#mami rhea

[geekhead79]

The fantastic Rhea Ripley

[allyisbrooding]

fishnet and leather

☾ Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Female Reader

✮⋆˙ Summary: you're a doctor working for the WWE company. It’s suppose to be an easy job, but Ms. Ripley makes things a little bit more complicated. 

⚠︎ Warning: smut, slightly sexual (I guess) dirty talking, slight dom Rhea.

Words: 4k

✮⋆˙ Notes: So I know I haven’t posted anything here in a while (sooorryyy), but the end-of-year festivities really got the best of me, and I plan to get back to posting regularly. In the meantime, enjoy Mami flirting hard.

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You are a prodigy. There's no other word for it — not when you graduated Stanford Med at twenty-four, not when you completed your residency at Georgetown University Hospital with recommendations that made seasoned physicians twice your age look mediocre by comparison. You’ve challenged men who literally tower over your frame, men who dismissed you with condescending smiles until you diagnosed what three other doctors missed. Men who learned, quickly, that height means nothing when you're brilliant.

You did what your father insisted — got the degree, made his considerable investment count, became one of the best cardiologists in the country before most people finish figuring out their lives. The pride in his voice when he introduces you at dinner parties makes your skin crawl.

So out of pure, delicious spite, you accepted the one job that would make your uptight, country-club family absolutely lose their minds: official doctor for the WWE.

The look on your father's face when you told him was worth every penny of that Stanford tuition.

Now you sit at your medical station — hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that makes you look even younger than you are, curious eyes that still light up at interesting cases — and wrestlers twice your size shuffle in with injuries they're trying to downplay. You've been mistaken for an intern at least six times this month. Some of them see the petite frame, the neat clothes, the loving smile you've perfected over years of bedside manner, and think "easy."

They learn.

You don't do men. Never have. You're everything one would expect from a nerdy, well-educated girl who spent her teenage years in libraries instead of parties: polite to a fault, laser-focused on work, with a gentle demeanor that puts patients at ease.

Which makes your current problem so much worse.

Rhea Ripley is chaos in fishnet and leather.

The wrestler is everything you shouldn't want and absolutely do. Tall — so tall you have to tilt your head back to meet her eyes, which does something to your brain chemistry you refuse to examine. Muscular in ways that make your mouth go dry when she flexes. Beautiful in that devastating, dangerous way that feels like standing too close to a fire. Gothic aesthetic that speaks to every forbidden thing you pretended not to want in high school — all leather and fishnet and dark confidence.

Dark hair that you want to run your fingers through. Pretty blue eyes that pin you in place like a butterfly in a collection. And honestly, all those piercings and tattoos make it really, really hard for you to think straight when she's around. The tongue piercing especially. You try not to stare at it. You fail constantly.

It's so unfair.

And Rhea seems to enjoy that.

She started visiting the medical office a lot. For anything, really.

"Doc." The door opens without knocking — it never does with her — and Rhea fills the doorway like she was designed specifically to make your heart malfunction. "Hit my head pretty hard out there. Think you should check for concussion."

You glance up from your paperwork, and your pen nearly rolls off the desk. She's still in her ring gear — leather and fishnets and all that skin — with a light sheen of sweat that catches the fluorescent lights. Her hair is slightly messed from the match, eye makeup smudged in a way that should look disheveled but instead looks effortlessly hot.

This is unfair. This is so unfair.

"Let me see." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, and you're proud of that. You gesture to the examination table, reaching for your penlight with practiced efficiency.

Rhea moves — and God, the way she moves, all liquid confidence and barely contained power — hopping up onto the table with ease that makes the muscles in her arms flex. You are a professional. You are a trained physician. You are absolutely not staring at her biceps.

"Where did you hit it?" You step closer, and immediately her scent hits you — sweat and leather and something darker, more expensive. Perfume, maybe. Or maybe she just naturally smells like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make.

"Right here." Her hand comes up, fingers threading through her dark hair to indicate a spot on her temple. But she's watching you, not her own hand. Those blue eyes track every micro-expression on your face with unnerving focus. "Took a pretty nasty bump. Thought I should let the best doctor in the building take a look."

The compliment makes warmth bloom in your chest. Stop it.

You reach up — and you have to reach up, she's so much taller even sitting down — fingers gentle as you part her hair to examine the area. Your gloves are on, professional barrier in place, but you can still feel the warmth of her scalp. "I don't see any visible trauma. Does this hurt?" You apply gentle pressure.

"Mm." The sound she makes is ambiguous. "Maybe check again? Just to be thorough."

