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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

☾ Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Female Streamer Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: You are a gamer streamer, playing your little games. When your girlfriend showed up and some jerk decided to make a stupid comment. Rhea doesn't like stupid comments.

⚠︎ Warning: sexbian lex, swearing, cunnilingus (r receiving), strapsex, dirty talking, dom Rhea.

Words: 3k ish

Inspired by this - I loved this fr

Notes: I've been a little obsessed with Rhea lately, but can you blame me?

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The green light on your webcam glows like a little eye, casting a faint, otherworldly sheen across your focused face. On your primary monitor, the grim interior of the River Fields Mortuary is rendered in stomach-churning 4K detail. The body of Mr. Evans, or what’s left of him, is splayed out on the stainless-steel table. Your cursor hovers over a scalpel.

“Okay, chat, the toe tag says ‘asphyxiation,’” you murmur, your voice a low, conspiratorial whisper that belies the bright, fun energy of your setup. A plush Cthulhu and a grinning Jack Skellington line the shelf behind you. “But my spidey-sense is tingling. Look at the discoloration around the lips. That’s not just lack of oxygen. That’s… chemical. And you know what that means.”

The live chat on your second monitor explodes into a frenzy of guesses.

xX_GhostHunter_Xx: P O I S O N

SpookySzn4Life: he def saw the ghost and bit his own tongue off

You laugh, a bright sound that cuts through the macabre atmosphere. “No, it means we’re looking for a specific embalming fluid mismatch.This guy didn’t just die; someone helped him along. Like belladonna…The poison, not the pornstar, you freaks.”

Mami’sWife: WHERE IS MAMI??????

ShadowHunter87: Hey where’s Mami? Tell Mami we said hi!

You let out a snort, pausing your grisly work. “Mami? Chat, we are performing a very serious, very scientific autopsy here. Show some respect for the… oozy.” You wiggle your fingers on the keyboard, making your character poke a suspicious lesion.

It’s true. Your fame had always been a steady, healthy burn—the “the scream queen of the stream” But then it exploded. The day the internet found out who you were dating.

You’d met because of horror, of course. You’d gone to see When Evil Lurks at the arthouse cinema, and during the pre-movie trailers, a voice next to you had muttered, “Ugh, not another Saw sequel.” You’d snorted and agreed, and then did a double-take. Because the woman in the beanie and leather jacket, slouched down in her seat, was Rhea Ripley. The Rhea Ripley. The Eradicator. You’d watched WWE for the plot, of course. The plot being incredibly attractive, muscular women in captivating athletic storytelling. And she was the main protagonist of your favorite storyline.

You spent the first half of the movie trying not to visibly freak out. And then a particularly gnarly scene hit the screen. The guys trying to take the possessed guy out of the house on his sheets. The entire audience gasped. You, however, let out a choked, delighted laugh and whispered, “Oh, that’s disgusting. I love it.”

A low, smooth chuckle came from your right. “Right? It’s so practical. No CGI crap.”

You’d frozen. She spoke. You’d managed to stammer out something like, “Yeah, the effects team deserves a raise and therapy.” The rest of the movie was a blur. After the credits rolled, she turned to you, those piercing blue eyes catching yours in the dim light. “It’s you, right?” She held up her phone and you recognized the logo of your channel on her screen and you wanted to die in a puddle of shame but Rhea just chuckled. “I love your gameplay. Keeps me entertained on the road.”

You’d hit it off right there in the sticky-floored theater lobby, talking about practical effects versus digital and the undeniable charm of Terrifier, although you’d go with Pinhead. You exchanged socials. You started hanging out. And then one night, while you were pretending to rewatch The Haunting of Hill House on your couch, her arm around you, she’d turned your face to hers and kissed you. You couldn’t have told anyone a single thing that happened in that episode afterward.

You’re about to make the first incision when the door behind you creaks open. You don’t need to turn around. You know the sound of those soft footsteps anywhere. A head of shaggy black hair, currently tied in a messy half-bun, pokes into the frame. The chat loses its collective mind. Rhea’s face, free of the Mami makeup, is softer, all sharp cheekbones and warm, curious eyes.

