I'm the demon in your dreams

The humidity in Sydney clings to your skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive in a way that Bogotá's cool mountain air never prepared you for. You press your forehead against the bus window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white, and try to focus on anything other than the knot tightening in your stomach.

Anything.

"¿Estás bien?" ("Are you okay?") Mari's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, her hand finding your shoulder with the easy familiarity of someone who's known you since you were both twelve and terrible at keeping the ball. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, making her big brown eyes even bigger on her round and sweet face. "Te ves pálida." ("You look pale.").

You manage a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Estoy bien. Solo... el calor." ("I'm fine. Just... the heat.")

She doesn't believe you. You can see it in the way her dark eyes narrow, the slight purse of her lips. It's not a complete lie. The flight from Colombia to Australia had been brutal — hours folded into an airplane seat, your legs cramping, your mind racing with strategies and plays and the weight of expectation that comes with wearing your national colors. But exhaustion isn't what's making your pulse hammer against your throat right now.

"Es por la australiana, ¿verdad?" ("It's because of the Australian girl, right?") Mari asks, dropping her voice to a whisper even though half the bus is asleep and the other half is listening to music too loud through their headphones. "La capitana. Rhea." ("The captain. Rhea.")

The name alone makes something uncomfortable twist beneath your ribs. It lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples through your composure.

You don't answer. You don't need to.

Mari's dark eyes narrow slightly, that knowing look she gets when she can see straight through your bullshit. She's been your best friend since you were both gangly teenagers fighting for a spot on the youth team, all scraped knees and impossible dreams. She knows you better than anyone.

You don't want to think about her. You've spent months trying not to think about her. But Mari's words have already unlocked the memory, and it floods back with vivid, unwelcome clarity.

(...)

Six months ago. A friendly match that was supposed to be just that — friendly. Preparation for the tournament, a chance to test yourselves against a strong team, nothing more.

You remember the field, the grass still wet from morning rain, the way your cleats had gripped the earth as you'd moved. You'd been playing well that day, one of your best performances. The ball had felt like an extension of your body, responsive and eager. You'd danced past two defenders, your mind already three moves ahead, seeing the opening, the perfect angle for a shot —

And then she'd come out of nowhere.

You hadn't even seen her. One moment you were running, the next you were airborne, the world tilting sideways as Rhea Ripley's tackle connected with your legs - not the fucking ball obviously. The impact had been too precise, the kind of hit that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with sharp, electric pain. You'd gone down hard, the wet grass unforgiving against your side, your vision swimming with white spots.

The whistle had blown immediately. Red card. But the damage was already done.

You remember lying there, clutching your knee, trying to breathe through the agony that radiated up your leg. You remember your teammates rushing over, their worried faces hovering above you. And you remember her.

Rhea had stood over you for a moment before offering her hand. Even in your haze of pain, you'd registered the details with startling clarity — the way her dark hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame her face. The blue of her eyes, bright and unapologetic. The tattoos that crawled up her arms, visible beneath her pushed-up sleeves. She was taller than you by at least ten centimeters, broader in the shoulders, all lean muscle and strength

"Sorry about that, darl," she'd said, her accent thick and somehow both apologetic and not apologetic at all. That smirk had played at the corner of her mouth, like she was fighting not to smile. "I thought you could take that."

“Hija de puta.” (“Mother fucker”)Your Spanish had come out rapid and furious, words you'd later be grateful the referees hadn't understood. You'd ignored her hand, pushed yourself up on your own, limped off the field with your ankle throbbing and your pride in tatters. But Rhea had just chuckled, low and rough, before walking away to accept her red card with infuriating tranquility. 

You'd wanted to hit her. Or possibly cry. Or possibly —

No. You'd refused to examine that particular impulse.

The doctors said you were lucky. The tackle hadn't been dirty enough to cause lasting damage, but you'd spent two weeks in physical therapy anyway, working the deep bruising out of your muscles. Two weeks where every step reminded you of her. Two weeks where you'd lain awake at night, replaying the moment over and over, unable to decide if you were angrier at her for the tackle or at yourself for the way your heart had kicked up when she'd looked down at you with those impossibly blue eyes.