You check again. Because you're thorough. Not because she asked in that low voice that does things to your concentration.

Three days later: "Doc, I think my ribs hurt. That spear looked brutal, right? Probably should get an X-ray or something."

You press carefully along her ribcage, counting, feeling for displacement or fracture. She's not wearing her leather top this time — just a sports bra that should be illegal in a medical setting — and you can feel the defined muscle under your hands, the way her breathing shifts when you hit certain spots.

"Does this hurt?" You press a little firmer on the left side.

"Yeah." But she's smiling, that dangerous smile with the dark lipstick that you're starting to see in your dreams. "Maybe a little lower? Think it might be worse there."

It's not. You check anyway. Professional obligation.

The following week: "My finger twisted during that finish. The Riptide, you know? Think you should tape it up for me."

You examine the finger in question — her right index, already wrapped in the tape from the match. There's no swelling. No discoloration. Full range of motion when you test it gently.

"Ms. Ripley." You look up at her, and that's a mistake, because she's very close and very focused on you and your brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds. "Your finger is fine."

"You sure, Doc?" She flexes it experimentally, and the movement draws your attention to her hands. Large hands. Strong hands. Hands with rings on several fingers that you definitely should not be thinking about. "Feels a little weak. Maybe you should check again."

"I've checked three times."

"Fourth time's the charm?"

You try to maintain professional composure. You're failing, and you both know it, but you try.

"Is there an actual injury," you ask, slowly, carefully, "or are you just coming here to waste my time?"

The smile that spreads across her face is absolutely wicked. "Would I do that, Doc?"

"Yes."

"Fair." She doesn't move from the examination table. Doesn't stop looking at you with those pretty blue eyes that make your stomach flip. "Maybe I just like having your hands on me, Doc. Ever think of that?"

Your brain makes a sound like a computer crashing. "I — that's — you can't just — "

"Can't just what?" She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and now she's at your eye level and even closer. The tongue piercing glints when she speaks. "Say what I'm thinking? Come on, Doctor..." Her eyes flick to your ID badge, "...you're smart enough to know why I keep coming here."

You were always trying to keep it professional. But it's getting harder and harder — especially when she looks at you like that, like she's thinking about doing decidedly unprofessional things and doesn't care who knows it.

"You need to stop," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're talking to her or yourself. Your hands are still holding hers, you realize. When did that happen? "I could lose my job."

"For what?" Her thumb brushes across your knuckles, barely there, technically innocent. "I'm just making sure I get the best medical care available. Can't help it if the best doctor happens to be absolutely gorgeous."

Your face is on fire. Actually on fire. You're going to spontaneously combust right here in the medical office and they'll find nothing but a pile of ash and a stethoscope.

But she’s already coming down from your examination table, smiling bright. 

“See you later, Doc.” And then she's gone. Leaving only her dark and delicious scent behind.

(…)

It's just another day.

Another shift in this fluorescent-lit office that smells like antiseptic and the faint musk of athletic tape. Another parade of bodies that treat pain like a suggestion rather than a warning. You've taking care of the patient you had to take care of — some big guy named Bert who somehow managed to hit his head on the ring floor during what he insisted on calling "just another Tuesday." The gash wasn't deep, thankfully, but head wounds bleed like a bitch and he'd looked pale enough that you'd made him sit still for a full thirty minutes while you cleaned and dressed it properly.

Then he'd started getting a little too convinced — voice dropping to what he probably thought was a seductive register.

“Come on, sweetie. Just a drink after work. I’m sure you could use it.” He's smiling and you wish you could roll your eyes.

"That's a no, Bert," you'd said firmly, snapping off your gloves with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "Take these aftercare instructions, follow them, and get lost."

He'd been mid-protest, some speech about how he was a nice guy and you should give him a chance, when the door swung open without so much as a courtesy knock.

Rhea.

She walks in — all sweaty from her match, eyeliner slightly smudged at the corners, hair wild, smile absolutely radiant — striding into your office as if she'd been personally invited. As if she owns the space and you're just borrowing it.

"Hey, man." Her voice carries that particular quality of amused disdain she reserves for men who don't know when to quit. She doesn't even look at him, eyes fixed on you instead, and there's something possessive in her gaze that makes your stomach flip. "You're going to have to step over my dead body to get our doll here to go out with you before I do."

The endearment — our doll — hits you like a physical thing. Your face flames instantly, heat crawling up your neck and spreading across your cheeks in what must be an absolutely mortifying display.

