what’s up with rhea and blondes? she has way too many gfs now and i’m not complaining, keep it coming actually.
DEAR READER
will byers stan first human second
No title available

Discoholic 🪩
sheepfilms
todays bird

titsay
Xuebing Du
Keni
Stranger Things
Acquired Stardust
h

★
Not today Justin

No title available

tannertan36
Monterey Bay Aquarium

Origami Around
tumblr dot com
Three Goblin Art
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Finland

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain

seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Venezuela
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Finland
seen from Czechia
seen from United Kingdom

seen from India

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
@rhe4s
what’s up with rhea and blondes? she has way too many gfs now and i’m not complaining, keep it coming actually.
y’all i’m so mad of how they book liv’s title reign, my girl did not deserve that shit.
Not a huge fan of Liv being in the tournament instead of defending her title so…
I’m telling myself that she’s only chasing the crown in order to have an excuse to go after Rhea because she misses her 😁
i mean we all know she’s not gonna win anyway.. there’s no point of having her to go after rhea’s title it’s just pathetic booking. they’re making liv look like a freakin joke by not having anyone to challenge her bc they’re waiting for vaquer to return, it’s atrocious they should’ve given her bayley or lyra or hell even raquel at this point. 💔
"𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭" | 𝐋𝐢𝐯 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 & 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐲
Chapter 10: Exhausted Royalty
‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿
༒
POV: Rhea Ripley
I have always been an aggressive person.
Not cruel without reason. Not mindlessly violent. But reactive. Explosive.
I was never built to tolerate disrespect quietly.
If somebody tries humiliating me, provoking me, testing boundaries they should not cross, my instinct has always been immediate confrontation. I put people back in their place before they even fully realize they crossed a line. It is automatic now, almost primal. Years in this industry sharpen that instinct into survival.
Because if you allow people to walk over you once, they will try again.
And again.
And again.
So I learned very early to become difficult to approach carelessly.
Cold enough to intimidate. Sharp enough to wound before being wounded first.
Most people eventually understand that about me.
Most people know when to stop.
Liv never did.
That woman walks directly into danger like she personally invented the concept.
She pushes. Provokes. Needles at every nerve she knows exists inside me with that infuriating grin on her face, fully aware of exactly what she is doing. Sometimes I genuinely think she enjoys watching my self-control deteriorate in real time.
And the worst part?
She usually succeeds.
Yes, she angers me.
There are moments where she says things so deliberately cruel, so recklessly targeted, that I feel rage flash through me hard enough to distort my vision for a second. Moments where every violent instinct inside me immediately rises to the surface demanding release.
That is usually when we end up fighting.
On the ring.
Backstage.
Against walls. Into equipment cases. Across locker room floors while officials desperately try separating us before somebody gets seriously injured.
And if she truly pushes me far enough, if she digs at the wrong wound hard enough, I can become vicious with her in ways that honestly frighten even me sometimes.
But outside of those moments...
Outside the adrenaline, the fury, the screaming...
Something in me refuses to truly hurt her.
And I do not entirely understand why.
Because logically, I should.
After everything between us, hatred would make more sense. Indifference would make more sense. Even cruelty would make more sense than whatever this strange restraint is that still exists inside me whenever it comes to Liv Morgan.
But every single time it matters most, my anger hits an invisible wall.
I can glare at her.
Threaten her.
Argue with her until the entire room turns silent watching us.
But genuinely raising my hand against her outside the chaos of wrestling, outside the structure of combat we both understand?
I cannot do it.
I just cannot.
And that realization irritates me more than I would ever openly admit.
Because Liv possesses an astonishing number of traits specifically engineered to test human patience.
She is stubborn to a pathological degree. Loud. Intrusive. Relentlessly persistent. She pokes at emotional bruises with the enthusiasm of someone trying to start a fire using gasoline and a blowtorch.
Sometimes she follows thoughts purely because somebody told her not to.
Sometimes she talks simply to fill silence because silence apparently offends her on a spiritual level.
And dear God, she is clingy in the most psychologically exhausting ways imaginable.
There are moments where she annoys me so profoundly I genuinely think about throttling her just to experience five consecutive minutes of peace.
Yet somehow...
Even now...
Here she is.
Asleep against my shoulder.