“Hey, you,” her voice is a low, melodic rumble, so different from the roar she uses in the ring. “What’s the verdict for dinner? I’m starving.”

You slide your headset down to rest around your neck, the game’s eerie soundtrack still piping through. You can already see the viewer count in the corner of your screen beginning to spike. They know. They always know.

You swivel your chair slightly, giving the camera a perfect view of her. She’s wearing that ridiculously oversized Archie the Clown shirt from Terrifier you got her as a joke and a pair of well-worn gym shorts. The contrast between the terrifying clown graphic and her utterly domestic, comfy posture is everything.

“You? Cooking?” you tease, a grin playing on your lips. “Is the world ending? Did I miss an apocalypse notification while dissecting this corpse?”

Rhea rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at hers. “Very funny. I can microwave popcorn with the best of them. I’m ordering. So. What do you want?”

You tap your chin, pretending to give it serious thought, though you already know. “Something with spice. I’m in a spicy mood. That Mexican place on 5th, if they’re still open. Get the extra-hot salsa. I dare you.”

Her eyes light up with a competitive glint. “You’re on, little demon.” She blows a kiss from the doorway, a quick, affectionate gesture that feels like a secret, and disappears back into the hallway.

The chat, however, has become an incomprehensible vortex of emojis and all-caps screaming.

Ripley4Life: MAMI WAS HERE??? MAAAAMIIII!!! I’M DECEASED

LesbianDisaster92: SHE CALLED HER LITTLE DEMON I’M GONNA FAINT

SpookySzn4Life: FORGET THE CORPSE WE NEED MAMI CAM

You chuckle, shaking your head at the monitor. “You’re too easy, you know that? Yeah, yeah, she’s cute, I know. Now focus! Mr. Evans is trying to tell us who killed him, and you’re all simping over my girlfriend.”

But the pleas are relentless. “MAMI CAM! MAMI CAM! MAMI CAM!” scrolls by like a hypnotic chant.

“Alright, alright! You win!” you sigh, the picture of mock exasperation. You turn and raise your voice. “Rhea? Get back in here! The void demands a tribute!”

A moment later, she reappears, opening the door and leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face. “Trouble in paradise?”

“They’re having a hard time focusing on the existential horror of death because the physical manifestation of buff goth goddess appeared on the screen,” you deadpan.

She chuckles, a deep, warm sound, and pushes off the doorframe. The reaction is immediate. The viewer count practically verticals. She walks over to your chair, and you feel the air shift. She moves with that same unconscious, powerful grace she has in the ring, all coiled strength and effortless cool. She leans over your shoulder, her front pressed against your back, her chin nearly resting on your head to peer at your screen.

“Ooh, The Mortuary Assistant,” she says, her voice right by your ear, making you shiver. “Good choice. This one’s gnarly.” She squints at the screen. “Wait, are you dissecting him? Nice. Clean incision.”

The chat is a lost cause. A single message pops up, bolded by a paid highlight: “Y’all are the lesbian couple of the year I stg.”

Rhea reads it aloud and snorts. “Lesbian couple?” She sticks her tongue out playfully at the camera. “She’s the lesbian disaster. I’m bi, thank you very much. Get your facts straight.” She winks, and the chat corrects itself immediately, now flooded with rainbow and bi-flag emojis.

Then another message, from a user named ‘Skydivingshit’: Cute. Though I could treat u way better. u know where to find me, baby.

The air in the room changed. It was subtle, a shift in pressure. Rhea’s easygoing smile didn’t vanish, but it solidified into something sharper. Her eyes, which had been sparkling with amusement, narrowed just a fraction. She knew, logically, it was some lonely idiot in a basement seeking a sliver of attention, a pathetic attempt to insert himself into a dynamic he could never even comprehend. But logic rarely factors into the primal urge to protect what’s yours. She turned from the camera, her gaze landing on you. All the sharpness melted away, replaced by a possessive, smoldering warmth.