The big guy actually laughs, seemingly unbothered, and claps Rhea on the shoulder as he passes. "Didn't know the doc was already taken, Ripley. My bad." He shoots you a wink. "Good luck with this one."

And then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive click that feels far too final.

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, crossing your arms over your chest in what you hope looks like annoyance rather than the defensive gesture it actually is. "I'm not spoken for," you mutter, more to the room than to her. "Jesus Christ. Working with a bunch of brainless brutes is stressful."

Rhea leans against your examination table — your examination table, the one you've been working at for months, and somehow she makes it look like a throne — and the smile that spreads across her face is absolutely devastating. Her black lipstick is still flawless despite the match, not a smudge or crack in sight. Purple eyeshadow brings out her blue eyes in a way that should be illegal. She's still in her ring gear — all leather and fishnets and carefully calculated chaos — looking like the beautiful, disastrous mess that she is.

And she's looking at you like you're something to be devoured.

"Don't I deserve an award for my victory tonight?" Her voice is playful, teasing, but there's an edge underneath that makes your pulse quicken. "Took down Charlotte clean. One, two, three."

You snort — an inelegant sound that would make your mother despair — and busy yourself organizing supplies that don't need organizing. Anything to avoid looking directly at her. "You're lucky you still have a whole skull after that moonsault. I saw the replay. That landing was sloppy."

"Sloppy?" She sounds genuinely offended now, and you risk a glance up to find her actually pouting. It's even more disconcerting when she's still all made up like this, still dressed like she could step back into the ring at any moment. The contrast between the dangerous exterior and the almost childish expression is doing something complicated to your brain chemistry. "That was art, Doc. Pure art."

"That was a concussion waiting to happen," you counter, but your voice has lost its sharp edge. "You're reckless."

"I'm effective." She pushes off the table, takes a step closer. You should move. You should maintain professional distance. You should —  "Don't I at least deserve dinner with the good doctor for such a beautiful fight? My treat. Anywhere you want."

The offer hangs in the air between you, tempting and dangerous and everything you shouldn't want.

But you're on shift. You're supposed to be professional. You've spent years building walls between yourself and anything that might make you lose control, and this — she — is a wrecking ball aimed directly at your foundation.

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm working."

"Hmm." Rhea doesn't look discouraged. If anything, her smile widens, sharp and knowing. She tilts her head, studying you like you're a puzzle she's enjoying solving. "That's fine. I can wait."

There's something in her tone — a certainty, a confidence that borders on arrogance — that makes you bristle. "Wait for what, exactly?"

She takes another step closer. You're acutely aware that you've somehow backed yourself toward the wall, that the examination table is blocking any easy escape route. Trapped. You're trapped in your own office with a woman who looks like every fantasy you've ever had and a few you didn't know you were allowed to have.

"Eventually," Rhea says, voice dropping to something lower, rougher, "they all end up in the same place."

Your mouth is dry. Your palms are sweating. Your brain — your brilliant, Stanford-educated, prodigy brain — has apparently left the building entirely because all you can do is stare at her and ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"What place is that?"

Rhea moves so quickly you don't have time to react. One moment she's three feet away, the next she's right there, so close you can feel the heat radiating off her skin, can smell leather and sweat and whatever that dark, spicy scent is that clings to her. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and she doesn't touch you — doesn't lay a single finger on you — but you're caged anyway, trapped between cold plaster and the furnace of her presence.

She leans in, lips so close to your ear that you feel more than hear her next words.

"Underneath me." Her breath is hot against your skin, and you actually shiver. "Begging me to stop."

A laugh escapes you — humorless, shocked, your face so red you can feel the heat radiating off your own cheeks. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and you're pretty sure if you checked your own pulse right now it would be dangerously elevated.

"You're — " Your voice cracks embarrassingly. You swallow hard, try again. "You're going to be disappointed then, Ms. Ripley."

Because you're not that girl. You've never been that girl. You're careful and controlled and you don't do spontaneous or reckless or anything that might result in you losing your grip on the perfectly constructed life you've built.

Except Rhea's still there, still so close, and when she pulls back just enough to look at you — really look at you, blue eyes dark and intense and focused entirely on your face — the smile that curves her lips is absolutely wicked.

"Will I now, Doc?"

It's not really a question. It's a challenge.

And God help you, but something in your chest responds to it like a match to gasoline.

Your breath hitches — a sharp, audible inhale that sounds far too loud in the suddenly too-small space of your office. You should say something. Should push her away. Should remind her that this is wildly inappropriate and you're at work and she's technically a patient and there are approximately seven thousand reasons why this cannot happen.