The cabin remains dim around us, washed in warm amber light while the jet continues cutting through the night sky toward Toronto. Most people are either sleeping now or pretending not to observe the situation developing beside the window.
Liv's head rests heavily against me, curls slightly disheveled from sleep, breathing slow and even for once instead of anxious and sharp the way it usually becomes when she is awake.
And she looks...
Peaceful.
That is the word that keeps settling into my mind no matter how much I resist it.
Peaceful.
Not chaotic. Not sharp-tongued. Not provocative.
Just soft.
There is something strangely vulnerable about seeing loud people asleep. As though all the noise they use to armor themselves disappears temporarily, revealing whatever exists underneath when performance finally stops.
Liv sleeping is the quietest thing I have ever seen.
No constant movement. No dramatic reactions. No sarcasm. No oversized emotions ricocheting around the room demanding attention.
Just warmth against my shoulder and slow breathing near my neck.
Honestly?
She should probably remain asleep permanently.
Because unconscious Liv is significantly less dangerous to my sanity.
I glance down toward her briefly.
Her face is relaxed now, free from the tension she carries lately. Even in sleep I can still see exhaustion lingering around her eyes, the kind that accumulates when somebody has been fighting battles inside their own head for too long.
And despite myself, despite every argument and every scar between us, something tightens painfully in my chest at the sight.
Because I know her too well.
Too well not to notice when she is struggling.
Too well not to recognize that the sharpness in her lately has less to do with arrogance and more to do with exhaustion.
She thinks nobody sees it.
But I do.
I always do.
That has always been the problem between us.
No matter how vicious things become, no matter how loudly we try convincing the world we despise each other, there remains this terrible, irreversible intimacy underneath it all.
I know how she sounds when she is genuinely angry versus when she is hurt.
I know when her laughter is real.
I know when she is spiraling before she says a single word.
And apparently, even now, my body still reacts to her like she belongs near me.
Because without thinking, I adjust slightly in my seat so her neck rests more comfortably against my shoulder instead of at an awkward angle.
The movement is small.
Instinctive.
Dangerously tender.
I stare back out toward the dark sky beyond the window afterward, jaw tightening slightly at myself.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
And yet...
I do not move away from her for the rest of the flight.
By the time the private jet finally lands in Toronto, the cabin has fallen into that strange, exhausted silence unique to late-night travel.
The engines gradually quiet beneath us as the aircraft slows along the runway, the faint vibration beneath the floor disappearing inch by inch until stillness finally settles over the cabin completely.
Outside the windows, the airport glows against the darkness like a scattered constellation brought down to earth. Long strips of white runway lights stretch endlessly through the night while distant airport vehicles drift slowly across the tarmac beneath the cold Canadian sky.
Around us, everyone begins waking properly.
Seatbelts unclick.
Bags are pulled down from overhead compartments.
Half-asleep conversations emerge in low raspy voices while people gather their things with the sluggishness of bodies dragged unwillingly out of exhaustion.
And beside me—
Liv is still asleep.
Completely unconscious against my shoulder as though she has personally signed a long-term lease there.
I glance downward at her for a moment.
Her curls are slightly messy now, one arm folded lazily against herself, breathing slow and warm against the fabric near my neck. The exhaustion on her face looks softer in sleep somehow, less guarded. For once, her expression is not carrying ten emotions simultaneously.
Peaceful again.
Dangerously peaceful.
I exhale quietly through my nose before nudging her shoulder lightly.
"Morgan," I murmur, voice low from disuse. "Wake up. We landed."
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
Of course.
I try again, this time giving her shoulder a slightly firmer shake.
"Come on," I say. "Wake up."
She lets out the most irritated sleepy sound imaginable, somewhere between a groan and a complaint, then finally cracks one eye open with visible annoyance.
The moment she realizes where she is, her brows knit together immediately.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
"Get up," I tell her dryly. "I'm not carrying you off this plane. You're too heavy."
She stares at me for a few sleepy seconds, clearly still halfway unconscious, then closes her eyes again like I personally offended her by speaking.
"In that case," she mumbles against my shoulder, "I live here now."
God.
Unbelievable.
"I was sleeping perfectly," she continues sleepily. "I was probably in my tenth dream already and you ruined all of them. As usual."
There is genuine irritation in her voice too, which somehow makes this more absurd.
I rub tiredly at my forehead.