She closes the distance and presses a firm, possessive kiss to your lips. It’s not a long one, but it’s enough to make the chat explode into a vortex of heart emojis. A claim. You could feel the faint smile on her lips as she kissed you, a silent inside joke against the world. She squeezed your cheek affectionately before pulling back, her eyes holding yours for a long, speaking moment.

Then she turned back to the camera, her arm slung over your shoulders. The smirk was back, wider now, edged with triumph.

“Sorry, mate,” she said, her voice dripping with false apology. “She’s taken. And this ‘boring’ housewife has to go order her girlfriend some tacos.” She gave a theatrical, dim-witted wave. “Byeee! Good luck, babe. Don’t die.”

She disappears, and you’re left in your chair, a stupid, lovestruck grin on your face.

You grabbed your mouse, your movements precise. “Alright, you,” you said, your voice a little shaky but firm. You found the username, the one who had tried to poison the well. With a single, satisfying click, you banned him from the channel. “That’s for being a jerk with my beautiful goth girlfriend.”

You take a deep, steadying breath and pull your headset back on. The game’s audio floods your ears—the hum of the morgue freezer, the faint, ghostly whispers the game is so famous for.

You look at the chat, still spinning from the whirlwind that is Rhea Ripley.

MamisWife: SHE’S SO WHIPPED I CAN’T BREATHE

RheaCanStepOnMe: ok but did u see the way she looked at her???

SpookySzn4Life: we are all living in their world and i’m okay with that

“Alright, you maniacs,” you say, your voice still a little breathless, your smile undeniable. “Where were we? Right. Murder.” You click the scalpel, the game responding with a wet, slicing sound. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding, Mr. Evans.”

But your heart isn’t racing from the horror game, obviously.

You played for another half an hour. You had the good end of the game and now were trying to get the messy one. You’re about to crack a joke about having bills to pay after a tentative jump scare that definitely didn’t work, when the door behind you creaks open again. This time Rhea fills the doorway, her phone in one hand, a brown paper bag in the other. The savory, spicy scent of carne asada and fresh cilantro cuts through the digital gloom of the game like a life raft.

“Food’s here, spooky,” she announces, her voice is warm and just now you realized how hungry you were.

You don’t even pause the game. You just swivel your chair, a wide, apologetic grin already on your face for your audience. “Alright, you beautiful bunch of weirdos, that’s it for me today! Mami calls.”

The chat explodes. It’s a cascade of mock outrage and understanding.

M0rtymer_: WHIPPED. SO WHIPPED.

LesbianLeon: told you she was Mami's girl

BiPanicAttack: the way she drops us for a burrito and a pretty girl MOOD

GoreWhore93: NOOO THE NAKED BODY

You laugh, grabbing your mouse to end the stream. You lean into the microphone, your tone dripping with playful superiority. “You’re all just jealous. Go out, touch grass, find yourselves a strong, hot girlfriend who will order you tacos and then maybe, just maybe, you can bother me about being ‘whipped.’ Until then, suck it! Love you, mean it! Byeeee!”

You click ‘End Stream.’ The Elgato light blinks off. The sudden silence in the room is deafening. You don’t bother to shut it down properly. You just hit the power switch on your tower, plunging the monitors into blackness.

You push back from the desk, your socks sliding on the hardwood floor as you bolt for the door.

You don’t make it three steps into the room.

A powerful arm hooks around your waist, stopping your momentum dead and lifting you clean off your feet. A surprised, delighted shriek escapes you as the world tilts, and you’re suddenly cradled against a firm, familiar body.

“Got you,” Rhea murmurs into your hair, her voice a low rumble you feel deep in your bones.

You’re laughing, a breathless, giddy sound as you wrap your arms around her neck, holding on tight. “You scared me!”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, the vibration against your chest doing things to your insides. She doesn’t sound sorry at all. She adjusts her grip, holding you effortlessly with one arm while her other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, her thumb stroking your bottom lip. Her eyes, dark and intense, search yours. There’s no trace of the playful, off-duty woman from the stream now. This look is pure hunger. “Couldn’t wait another second.”

She kissed you.