But then Rhea's hand comes up — slow, deliberate, giving you every opportunity to stop this — and her fingers trace along your jawline with a gentleness that seems completely at odds with everything else about her. The touch is feather-light, almost reverent, and it makes every nerve ending in your body stand at attention.

"Tell me to stop," she murmurs, and there's something in her voice now that wasn't there before. Something serious beneath the teasing. "Tell me to stop and I will, Doc. I promise."

You open your mouth. The word "stop" should come out. It's right there, sitting on your tongue, ready to restore sanity and professional boundaries and everything that makes sense in your carefully ordered world.

What comes out instead is…

"I — "

She kisses you.

Oh.

Oh, that's — that's not — you can't — 

Rhea Ripley is kissing you, and your brain simply ceases to function. It's not gentle, not tentative, not any of the things a first kiss is supposed to be according to the romance novels you definitely don't read during overnight shifts. It's claiming and confident and absolutely devastating. Her lips are softer than you imagined — and God, you've imagined, lying in bed at night trying desperately not to — and she tastes like mint and something darker, something that makes your head spin.

Her hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tangling in the ponytail you'd tied so carefully this morning, and she angles your head exactly how she wants it. Taking control. Taking everything.

You make a sound — something between a whimper and a moan that you'll be mortified about later — and feel her smile against your mouth.

"There she is," Rhea breathes against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. "There's my girl."

My girl. The possessiveness in those words does something catastrophic to your ability to think clearly.

She kisses you again, deeper this time, and your hands — traitorous things that they are — come up to clutch at her shoulders. You can feel the muscle beneath, still warm from her match, slightly damp with sweat. You should be disgusted. You're a doctor, you know about hygiene and bacteria and all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, you dig your fingers in harder and kiss her back like you're drowning and she's oxygen.

Rhea makes a pleased sound low in her throat — a rumble you feel more than hear — and then her hand is leaving your hair, trailing down your neck with deliberate slowness. Her fingers trace your collarbone through your medical scrubs, and even through the fabric the touch burns.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and whatever she sees on your face makes her eyes darken. "Open your mouth, baby."

Your brain catches up for half a second. "What — "

But she's already moving, and somehow — somehow — her fingers are at your lips. Two fingers, index and middle, pressing gently against your bottom lip.

"Open," she repeats, and the command in her voice is undeniable.

You shouldn't. This is insane. This is so far beyond appropriate that you can't even see appropriate anymore, it's just a distant speck on the horizon of terrible decisions you're making.

Your lips part.

"Good girl," Rhea breathes, and the praise sends a jolt straight through you, lighting up neurons you didn't even know you had. Her fingers slide into your mouth — slowly, giving you time to adjust, to pull away if you want to. They taste like leather and salt and something uniquely her.

"Suck," she instructs, voice low and rough and absolutely wrecked, and oh God, you do.

Your lips close around her fingers and you suck obediently, hollowing your cheeks, and the sound she makes — this choked-off groan that seems to come from deep in her chest — makes you feel powerful in a way you've never experienced. You, the nerdy doctor who looks twelve, bringing a woman like her to her knees.

Well. Metaphorically. She's still very much standing, still very much in control, and her free hand — 

Her free hand is suddenly on your hip, gripping hard enough that you feel it through your scrubs, and then her leg is moving between yours. Pressing. Pushing your legs apart with confident pressure until her thigh is flush against you, exactly where you're suddenly aching.

"Fuck," you try to say around her fingers, but it comes out muffled and desperate.

Rhea's grin is absolutely feral. "That's it, Doc. Just like that." She pushes her thigh harder against you, and you can't stop the way your hips jerk forward, seeking friction, seeking more, seeking anything she's willing to give. "Look at you. So fucking pretty when you're desperate."

Desperate. You're desperate. You've somehow become the kind of person who would dry-hump a wrestler's leg in your office during work hours while sucking on her fingers like — like — 

Her fingers slide deeper, almost to the back of your throat, testing your limits, and you take it. Your eyes water slightly but you take it, and the absolutely wrecked expression on Rhea's face makes it worth it.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters, and her accent is thicker now, rougher. "You're going to be the death of me."

She's building a rhythm now — her thigh pressing between your legs, her fingers sliding in and out of your mouth in a mockery of something else entirely, and you're trembling. Actually trembling. Your legs are shaking, your hands are fisted in her top so hard you might actually tear the fabric, and you're making sounds that would humiliate you if you had any capacity left for shame.

You don't.

Shame has left the building along with common sense and professional ethics.