(...)

"Oye." ("Hey.") Mari snaps her fingers in front of your face, pulling you back to the present. You're in the elevator now, though you don't remember pressing the button. "No me ignores."("Don’t you ignore me.")

"No te estoy ignorando," ("I’m not ignoring you.") you protest, but it's weak. You absolutely were ignoring her.

Mari crosses her arms, leaning against the elevator wall with that expression that means she's about to say something you won't want to hear. "Todavía estás enojada con ella." ("You're still angry with her.")

"Por supuesto que sí." ("Of course.") Of course you're still angry. She'd nearly crippled you. She'd been reckless and arrogant and —

"Y también te gusta." ("And you’re into her.")

Your head snaps toward Mari so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. "¿Qué? No. Absolutely not. That's — no."

But Mari is grinning now, that evil little smile that means she's going to be insufferable about this. "Ajá. Por eso estaba tan nerviosa por alojarse en este hotel." ("Aha. That's why you were so nervous about staying at this hotel.")

You want to argue. You want to tell her she's completely wrong, that the tight feeling in your chest has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with justified anger and the very reasonable fear of being tackled again. But the words stick in your throat, and Mari's grin only widens.

The elevator chimes, announcing your floor. You grab your bag and step out quickly, needing space, needing air, needing to not be having this conversation.

"It doesn't matter," You say firmly, switching to English because it feels safer, less yours. "Ella es una bruta. Y vamos a destrozarlas en los cuartos de final." ("She's a brute. And we're going to destroy them in the quarterfinals.")

Mari follows you down the hallway, her bag bouncing against her hip. "Claro que sí. ("Of course, yes.") But you might want to work on the whole face-turning-red thing before we see them."

You flip her off without looking back, earning a delighted laugh.

The room you'll be sharing with Mariana is at the end of the hall, and you unlock it with hands that are steadier than you expect. The space is nice — clean lines, two large beds with crisp white sheets, a window that overlooks the Sydney skyline. It should feel exciting. This is the World Cup. You're living your dream.

But all you can think about is that you're going to see her again. Soon. Maybe even tonight. Because, apparently, Sydney has two hotels, or the organizers had a warped sense of humor when they put two teams in the same hotel.

You drop your bag on the bed and move to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. The city sprawls below, glittering in the late afternoon sun. Somewhere down there, or maybe already in this very building, Rhea Ripley is probably doing the same thing — settling in, preparing, thinking about the tournament ahead.

Is she thinking about you? Does she even remember that match?

The thought makes something hot and uncomfortable twist in your stomach. Of course she doesn't remember. You're probably just another player she's tackled, another name on an endless list. The fact that you've spent six months unable to forget the feeling of her eyes on you, the low rasp of her voice, the way her presence had felt like gravity itself —

That's your problem. Not hers.

You close your eyes and try to center yourself. You're here to play soccer. To represent your country. To chase the dream you've held since you were a little girl kicking a ball around dusty streets, imagining yourself in exactly this moment.

Rhea Ripley is just another opponent. Another obstacle between you and glory.

You almost believe it.

(...)

The hotel restaurant is exactly the kind of upscale establishment you'd expect for a World Cup venue — all soft lighting and elegant place settings, the kind of space that makes you hyper-aware of your posture. Your team has claimed a long table near the windows, and the familiar cadence of Spanish conversation wraps around you like a warm blanket. It’s good to have home even when you’re on the other side of the world. 

You're picking at your food, not really tasting it, when Mari elbows you sharply in the ribs.

"No mires ahora," ("Don't look now,") she hisses, which of course makes you immediately look up.

Your heart drops straight through the floor.

The Australian team has just entered the restaurant. And leading them, impossible to miss, is Rhea Ripley.

She's wearing casual clothes — dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the breadth of her shoulders or the lean strength of her frame. Her hair is down tonight, falling in dark waves around her face, and even from across the room, you can see the sharp line of her jaw, the confidence in the way she moves.

She's laughing at something one of her teammates said, her head tilted back, and the sound carries across the space — low and genuine and completely unfair.