It’s nothing like the quick, affectionate peck she gave you for the camera. This is deep, claiming. Her tongue slides against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, and you can taste the faint, bitter hint of the coffee she must have been drinking and the tantalizing cool flicker of her tongue piercing. You melt into it, a soft moan caught in your throat, your fingers tangling desperately in the silken hair at the nape of her neck.

When she finally breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing heavily. She rests her forehead against yours, her eyes burning into you.

“Missed you,” she breathes out, the words ragged and raw. “Fuck, missed you.”

Your brain, fuzzy and swimming, tries to form a coherent thought. “You saw me half an hour ago, Rhea.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she growls, her hand sliding down from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a warm, dominant weight. Her other hand grips your thigh, hiking your leg up around her hip and pulling your center flush against the hard muscle of her abdomen. A jolt of pure electricity shoots through you. “Saw you sitting there, all focused and cute, talking to your game. And then that fucking idiot even thinking he could have you. Had to wait for you. Had to be good.” Her voice drops to a gravelly whisper that goes straight to your core, molten and needy.

Before you can even whimper her name, she’s moving. She doesn’t set you down. In one fluid, shockingly easy motion, she turns and lays you down on the large, soft couch, following you down like a shadow, her body caging you in. You look up at her as she braces herself above you, her blue gaze burning.

“Rhea…” you whisper, your body already thrumming, desperate, aching.

“Shhh, I know,” she soothes, but it’s more a command. Her hands are on your clothes—your soft, oversized hoodie. She fists her hands in the fabric, pulling it up and over your head in one sharp, efficient movement, tossing it aside without a glance. Her eyes drink in the sight of you. “Lift your hips for me.”

You obey instantly, and she hooks her fingers in the waistband of your leggings and underwear, peeling them down your legs in one long, slow drag that feels impossibly sensual. The cool air hits your feverish skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of her gaze as it travels the length of your now-naked body.

“Always so ready for me,” she murmurs, her voice thick with approval. She leans down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as her hand slides between your thighs. A rough, calloused thumb finds your clit, circling it once, twice, with a precision that makes you arch off the couch with a broken cry. “So wet. All for me. Only me. Mine.” And the way her voice sounds makes you clench around nothing. Hers.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips bucking against her touch. “Always—”

She gets undressed, the baggy Terrifier shirt and gym shorts kicked into a pile on the floor. The familiar harness and strap are in place, a sight that never fails to make your mouth water and your stomach clench with want. She kneels on the couch, looming over you for a long, heart-stopping second, a predator admiring her prize. Her hands skate up your inner thighs, pushing them apart, and she lowers her head.

The first flat stroke of her tongue up your soaked center wrings a ragged sob from your throat. She doesn’t tease; she feasts. Her tongue is a wicked instrument, laving broad, hungry strokes before zeroing in on your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into the heat of her mouth, the cool metal of her piercing providing a shocking, delicious contrast. You fist your hands in her hair as she drives you to the very edge with her mouth alone.

Just as you feel yourself about to shatter, she pulls back, leaving you trembling and empty. A whimper of protest dies on your lips as her hands grip your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach with an effortless strength that makes you whimper into the cushions. She drapes herself over your back, her teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Need to be inside you,” she rasps, her voice strained with need. “Now.”

You feel the blunt, slick pressure of the strap against your entrance and you push back against her, a silent, desperate plea. She answers with one slow, devastating thrust that fills you completely, stretching you, claiming you. The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

She sets a slow, deep rhythm immediately, each thrust rocking you into the cushions. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, pulling your head back, arching your spine. The other hand slides beneath you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, frantic circles that perfectly match the sensual drive of her hips.

“Mine,” she growls, her voice raw. “My sweet girl.” You’re throbbing around her, just with the feel of her warm breath on your nape.

“That’s it,” she grunts, her pace becoming frantic. “That’s good, baby. Gonna come for me, now?”

The dual sensations are too much, too perfect. Your climax crashes over you, a shattering, blinding wave that seizes every muscle in your body. You clamp around her, milking her through your own release as she fucks you through it, her rhythm stuttering. A low, drawn-out groan is ripped from her throat as she presses deep inside you and holds there, her body going rigid above you, shuddering with the force of her own orgasm.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room. The air is thick with the scent of sex, her leather, and spilled takeout.