Your hips are moving on their own now, grinding against her thigh with increasingly desperate movements, chasing something you can feel building in your core like a tightening coil. You're close. You're actually close, in your office, in the middle of your shift, with Rhea Ripley's fingers in your mouth and her leg between yours and — 

She stops.

Everything stops.

Her fingers slide out of your mouth with an obscene wet sound. Her leg moves away, leaving you suddenly, devastatingly empty. Her hands leave your body entirely, and the loss of contact is so abrupt it's almost painful.

You make a sound — a whine, high and pathetic and so needy it should embarrass you.

Rhea steps back. One step. Two. Putting distance between you with visible effort, her chest heaving, her pupils blown so wide her eyes look black.

"What — " Your voice is wrecked, hoarse in a way that has nothing to do with medical explanations. "Why did you — "

"Because," Rhea says, and her voice is strained, rough, like every word costs her something, "if I don't stop now, I'm going to fuck you on that examination table, and you deserve better than that for our first time."

First time. The implication that there will be others makes your stomach flip.

She's backing toward the door now, never taking her eyes off you. You're still against the wall, legs trembling, face flushed, lips swollen and wet. You must look absolutely destroyed, and from the way she's looking at you — hungry and possessive and barely controlled — that's exactly what she wanted.

"I'll pick you up at eight," she says, hand on the door handle. "Wear something nice. Or don't. Actually, don't care what you wear. I'm taking you to dinner, and then — " She stops herself, jaw clenching. "Eight o'clock, Doc. Don't make me wait."

And then she's gone.

The door closes behind her with a soft click, and you're left alone in your office — trembling, worked up, so desperately aroused you can barely think straight. Your lips are swollen, sensitive. You can still taste her on your tongue. Between your legs, you're wet, aching, throbbing with unfulfilled need.

Your phone buzzes. A text message.

Unknown Number: This is Rhea. Don't even THINK about finishing without me. I'll know. See you at 8, baby. -R

You stare at the message. Look down at yourself — at your wrinkled scrubs, your unsteady hands, the visible tremor in your legs.

What in the actual…

"Fuck," you whisper to the empty room.

You have four more hours on your shift.

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It's going to be the longest four hours of your entire life.

Part II

[blissfullflair]

lesbians🫵🏻

[abbyslapdog]

man, i bet some big, beefy woman knuckle-deep in me this holiday would finally fix that faulty wiring in my brain

[twylas-angelz]

a/n: finally caught up on raw, smackdown and deadline in one day while prepping for my big finals tests this week. Wrote this after my shower, all cozy in bed so excuse any grammar mistakes. as always if I missed something in tags or cw lmkkk

cw: mommy kink w/ Rhea but like is that even a warning atp, based off this (🌽 link) & me fantasizing about her tongue piercing... unfinished but bc I'm sleepy😖

Rhea eating you out and relishing in having you cum on her face to the feeling of the ball of her tongue piercing as it catches at the underside of your clit :((( then she slobbers some more spit towards your hole. some meeting the target, some missing it entirely. all of it gets so messy

"c'mon baby, be good for mommy. Give me another", she presses a chaste kiss to the crevice of your thigh, your cunt on the other side. then she moved to the other. she kisses the other side.

Rhea's good at handling a lot, emotions, impulses, you (namely). but when it comes to your cunt. the way it pulses so prettily. the pink of the inner lips as the glisten in your wetness. the saltiness of your cum. She's effectively addicted. Rhea thinks, from her place between your thighs, that she'd rather fight for the title 30 times in one month then let go of the sweetest thing in the world to her.

Her fingers trailing towards your cunt black manicure finding it's way to your clit to rub in more of the spot slicked cum mixture made.

"want you to relax for me baby. because...", her fingers slide into your cunt, the wetness from them curling deep taking up the breadth of the hotel room.

she kisses your clit. once. twice. three times just to be cheeky. then moves her fingers out to lick a long stripe from clit to ass only for her to replace wet muscle with sturdy flesh again

"cause this time I'm going slow. you will savour it. then I'll speed up and have you cum. just like you deserve lovie". you whine, long and loud. thighs shake as her fingers curls in all the right places inside.