"Stop behaving like a child and get up," I say. "People are literally leaving the plane."
She does not move.
Not even slightly.
Honestly, dealing with Liv sometimes feels less like interacting with another adult and more like negotiating with a hostile raccoon that somehow learned sarcasm.
"I'm serious," I warn.
Still nothing.
Then, without opening her eyes, she mutters:
"And I'm serious too."
Jesus Christ.
I narrow my eyes at her.
"I am not carrying you."
This time she finally lifts her head slightly to glare at me with sleepy irritation.
"And yet," she says slowly, "here we are discussing it instead of you simply leaving."
I stare at her.
She stares back.
Completely stubborn. Entirely immovable. Absolutely insufferable.
There are moments where I genuinely wonder if she survives purely through weaponized persistence.
Then she speaks again.
"And by the way," she adds irritably, "the comment about me being heavy was unnecessary."
Ah.
So that is what offended her.
Not the threats. Not the shaking awake. Not the argument itself.
That.
I resist the urge to sigh aggressively.
"Well maybe if you actually stood up—"
"I'm not getting up now," she interrupts immediately.
Of course she isn't.
I close my eyes briefly.
One slow inhale.
Then another.
"You are going to kill me one day," I mutter flatly.
"Probably."
The answer comes instantly.
No hesitation whatsoever.
Around us, I can already feel several people deliberately pretending not to watch this interaction while very obviously listening to every second of it.
Somewhere near the exit, I hear Seth snort quietly into his coffee.
Traitors.
I finally lose patience.
Without another warning, I slide one arm beneath Liv's knees and the other around her lower back before lifting her cleanly into my arms.
Effortlessly.
She lets out a soft surprised sound before instinct immediately takes over. Her arms slide around my neck automatically, body settling against my chest while her head drops back onto my shoulder like she belongs there.
And somehow—
Somehow she is still half asleep through all of this.
I start walking toward the exit of the jet while she grumbles quietly against me with her eyes still closed.
"I hate you," she mumbles sleepily.
I step down onto the staircase leading onto the tarmac, cool night air immediately brushing against us.
"Feeling's mutual, Morgan," I answer dryly. "I genuinely don't know how I still possess enough patience to tolerate you. Another person would've buried you alive years ago."
She shifts slightly against me.
"Please," she mutters. "Stop talking."
I glance downward briefly.
"Demanding for someone currently being carried around like exhausted royalty."
"Shut up."
"There's the gratitude I was hoping for."
Her fingers tighten lazily against the back of my hoodie.
"Rhea."
"What."
"Silence."
Despite myself, despite the exhaustion and irritation and complicated mess she permanently turns my life into—
A faint smirk pulls briefly at the corner of my mouth as I continue carrying her across the dimly lit tarmac beneath the cold Toronto night.
Because the truth is, there is something profoundly ridiculous about us.
Two people who spend most days threatening to destroy each other...
Yet somehow ending nights like this.
POV: Rhea Ripley - End
𝐌𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬:
𝐓𝐢𝐤𝐓𝐨𝐤: @_morgansassy
𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫: _morgansassy_
𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝: m0rgansassy
𝐀𝐎𝟑: morgansassy
dude i love this sooo much
uppies :)
uppies from char 🥹
rhea joining in during charlexa's signature poses SATURDAY NIGHT'S MAIN EVENT | 05.23.26
rhea my baby 🥹
hide the scissors from now on, i don’t want her to cut her hair short ever again. 😭
"𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭" | 𝐋𝐢𝐯 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 & 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐲
Chapter 9: Too Close for Peace
‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿
༒
April 28th.
Tuesday.
1:10 AM.
Beyond the airplane window stretches a kind of darkness that barely resembles anything earthly.
Not the ordinary darkness of bedrooms with drawn curtains or empty streets after midnight. This is something far older, far quieter, almost cosmic in its scale. An immense abyss suspended endlessly around the aircraft, deep and ink-black, thick as velvet soaked in shadow. The higher atmosphere swallows color completely at this altitude, leaving behind only gradients of obsidian and midnight blue layered into infinity.
And within that darkness, the stars.
God, the stars.
They do not resemble the distant fragile pinpricks visible from city streets below. Up here they feel unnervingly close, almost tangible, burning sharply against the sky with cold silver intensity. Thousands of them scattered across the heavens like shattered glass frozen in motion. Some pulse faintly. Others remain steady and piercing, ancient and indifferent.