Slowly, gently, she pulls out and collapses beside you on the couch, pulling you against her chest. She kisses your sweaty temple, your shoulder, any part of you her lips can reach, her touch now tender, almost reverent as you just tried to breathe.

“Okay,” she says, her voice back to its normal, softer register, though laced with a deep, primal satisfaction. “Now it’s dinner time.”

You just nod, boneless, marked and claimed, nuzzling into the sweat-slicked skin of her neck. Hers. Only hers. What game were you playing half an hour ago? You can’t even remember your own name.

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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^^^^character dynamic i need to do more with .EVERYONE SEES YOUR WORTH EXCEPT FOR YOU💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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i wish billy got to interact with s1 steve. you just know he’d have matched billys energy immediately and billy would have been ecstatic

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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Just two guys, joking in the empty Harrington house, 0 feet apart because....

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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There’s something wrong with me right now but don’t worry I found a cure (holds up a hyperfixation from when I was 14) (NOT one of the good ones)

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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characters can have a tragic backstory so long it requires days of scrolling on their wiki to read and they still won't come close to long john silver's single line, "you know of me all i can bear to be known."

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happelu970 · 13 days ago

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The Titaness

Art Thief!Rhea Ripley x Art Historian!Reader

Summary: You’re an art historian working with the police to track down The Titaness, a notorious art thief whose daring heists have baffled everyone.

Rain poured against the tall glass of the Metropolitan Archive as you bent over the portrait, the gold of its frame almost blinding you.

It wasn’t just a painting. It was the latest breadcrumb in the trail of The Titaness, the most elusive art thief.

Her thefts had been whispered about for years, they were all seamless, untraceable, and impossibly daring.

You had been hired for your eye, your uncanny ability to spot the invisible details that others missed.

You slid the loupe into place over your eye, brushing your gloved fingers along the delicate gilding. At first, it looked like nothing. Then, under the magnification, a faint swirl appeared, a laurel crown, so small it could be mistaken for an imperfection.

Your pulse quickened. She’d left you her mark again.

“You got something?” Detective Graves’ voice came from behind, rough and impatient.

“It’s her,” you said, not looking up. “She always leaves this somewhere small. A restoration mark, but stylised. Laurel crown. No one else would dare take the time.”

“She’s taunting you.”

“She’s taunting you,” you corrected softly. “I think she’s… talking to me.”

Graves snorted. “You’re giving her too much credit. She’s a criminal.”

Maybe.

But criminals didn’t leave breadcrumbs unless they wanted someone to follow. And you were starting to think she wanted you to catch her.

That night, the rain followed you home.

You worked late at your kitchen table, sketching the laurel crown over and over in your notebook.

It was nearing midnight when you felt it, the shift in the air, that faint sense of being watched.

“You found my crown.”

You spun around so fast your chair scraped the floor.

She was there, leaning against the window frame as though she had been waiting all evening.

Tall, broad-shouldered, black leather gloves still on, hair damp from the rain. The Titaness, Rhea Ripley.

The stories hadn’t done her justice.

“You’re breaking into my apartment,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady.

Her smirk deepened.

“Technically, yes.” She pushed away from the window and took a step forward. “But I’m not here to steal from you.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “I’m here to warn you. The next theft… it won’t be me. But you’re going to be blamed for it.”

The room seemed to shrink. “Why would anyone think I-”

“You’ve been in the right place too many times,” she interrupted, closing the space between you. “They’ll decide you’re my accomplice. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Her gaze held yours, steady and unblinking. “Because I don’t like the idea of someone else taking you down. If you fall, it’ll be because I put you there.” The words were low, almost intimate.

“You’re threatening me.”

“I’m promising you.”

You should have felt fear.

You should have been reaching for your phone, shouting for help.

Instead, you noticed the way a raindrop clung to the curve of her jaw before sliding down, the way her gloved hands flexed like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach for you or keep her distance.

“Tell me who’s planning this,” you said.