"it's all because I want you to let go of what's in that pretty head. am I understood baby?", each line of hers is punctuated with a lick. all those sensations she's making you feel with her tongue set your body alive with pleasure. you can only handle clutching at bare inked thighs. drooling on one while digging your nails to create red crescent moons on the inked skin on the other

[rhis1402]

ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏ - ʀʜᴇᴀ ʀɪᴘʟᴇʏ

Summary: Spending time around Becky's kids gives her the biggest baby fever. WC: 1.7k Warnings: Breeding, babies, pregnancy, pregnancy kink, car sex, sex in a car, blow jobs in a car, strap-on, oral sex, choking, daddy kink, praise kink, degradation

You’d seen her smile today, the smile that always curves her lips in the presence of children; it was free and content and it made your heart practically burst at the seams. It was so effortless and comforting to fall into place beside her, taking your seat next to her on the ground where she played with Roux, joining in with the game they’d created. 

Rhea saw you with the children too, watching fondly as you laughed in hushed tones with Roux, causing mischief with the boy before trying to pass your bad influence onto Archie too. It was silent the way you’d both come to the same conclusion, this is what you wanted next. 

So later in the day, when the children were subdued from their drained energy and the sky was beginning to darken outside, you all made your way to the living room to watch a movie to end the evening. You were only innocently refilling your glass in the kitchen when she rested her chin on your shoulder with her arms snaking around your waist. 

Your breath hitched lightly when you felt her brush against your ass, a bulge you’d not been aware of pushing into you.

“Rhea, have you been wearing that all day?” you whispered, she only smirked against your neck with her kiss. 

“Mhm.” She nodded with her hands inching downwards to rest on your belly. “You’d look so perfect with my baby in you, sweetheart.”

Always the tease, she left you with a kiss on the cheek and a smirk as she left the room. And her teasing didn’t quite stop there with her hand setting up home on your thigh as the movie played and her lips ghosting your ear with occasional whispers to make you laugh. She even went so far as to guide your hand to her crotch, holding in a laugh at the way you’d cough to hide your surprise.

“This could be ours soon, love,” she whispered to you with a grin that matched yours, an innocent facade before her voice lowered and her hand dared to inch upwards beneath the blanket. “You’re gonna look so pretty when I’ve fucked a baby into you.”

She snickered at the way you fidgeted in your seat, looking at her with pleading eyes. It was lucky she adored seeing you look so needy because she grabbed your hand and pulled you to a standing position.

“We’re gonna have to get going,” She smiled at the rest of the group. “I’m getting tired and I need to drive us home.” 

You looked over at her as she drove with her fingers gripping the steering wheel with her other hand on the gear stick, often moving over to rest on your thigh with a smile shot your way. Your conversation was held with an undertone of anticipation of the evening you were both looking forward to, you’re certain your underwear is soaked by now with the growing heat between your thighs. 

“So I think that w- oh, what’re you doing?” She interrupted herself with her words spoken through a large smirk with her eyes flicking down to your hand where it had made its way to her lap. You wordlessly unbuckled her belt with a metallic clink, pulling at the zipper of her jeans. 

You smiled sweetly at her when she glanced over, freeing her strap as she adjusted slightly in her seat. You climbed up onto your seat to be able to lean over, peering up at Rhea through your lashes as you lowered your head until your lips brushed against the tip; she nudged your head lower and your jaw slackened to take her into your mouth with your tongue licking over the length.

“You’re such a good little slut, aren’t you, hm?” She rasped from above your bobbing head, you knew just how to suck her strap in a way that hits against her clit and the sensation and the sight of your head in her lap, her hand cupping the back of your neck, made her ravenous. Your eyes watered slightly with the way she’d lift her hips but god it felt so good, lips wrapped around her cock as it hit the back of your throat. 

You heard the clicking of the car’s indicators before feeling it come to a stop, Rhea tapped your cheek lightly for you to pull away and she loved the perfect sight. Your lips were wet, a string of spit clinging to them from her strap and your eyes were so desperate.

She’d pulled over to the side of the road in her lusting thoughts, lucky enough to take a slight detour to somewhere a little more secluded. 

“C’mere.” she spoke with a nod of her head towards her lap which you instantly obeyed but not before eagerly ridding yourself of your jeans, climbing over to her side of the car with your knees planted either side of her legs. Your hands cupped her cheeks while hers held your waist, pulling her into a kiss you’d both been craving. 

She kissed you firmly with the softness of her lipstick transferring onto you, taking all control with her hands pulling you into her with her strap ghosting against your clothed cunt teasingly. Your hips twitched on their own accord, just chasing down any semblance of pressure while her tongue pushed against yours dominantly and her hands crept beneath your shirt with the bluntness of her nails digging into your skin. 

She was so ravenous for you, groaning into your mouth at your whines and the way your hips tried to move against her.