There is something deeply unsettling about seeing the night sky unobstructed like this.
It feels too vast.
Too honest.
As though the universe has momentarily peeled back the comforting illusion of human importance and revealed its true scale without mercy.
The airplane drifts through it quietly, surrounded by silence so immense it almost becomes physical.
And beneath the aircraft...
Clouds.
An endless ocean of them.
They stretch below in uninterrupted white expanses illuminated softly by moonlight from above, transforming the atmosphere beneath the plane into something dreamlike and surreal. Their surface appears smooth in some places, turbulent in others, rising and folding into itself like slow-moving tides frozen in time.
Not clouds anymore, almost.
A second world.
Soft. Pale. Endless.
The moonlight touches their contours delicately, tracing silver across the upper edges while deeper valleys between them dissolve into muted shades of blue-gray shadow. They resemble waves on a sleeping sea, vast and motionless beneath the aircraft's steady passage.
The plane moves above them not like a machine crossing air, but like a ship gliding between realities.
Above: cold infinity.
Below: luminous silence.
And suspended directly between them, the cabin drifts onward through the sleeping atmosphere with quiet mechanical grace.
Occasionally the clouds shift.
A subtle opening forms somewhere far below, a fracture in the endless white.
And through that opening, the earth appears.
Distant.
Tiny.
Almost impossibly far away.
Scattered lights emerge from the darkness beneath the clouds in delicate golden clusters. Small constellations mirroring the stars above, except warmer somehow. Softer. Imperfect in a way that feels strangely intimate against the terrifying perfection of the night sky.
Some gather densely together, outlining the faint geometry of cities barely visible through the darkness. Others stretch into thin glowing veins along unseen roads, winding endlessly through black landscapes hidden beneath the clouds.
A few lights stand entirely alone.
Single flickers suspended in vast emptiness.
The farther the aircraft travels, the more fragmented the lights become. Brief glimpses appearing through breaks in the clouds before vanishing once again beneath layers of silver-white atmosphere.
Everything feels muted at this altitude.
The lights below do not shimmer aggressively the way they do from the ground. Instead they glow softly, as though filtered through water or memory itself. Tiny embers scattered across the sleeping earth. Golden remnants burning quietly beneath the endless night.
Moonlight spills faintly across the airplane wing outside the window, cold and metallic against the darkness. The surface gleams occasionally whenever the aircraft shifts slightly through invisible currents in the atmosphere. Beyond it, the horizon curves almost imperceptibly beneath layers of cloud and distant starlight.
There is no sense of time here.
Only stillness.
A strange suspended quiet that belongs exclusively to nighttime flights above the clouds, where the world below becomes abstract and unreachable, reduced to scattered lights and indistinct shadows beneath an infinite sky.
The engine hum remains low and constant, blending almost seamlessly into the atmosphere itself.
Everything else is silence.
Immense.
Bottomless.
Beautiful enough to feel almost unreal.
The private jet cuts silently through the darkness on its way to Toronto for Monday Night Raw.
Inside the cabin, everything is wrapped in that muted, dreamlike atmosphere unique to late-night flights. Soft yellow lighting glows overhead, dim enough not to sting tired eyes, warm enough to make the polished interior feel strangely intimate despite its luxury. Shadows settle gently into the corners of the cabin. The low hum of the engines vibrates subtly beneath everything, steady and hypnotic, almost like background static holding the entire aircraft together.
Somewhere further back, Seth Rollins and Cody Rhodes are half-watching a UFC fight on someone's tablet while occasionally arguing over predictions. Dominik Mysterio had fallen asleep nearly an hour ago, hood pulled over his head, completely unbothered by turbulence or human existence in general. Raquel is scrolling through her phone with the exhausted expression of someone too tired to actually process what she's reading anymore.
Further ahead, Becky Lynch and Lyra Valkyria are speaking quietly between themselves, their voices blending softly into the low mechanical ambiance of the aircraft.
And near me sits Rhea.
Unfortunately.
I'm seated beside the window, staring intermittently out into the endless black sky beyond the glass while trying very hard not to acknowledge the overwhelming physical presence occupying the seat next to me.
But ignoring Rhea has always been impossible.
Even now.
Especially now.