Her mouth curved faintly. “And ruin the fun? No. I’ll give you something better.” She reached into her coat and pulled out a small card, slipping it onto your table. On it, sketched in gold ink, was another laurel crown, this one wrapped around an address.

“Go there tomorrow night,” she said. “If you want answers.”

And then, as effortlessly as she had arrived, she was gone.

The address led you to a private gallery in the old quarter.

The night air was cold, the streets quiet.

You stepped inside to find the space dimly lit. At the far end, leaning against a marble column, was Rhea. She wore black again, but without the gloves this time.

“You came,” she said, satisfaction in her tone.

“I’m here for information.”

“You’re here because you wanted to see me again.”

The arrogance should have been unbearable. Instead, it made your stomach tighten.

“Tell me who’s setting me up,” you demanded.

She moved closer, her boots soft against the polished floor. “I’ll tell you… If you help me first.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Help you do what?”

Her smile was slow and dangerous.

“Prove I’m not the one who’s about to hit the Brant Collection. I know who is. But we need to catch them in the act.”

“That’s… working together.”

“Exactly.” She was close now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “We make a good team.”

“I haven’t agreed.”

“You will.”

She was right.

By the end of the night, you were crouched beside her on the roof opposite the Brant building, watching the real thieves work below.

She was efficient, her movements precise, but her attention kept flicking to you, as if she was making sure you were safe even while breaking the law.

When the police stormed the scene, the thieves were caught.

You should have gone straight to Graves and told him everything. But instead, you and Rhea slipped away into the dark, the adrenaline between you thrumming.

“You’re free,” she murmured when you were alone again. “They won’t touch you now.”

“And you?”

Her smirk returned. “I was never caught to begin with.”

You hesitated, then stepped closer. “You could stop.”

“And lose the thrill?” She shook her head. “No. But maybe I could… slow down. For the right reason.” Her gaze lingered on your mouth.

The city was silent around you.

And then she reached out, brushing her fingers against yours, a touch so light it could have been imagined.

“Careful, Darling. If you keep chasing me, one day I won’t run.”

And for once, you thought, maybe you wouldn’t want her to.

Three weeks passed without a whisper of The Titaness.

No new heists.

No laurel crowns hidden in gold leaf. No shadow in your window. Graves declared her “gone underground,” but you weren’t so sure.

She was too much of a creature of momentum to vanish entirely.

Still, the quiet was disconcerting. You had grown used to the thrill, the faint electricity in your chest whenever her name appeared on your desk. And now… nothing.

Until the knock at your door.

Not a heavy police knock, not a neighbour’s tentative tap. Three slow, deliberate raps, like someone certain you’d answer.

When you opened the door, Rhea was there, dressed in black as always, but without the rain this time. Her hair was tied back loosely, and in her hands was a long, flat package wrapped in plain brown paper.

“You’ve been busy,” she said.

“You’ve been invisible,” you countered.

Her lips curved. “I’m good at that. May I come in?”

You hesitated, then stepped aside.

She moved past you like she owned the space, setting the package on your kitchen table.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“A gift.” She stripped away the paper in a few quick motions, revealing an oil painting, a luminous, late 18th-century seascape you recognised instantly.

It had been missing for decades, presumed destroyed.

You stared. “Rhea… this belongs in a museum.”

“It will. Eventually. But right now, it’s yours.”

You turned to her. “You stole this for me?”

“Not exactly. I reclaimed it. From someone who didn’t deserve to have it.” She paused, her expression softening. “You once told Graves that I talk to you through my work. So consider this me saying thank you… in a language I know.”

Something unspooled in your chest, a knot you hadn’t realised you’d been carrying. “Why, Rhea?”

Her gaze was steady, the teasing absent for once. “Because you didn’t turn me in when you could have. Because you’ve been the only one to see the art, not just the crime. Because every time I left you a mark, I was hoping you’d read more than the pattern.”

Your voice came out quiet. “And what pattern is that?”

She stepped closer, so close the scent of her, leather, faint turpentine, and rain remembered, surrounded you.

“That I like the chase, but I like you more.”