“Such a needy girl.” She muttered against you, trailing her lips across your jaw, planted kisses beneath your ear with her teeth grazing the skin. “Fuck yourself on daddy’s cock like the obedient thing you are.” She whispered, pushing the material of your underwear aside and positioning the tip of her cock at your dripping entrance.

Your hands held onto her shoulders as you sunk down onto her length, taking it inch by inch as it filled your pussy until it nudged perfectly at your sweet spot and Rhea bathed in the surreal sight of your mouth dropping open with a silenced moan as you began a rhythm. She pulled your shirt over your head with a wanton lust clouding her gaze, unclasping your bra and throwing it aside with no cares of possibly being seen through the windows, too intent on pulling a hardened nipple between her teeth. 

Your movements sent a heat through Rhea's core, the way you fucked yourself hit against her clit and you felt her moan against your chest, biting into the pillowy flesh of your breast with a suck that’ll leave a mark behind. 

“God, you’re so good, sweetheart.” she rasped against you, nearing the edge herself from how worked up she’d gotten. The moan you let out when her thumb pushed over your clit just spurred her on, matching your pace with thrusts of her hips. You came together with unplanned synchrony, breathing heavily against one another’s lips, too starving to allow much time to pass before Rhea's strength was put to good use. 

She easily manoeuvred your body, helping you climb to the back seats closely following behind you with her body straddling yours where your back lay against the leather. You watched her undress herself, discarding her jeans and pulling her shirt over her head with her breasts being set free with a bounce when she unclasped her bra; she smirked at the way your mouth practically watered at the sight. 

Her nipple was hard beneath the flick of your tongue and she sighed at the sensitivity, at the way you sucked it into your mouth with your fingers pinching at the other, palming at the soft flesh. Her hand pushed against your throat and the vibration from your whimpers just urged her on.

Your underwear were pulled away and her cock roughly pushed into your pussy with little warning.

“‘M gonna fuck this needy pussy of yours until you’re a pathetic little mess.” She murmured with her voice low and her hips moving with a teasing pace. “Gonna fill you up with my cum like the breeding bitch you are.”

The hand that wasn’t resting against your neck took a firm hold of your thigh and your legs wrapped around her waist to pull her into you, belly twinging and choked moans falling into her mouth from yours with the way her dick fucked into you. 

“Fuck, daddy- feels so good.” You stuttered out against her.

“Mhm. And you’re taking me so well.” She returned, looking into your eyes lustfully whilst the arousal pooled in her stomach too, her back growing sticky with sweat beneath your fingertips with the way your nails aimlessly scratched her skin making her lips part with grunts of pleasure. “You’re gonna look so perfect with your belly swollen and full with my baby growing inside of your beautiful body.”

Every word she murmured set your skin alight, pussy clenching around her with the lewd wetness of your cunt sounding out in the car with each snap of her hips into yours. Her movements began to stutter with how close she was growing to her release, grasping her bottom lip between her teeth while your moans were nothing but breathy choked grunts. 

“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart. C’mon, show me how good you can be for me. Cum around daddy’s dick.” 

Her back was littered in nails marks, crescent grooves and light pink scratches, only being added to when she sent sublime waves throughout your body. Every sense was flooded and drowning in Rhea, coming down from your orgasms with sloppy and breathless kisses, teeth often clashing with no cares about the way her teeth tugged at your lip with a metallic flavour left behind. 

Her strap stilled in your pussy, leaving you with that feeling of fullness as she kissed you; her bare breasts pushed against yours and you could feel her body rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Her lips pecked along the heated skin of your cheek, cupping your jaw softly before smiling down at you. 

“You think it worked?” You asked which earned a chuckle in return.

“I think we should try more when we get home - just to up our chances.” She shrugged smilingly.

[isthatmyjacket-rhiyo]

oh, the Iyo hairpin is gold now 🤧

[isak-dot-gov]

Bubblegum Pink

Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Girly girl!Reader

Word count: 1137

My Matherlist :)

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You and Rhea had always been an odd pairing, but one that worked. Her brooding, gothic style was the complete opposite of your sunny, feminine aesthetic, but it never caused any problems between the two of you. In fact, you both liked the contrast. She loved how unapologetically girly you were, while you found her dark and edgy vibe pretty hot. 

But now, with the release of the new Barbie movie, your worlds were about to collide in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

It all started when you saw the trailer. You’d grown up with Barbie, and seeing your childhood icon brought to life on the big screen filled you with pure joy. Naturally, you couldn’t wait to see it. Even more so, you couldn’t wait to share the experience with Rhea.

One night over dinner, as you twirled your fork through your salad, you casually brought it up. “So, the Barbie movie comes out this weekend. Want to come with me?”