She sits beside me with the kind of relaxed dominance only she could make look natural. Broad shoulders stretched comfortably against the seat, one arm resting lazily near the armrest, black clothing absorbing the dim cabin light rather than reflecting it. Her attention is fixed on her phone, expression unreadable, jaw sharp beneath the warm amber glow overhead.
And Jesus Christ, she takes up space.
Not intentionally. Not theatrically.
She simply exists like gravity exists.
Heavy. Immovable. Inescapably present.
The air around her feels warmer somehow, denser, saturated with her cologne and that infuriatingly calm energy she carries everywhere. I swear the entire row feels smaller because she's in it.
I finally turn my head toward her fully, glaring.
A sharp, irritated stare meant to burn holes straight through her skull.
Almost immediately, she senses it.
Of course she does.
Her gaze slowly lifts from her phone to me, cold and detached beneath dark lashes. Not annoyed. Not surprised. Just aware.
Which somehow irritates me even more.
I narrow my eyes.
"There is literally no oxygen left in this row," I mutter dryly. "Do everyone a favor and go sit next to Roxanne or Raquel. They're probably more accustomed to suffocating levels of ego than I am."
Rhea slowly raises one eyebrow.
Her face barely changes.
"Mhm," she says in that low Australian drawl, voice rough with quiet amusement. "Anything else I can do for Your Highness tonight?"
She slips her phone lazily into her pocket before continuing.
"Maybe jump out of the plane entirely so you can breathe easier?"
I immediately smile sweetly.
"Oh, that would actually be wonderful."
"Tempting," she replies smoothly. "But unfortunately I'm still rather attached to being alive."
"Pity."
A faint smirk ghosts across her mouth.
"Who should I relocate beside then," she asks calmly, "to preserve your fragile respiratory system?"
I gesture vaguely toward IYO SKY a few seats away.
"Go sit with your wife. I'm sure IYO would be thrilled to accommodate your enormous presence."
At that, Rhea's eyes flick briefly toward IYO.
Then back to me.
And something changes there.
Not visibly enough for most people to notice. But I notice it instantly. A dangerous flicker igniting behind otherwise controlled eyes. Sharp. Predatory. Irritatingly attractive.
Her voice lowers slightly when she answers.
"My wife?" she repeats thoughtfully. "Interesting."
She leans back slightly in her seat, studying me now instead of merely looking at me.
"That's strange, Liv. I don't remember exchanging vows with anyone recently."
A pause.
"Or are you keeping tabs on my personal life these days?"
Her smirk deepens subtly.
"Careful. You're starting to sound jealous."
The words settle into the air between us like lit gasoline.
"If you're this curious about who shares my bed," she continues quietly, "you could always ask directly instead of trying to exile me toward other women."
Heat flashes instantly through my chest.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Something uglier beneath both.
I react before thinking, sharply pinching her shoulder hard enough to hurt.
"Trust me, Ripley," I snap, "your personal life is the last thing on earth important enough to hold my attention."
I release her shoulder with another irritated shove.
"You could sleep with the entire RAW roster for all I care."
She does not even flinch.
Not even slightly.
Instead she just watches me with that infuriating stillness of hers before answering in a voice so calm it borders on insulting.
"You sound wounded," she says quietly.
Then comes the smirk again.
"'The entire roster'? Seriously?"
Her eyes drag over me slowly, mercilessly observant.
"That attempt at provoking me was embarrassingly lazy."
The cabin around us has begun growing quieter.
People are listening now.
Of course they are.
Rhea crosses one boot casually over the other.
"My name is associated with championships and dominance," she says evenly, "not locker room gossip. So maybe watch your mouth until we land in Toronto."
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
"Otherwise the oxygen situation in this row might become genuinely difficult for you."
I notice movement from nearby seats.
People turning subtly toward us now.
Interested.
Watching.
Always watching.
And suddenly I'm furious enough that rational thought evaporates completely.
I grab her by the throat without warning.
Hard.
Not enough to injure her.
Just enough to drag her closer.
The movement is so fast several people visibly tense around us.
Rhea's body goes still beneath my grip.
Completely still.
Her face remains inches from mine now, expression unreadable except for the dangerous glint flickering faintly in her eyes.
I lean closer, voice low and venomous.
"You really think people admire your name?" I hiss.