Your breath caught. “You’re serious?”

Her gloved hand brushed your cheek, slow, deliberate. “For once.”

There was a beat of silence, charged and delicate. And then you leaned into her touch.

She took that as an answer, tilting your chin up and pressing her lips to yours, not rough, not claiming, but with a restrained hunger that told you she’d been holding back for far too long.

When you finally pulled back, her smirk had returned, softened by something warmer. “Careful, art historian. You keep letting me in like this, I might stop running.”

You smiled. “Maybe that’s the point.”

She glanced down at the painting, then back at you. “Then I guess it’s yours. Me included.”

And for the first time, you thought maybe you didn’t mind being stolen after all.

Masterlist

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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happelu970 · 14 days ago

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#the way rhea tucks iyo's head under hers when they hug

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happelu970 · 14 days ago

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Love Misread

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: A night of heartbreak and misunderstanding leads you to doubt the love Rhea has always promised.

The night air was cool as you walked down the street, your bag heavy on your shoulder, your thoughts on nothing in particular other than how warm Rhea’s arms would feel once you reached her apartment.

You’d been dating for a while now, long enough that she had become your safe place.

That comforting, solid presence in your life.

You spotted her instantly across the street. Tall, unmistakable, leather jacket dark against the streetlamps. You smiled to yourself, ready to call out her name, when another figure rushed toward her.

A girl, smaller than her, was throwing her arms around Rhea’s waist as if she belonged there.

You froze.

The smile fell from your lips as you watched Rhea hug her back. Not tightly, not the way she hugged you, but close enough.

Too close.

They spoke for a moment, laughter faintly reaching you, and then they started walking together. You felt your heart crack, but your legs carried you, following them from a distance.

The restaurant they entered was lit warmly from inside, a stark contrast to the chill in your chest.

You didn’t go in. You couldn’t. Instead, you stood at the window, hidden by shadows, watching them take a booth.

She sat across from Rhea, leaning forward, smiling. Rhea smiled back.

Your eyes burned, the lump in your throat unbearable.

It looked like a date. It looked like betrayal, the kind of betrayal you had never imagined from her.

You stood there too long, staring, trying to blink away the sting of tears, before you finally turned and left.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You replayed it over and over, the way she laughed, the way she sat with the other girl, the way you didn’t matter in that moment.

You imagined all scenarios, made up excuses and then got angry. It was a roller coaster of emotions.

When your phone buzzed with her name hours later, you let it go to voicemail.

The next day, she was at your door.

“Babe,” she said softly when you opened it, her brow furrowing the instant she saw your face. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, tried to brush past her, but she caught your wrist gently.

“Talk to me.” she begged, voice breaking slightly.

The dam broke.

Words tumbled out, shaky and angry, about the girl, the restaurant, the way it looked, the way you had followed her because you didn’t know what else to do.

Rhea blinked at you, stunned, and then something in her face softened into a smile, small and aching. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and placed her hands on your shoulders.

“You think I would cheat on you?” she asked quietly. “After everything we’ve built?”

You couldn’t answer. Tears stung your eyes.

“That girl,” she explained, brushing your hair back from your damp cheeks, “is my cousin. She moved to town for uni and wanted to surprise me. That’s why she hugged me like that. She hasn’t seen me in years.”

Your chest caved in.

The weight of your own doubt crashed over you, shame washing through your bones.

You whispered a small, broken “oh.”

Rhea tilted your chin so you’d meet her eyes. “You’re it for me. Only you. You’ll never have to share me, not with anyone. I promise you that.”

A sob slipped from you, relief and guilt tangled together. “I thought I lost you.”

She pulled you into her chest, holding you so tightly you could feel her heartbeat.

“Never,” she murmured into your hair. “You’ll never lose me. Even when your mind tells you otherwise, I’ll remind you. Over and over if I have to.”

That night ended not with heartbreak but with her curled around you, her lips brushing your temple, her warmth chasing away the shadows.

And you realised the truth, you hadn’t caught her cheating.

You had caught yourself doubting the one person who had already chosen you, fully and completely.

Masterlist

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