Rhea, who had been chewing on a piece of steak, glanced up at you with raised eyebrows. “Barbie?” she repeated, her tone filled with playful disbelief.

You nodded eagerly, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Yeah! It’s going to be so much fun. I was thinking we could, like, dress up a little for it? You know, something pink and Barbie-like. What do you think?”

Rhea leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a smirk. “Pink and Barbie-like, huh?” Her dark lipstick accentuated her teasing smile. “Babe, I don’t really do… pink. Or Barbie.”

You felt a pang of disappointment in your chest, but you didn’t let it show. You knew Rhea was right—dressing up in something so opposite of her usual style was a big ask. “I know, I know,” you laughed, trying to brush it off. “It’s okay, I was just being silly. You don’t have to. We can just go as ourselves.”

But deep down, you’d been hoping she might at least entertain the idea. Not because you wanted her to change, but because it would’ve been fun to share this experience together, dressing up and embracing the moment.

The rest of the week passed without much mention of the movie. You noticed Rhea hadn’t brought it up again, and you didn’t want to press her about it either. You told yourself it didn’t matter—after all, what was important was that she was coming with you, not what she wore. Still, a tiny part of you couldn’t shake the wish that she might try, just a little, to embrace your world the way you always embraced hers.

The day of the movie finally arrived, and you woke up early, excited to get ready. You’d been planning your outfit for days—a dreamy, pink flowy dress with cute accessories, glittery heels, and even a sparkly headband to tie it all together. As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you smiled at your reflection, feeling like you’d just stepped out of a Barbie dreamhouse.

But when you turned around to check your phone, your stomach twisted a little. Rhea hadn’t said anything yet, and you weren’t sure if she was going to dress up at all. Maybe you had been silly to even hope she would.

You tried not to let it get to you as you waited for her in the living room, adjusting your purse strap and fidgeting with your phone. When you finally heard her footsteps, you stood up, ready to go, but bracing yourself for her usual all-black attire.

As expected, Rhea came in wearing her typical style—black jeans, a black band tee, and combat boots. Her dark eyeliner and signature smirk were firmly in place. But something caught your eye, and you blinked, not sure if you were seeing things.

Pink socks.

They were subtle, barely peeking out from the tops of her boots, but they were there. Bright, unmistakable, bubblegum pink socks. You stared for a second, processing the sight, and then your heart swelled.

Rhea shifted on her feet, her smirk faltering just a little as she noticed your reaction. “Don’t say anything,” she grumbled, glancing away with a slight blush rising in her cheeks. “It’s just socks.”

You were speechless for a moment, but then a wide, beaming smile spread across your face. “Rhea…” you whispered, your voice soft with affection. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She shrugged, still trying to play it off. “I know, but I figured, you know, it’s important to you. And they’re just socks. Not like I’m wearing a pink dress or anything.”

Your chest tightened with emotion. It wasn’t about the socks—it was about the gesture. Rhea had seen how much this movie and dressing up meant to you, and while she didn’t go all out, she’d made an effort. She’d stepped out of her comfort zone for you, even if in a small way, and that meant everything.

You rushed forward and threw your arms around her, squeezing her tight. “Thank you,” you murmured against her chest, your eyes stinging with happy tears. “This means more than you know.”

Rhea wrapped her arms around you, chuckling softly as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re lucky I love you,” she teased, though her voice was warm and tender.

You pulled back slightly, looking up at her with a playful grin. “I know I am.” You glanced down at her boots again, eyeing the pink socks with a twinkle in your eye. “And for the record, pink looks good on you.”

Rhea rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in her expression. “Don’t get used to it, alright?”

“Too late,” you teased back, leaning up to press a kiss to her cheek.

With her arm around your waist, the two of you headed out the door. As you walked hand in hand to the car, you couldn’t help but feel like this day was going to be even more special than you’d imagined. Rhea might not be covered head-to-toe in pink, but she’d met you halfway. She’d made the effort, and that was more than enough to make your heart burst with love.

As you drove to the theatre, Rhea glanced over at you, taking in how happy and radiant you looked. “Alright, so what’s this movie actually about? Are we gonna sit through two hours of Barbie just being… Barbie?”

You giggled. “Oh, you’ll see. There’s a lot more to Barbie than you think.”

Rhea smirked, giving your hand a squeeze as she rested her arm over the console. “As long as I get to see you happy, I’ll sit through whatever you want, babe.”

And just like that, with her pink socks slightly hidden under her boots, you knew you had the best girlfriend in the world by your side.

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