My fingers tighten slightly against her neck.
"Listen to me carefully. Everything you represent to decent people is rot. Filth. You're like dirt ground into concrete everyone forgot to wash away."
The words spill out sharp and vicious now, years of unresolved grief disguising itself as hatred.
"I look at you and feel disgusted that we ever had anything in common at all."
The cabin feels dead silent around us.
"I would erase every memory of knowing you if I could. So save the cheap threats for somebody else, because to me?"
I stare directly into her eyes.
"You are absolutely nothing."
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then slowly...
Rhea smiles.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
A small, arrogant curve of the mouth that somehow infuriates me more than if she had yelled back.
And that smile alone is enough to make my chest tighten violently with emotions I no longer know how to separate from each other.
I finally let go of her neck.
She leans back again without a word, adjusting her collar slightly as though nothing significant just happened.
Then, from somewhere across the aisle, Becky Lynch sighs dramatically.
"I'm at the point where I hear you two arguing in my nightmares," she mutters. "This rivalry has become psychologically damaging to innocent bystanders."
And immediately, without hesitation, both of us speak at the exact same time.
"I'd rather die than keep listening to her voice."
The synchronization lands so perfectly it takes the cabin a second to process it.
Then Becky stares at us both with visible concern.
"You know," she says slowly, "the simultaneous speaking is somehow the part that scares me most."
An hour later, somewhere between the quiet glow of the movie screen and the endless vibration of the engines beneath the aircraft, I fall asleep without even realizing it.
Not intentionally.
It happens slowly, subtly, the way exhaustion always ambushes people who have been carrying too much inside themselves for too long. One moment I am still vaguely aware of the film playing across the cabin television, of muffled dialogue and shifting lights flickering softly against the walls of the jet.
And the next, consciousness slips quietly through my fingers.
Sleep takes me whole.
My body finally relaxes for the first time in days.
Not fully, not completely. Anxiety never truly releases its grip that easily. But enough. Enough for the tension in my shoulders to loosen. Enough for my breathing to deepen slightly. Enough for the constant invisible alarm inside my nervous system to dim into silence for a little while.
And somewhere during that unconscious surrender, my head slowly drifts sideways.
Until it settles against Rhea.
Against her shoulder.
God.
Even asleep, apparently my body has terrible judgment.
Her shoulder is massive beneath my cheek, firm with muscle and warm through the black fabric of her hoodie. Solid in a way that feels absurdly comfortable, almost unfairly so. Not stiff like airplane seats or awkward like most people are when you accidentally fall asleep near them.
No.
Rhea feels stable.
Steady.
Like leaning against something incapable of collapsing.
Ironically, despite all my complaints about her taking up too much space, her size carries its own dangerous kind of comfort. She is built like something designed to protect rather than merely exist. Broad chest, heavy shoulders, strong arms capable of making almost any place feel safer than it probably should.
Honestly, she could probably replace furniture entirely.
Beds. Pillows. Human civilization as a concept.
My sleeping brain seems to arrive at that conclusion long before my pride ever would.
The cabin around us remains dim and quiet, washed in muted amber light while the aircraft continues gliding through the night sky. Most conversations have faded away by now. Someone further back laughs quietly at something half-whispered. The movie continues playing to an audience no longer fully paying attention.
And I sleep through all of it.
Peacefully, somehow.
Which feels almost miraculous considering the state my mind has been in lately.
Then—
Something soft.
Gentle fingers brushing lightly through my hair.
So careful it barely registers at first.
A slow movement near the crown of my head, almost absentminded, fingertips grazing delicately through loose strands before disappearing again.
The touch is astonishingly tender.
Not possessive.
Not teasing.
Just... gentle.
Gentler than someone like Rhea Ripley has any business being.
Even half-asleep, I feel my body instinctively relax further into the contact before my consciousness can properly process it. Like some buried instinct inside me still recognizes safety in her despite everything we have become to each other.
For a moment, somewhere in that hazy space between sleep and awareness, the years seem to blur together.
The hatred.
The screaming.
The bitterness.
All of it fading temporarily beneath muscle memory older than resentment itself.
Because once upon a time, Rhea touching my hair was normal.
Once upon a time, I trusted her enough to fall asleep beside her without hesitation.
