a shadowed alcove formed by jagged obsidian rocks. She pinned you against the cool, rough stone with one hand braced beside your head, caging you in. The scent of her – woodsmoke, ozone, sun-baked earth, and sheer, untamed heat – enveloped you, dizzying, potent.

"Alright." she stated, her voice a low rumble that echoed in the small space. Her proximity was overwhelming, her gaze locked onto yours like twin sapphire that could likely kill you in the place. "What the hell is your problem?"

You shrunk back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "N-nothing! Captain Vermillion! Everything’s fine! Just… mission focus!" The words tumbled out in a breathless, unconvincing rush.

She leaned in slightly, her intense gaze unwavering. "Cut the crap. You trip over your words and turn the color of tomatoes every time I look at you. Spit it out. Scared? Intimidated? Because if you are," her voice held brutal pragmatism. "you're a liability here." It wasn't cruel, just devastatingly honest. Terrifying.

Panic clawed at your throat. Denial was pointless under that fierce scrutiny. The truth, bottled by sheer mortification, exploded out. "I-I think you're incredibly pretty!" you blurted, squeezing your eyes shut as if bracing for a fireball.

Silence.

Cracking one eye open, you saw Mereoleona staring at you, her head tilted slightly. Profound confusion etched lines onto her usually fierce features. Pretty? The concept seemed genuinely alien, as if it hadn't crossed her mind in a century. You realized, with a jolt, that most people were probably too busy trying not to wet themselves to notice.

The confusion lingered, then slowly… shifted. Her gaze changed. It was no longer just piercing interrogation; it was a slow, deliberate assessment. It traveled down your face, lingered on the frantic pulse in your throat, traced the lines of your rumpled robe, taking in your form with an intensity that stole your breath anew. It wasn't lewd, but it was undeniably, appreciative. The heat in your cheeks became an inferno; you were certain you were radiating light.

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. Not unkind, but utterly, devastatingly confident. A little fang showing up in the corner of her lips. "Hmph," she grunted. Her voice was still low, but the edge of irritation had vanished, replaced by something warmer, richer. "Well. You're not exactly… unpleasant to look at either."

Your brain flatlined. Not unpleasant? From Mereoleona Vermillion? The gruff compliment made you feel like a teenager. The world tilted, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

"Now," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that resonated deep in your bones, vibrating through the stone at your back. "Let's settle this."

Before your scrambled thoughts could grasp what she meant, she closed the distance.

Mereoleona didn’t ask, she conquered.

Her lips met yours – firm, demanding, and searingly warm. Like a breaker against rock. No hesitation,—just her mouth claiming yours, a release of every spark that had arced between you since that first glance. Your body locked, breath trapped in your lungs for one stunned heartbeat. Then pure heat exploded in your chest sending warm waves flooding down your belly. Her calloused hand scraped up your jaw, rough pads catching on your skin, fingers pressing hard beneath your ear to tilt your head back. For her. The taste of her—woodsmoke and wild honey—seared your senses. She pressed closer, a wall of heat and muscle pinning you, the hard line of her body against yours stealing your balance. A ragged whimper tore from your throat, swallowed instantly by the fierce pressure of her kiss. You arched into it, the world narrowing to the slide of her lips, the bite of her grip, the intoxicating furnace of her closeness.

And then, your treacherous knees gave out. Completely. You melted into her, legs dissolving like spun sugar. The kiss broke as her arms instinctively tightened around your waist, hauling you upright against her, preventing a humiliating collapse onto the dungeon floor.

You stared up at her, wide-eyed, breathless, mortified beyond words. Your lips tingled. Mereoleona looked down at you, that faint, captivating smirk still playing on her lips, though her eyes held a spark of something dangerously close to amusement. She didn't laugh, but the fierce intensity had softened into something more… intrigued.

She steadied you, her hands lingering on your hips for a heartbeat longer than necessary before releasing you to find your footing against the wall. Her gaze held yours, blue fire meeting your dazed stare. Then, with a final, unreadable glance that promised… something… she turned.

"My tent." she stated, the words crisp, devoid of obvious flirtation, yet carrying the weight of a challenge that sent fresh shivers down your spine. "It’s open. If you find your courage, Stormcloud."

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