The realization drifts faintly through the edges of my subconscious before dissolving again into exhaustion.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe my overtired brain simply reconstructed old memories into dreams because grief has a habit of resurrecting dead things when you are vulnerable enough.
That has to be it.
Because Rhea Ripley does not stroke my hair anymore.
She does not look at me softly anymore.
She certainly does not sit awake on late-night flights allowing me to sleep against her shoulder while pretending not to notice.
Right?
Still...
Even asleep, some traitorous part of me remains curled unconsciously closer to her warmth for the rest of the flight.
There is one more thing.
Something I do not say out loud.
Something I probably would not admit even to myself if I were fully awake, fully guarded, fully in control of my own narrative.
But it exists anyway, whether I acknowledge it or not.
When I am near her...
I feel calm.
Genuinely, disarmingly calm.
Not the kind of calm that comes from silence or isolation or being left alone with your thoughts. That kind is fragile, temporary, always one intrusive idea away from collapsing.
This is different.
This is the kind of calm that settles into the bones.
As if something inside me unclenches without permission.
As if a weight I did not fully realize I was carrying suddenly loosens its grip and drops away without ceremony.
It is almost unsettling how immediate it is.
One moment my mind can be loud, chaotic, overfilled with static thoughts and invisible tension, and the next, simply being near her shifts something fundamental in the atmosphere inside me.
Like my nervous system recognizes a pattern it trusts before my conscious mind has time to argue with it.
My breathing slows.
My thoughts lose their edge.
The constant background noise of anxiety, that familiar hum of anticipation and fear, fades into something distant and irrelevant, like a radio station being tuned out without effort.
There is no fight to it.
No negotiation.
It just... stops.
As if my mind forgets, briefly, how to be at war with itself.
And what is most confusing—
Most contradictory—
Is that this happens precisely with someone I constantly describe as unbearable.
Annoying. Infuriating. Overwhelming in presence and attitude. Someone I argue with, clash with, and actively resist at every possible opportunity.
And yet my body responds as though she is the opposite of all of that.
As though she is stability itself.
It makes no rational sense.
I have spent so much time framing her as the problem, the rival, the source of irritation, the person I refuse to tolerate peacefully. And still, my internal reality betrays me the moment distance disappears.
Because near her, there is a strange kind of equilibrium I cannot replicate anywhere else.
A silence that is not empty, but complete.
A stillness that does not feel like absence, but presence without threat.
It is as if my mind stops preparing for impact all the time.
Stops bracing.
Stops predicting collapse in every direction.
Even the intrusive thoughts lose their urgency around her. They do not vanish completely, nothing ever truly vanishes, but they lose momentum, like waves breaking against something they cannot quite reach.
And I hate how effortless it feels.
How unearned it seems.
Because peace, for me, has never been simple. It has always required work. Strategy. Management. Control. Something I have to actively construct and defend like fragile architecture in a storm.
But near her—
It is not constructed.
It just happens.
That is the most disorienting part.
Even when I insist she is annoying, even when I argue, provoke, or resist her presence, there remains this undeniable contradiction sitting quietly beneath everything else.
My body does not interpret her as danger.
It interprets her as... anchor.
And I do not have a word for that contradiction that does not feel like betrayal of my own logic.
So I do what I always do when something refuses to fit neatly inside my understanding of things.
I ignore it.
I compartmentalize it.
I let it exist only in moments like this—half-asleep, half-aware, where honesty slips through the cracks I usually keep sealed shut.
Because the truth is simple in a way I do not fully know how to accept yet.
Near her, the world does not feel like it is constantly collapsing.
And for someone like me...
That kind of silence inside the mind feels almost like a miracle.
𝐌𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬:
𝐓𝐢𝐤𝐓𝐨𝐤: @_morgansassy
𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫: _morgansassy_
𝐓𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫: morgansassy
𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝: m0rgansassy
i love this omg
i’m still here.
RHIYO CRUMBS 💕
i love them sooo much
the way she immediately hugged rhea…. oh my precious rhiyo please comeback
i know liv wanted to be kiss by rhea lmao these gays 😭
ohh rhea wanted to kiss her so bad 😭
ME NEXTTT
STEP ON MY THROAT GIRL
mind you they were supposed “hate” each other yet they were being lovey dovey 😭
the position, the cheek kiss, the hand placement…. god they’re both lesbians 😭
omg are u kidding me???🥺