"Mierda," ("Shit,")you breathe, and Mari makes a choking sound that might be a suppressed laugh.

"Yo te dije," ("I told you so,") she whispers gleefully. "Te gusta." ( "You’re into her.")

"Shut up," you hiss back, but it's too late. Because Rhea has finished laughing, and now she's scanning the restaurant with those sharp blue eyes, and you know — you know — the exact moment she sees you.

Her gaze locks onto yours across the crowded space, and everything else falls away. The chatter of your teammates, the clink of silverware, the soft background music — it all becomes white noise. There's only her, and the way she's looking at you, and the slow smile that curves her lips.

Recognition. And something else, something that makes your pulse spike and your skin flush hot.

She says something to her teammates without looking away from you, then starts walking. Toward your table. Toward you.

"Ay Dios mío," ("Oh my God,") Mari mutters beside you. "Viene para acá." ("She's coming this way.")

Your teammates have noticed now too, their conversation faltering as they clock the Australian captain approaching. The energy at the table shifts — curiosity, wariness, the competitive edge that never quite goes away even in casual settings.

Rhea stops at the edge of your table, close enough that you can smell her perfume — something dark and woody with an underlying sweetness, completely at odds with her dangerous exterior. She rests one hand on the back of an empty chair, casual as anything, but you can see the careful control in the gesture, the measured way she holds herself.

"Evening, ladies," she says, her accent wrapping around the words. Her eyes haven't left yours. "Hope we're not intruding."

Your captain, Daniela, is the one who answers, her English crisp and professional. "Of course not. Congratulations on making it to the tournament."

"Cheers. You too." Rhea's smile is all sharp edges and charm. "Been looking forward to some proper competition."

There's a beat of silence, charged and expectant. You know you should say something — you're not going to let her think you're intimidated, that you've spent six months thinking about her, that the sight of her standing this close is making it genuinely difficult to remember how to form coherent sentences.

But then Rhea's attention shifts fully to you, and your carefully prepared words evaporate.

"Good to see you up and walking, darl," she says, and there's something in her tone — amusement? Challenge? — that makes your spine stiffen. "Was worried I might've done some lasting damage with that tackle."

Several of your teammates bristle at the casual mention, but you force yourself to stay calm. To meet her gaze steadily even though your heart is trying to break out of your chest.

"I'm fine," you say, and you're proud of how level your voice sounds. "Takes more than one reckless tackle to keep me down."

Rhea's smile widens, like you've said exactly what she was hoping you'd say. "Reckless, yeah? Here I thought it was good defense."

"Es que eres una bruta," ("That’s because you’re a brute,") Mari mutters beside you, just loud enough to be heard.

You don't need to translate for Rhea to get the gist. Her laugh is rough, delighted. "Your friend's got opinions, I see."

"My friend is right," you say before you can think better of it. "That tackle was excessive and you know it."

Something flickers in Rhea's eyes — respect, maybe, or intrigue. She leans forward slightly, and the movement brings her closer, makes you tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. You hate that some traitorous part of you finds it... affecting.

"Tell you what," Rhea says, her voice dropping lower, meant just for you even though the whole table is listening. "You manage to get past me in the quarters, I'll admit it was excessive. Deal?"

It's a challenge. An invitation. A promise of something that has nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with the tension crackling between you like static electricity.

You should decline. Should tell her to fuck off. Should do literally anything other than what you're about to do.

"Deal," you hear yourself say.

Rhea's smile is slow and devastating. "Good. Been thinking about facing you again, actually. That move you pulled before I tackled you — it was fucking brilliant. Almost felt bad for stopping it."

Almost, she says. Not quite. Never quite.

"Don't worry," you say, leaning back in your chair with a confidence you don't entirely feel. "You'll see it again. And this time, you won't get to me in time."

"Looking forward to it, darl."

The endearment should annoy you. It does annoy you. But it also does something else, something you refuse to name, something that pools low in your stomach and makes your skin feel too tight.

Rhea straightens up, that dangerous smile still playing at her lips. "Enjoy your dinner, ladies. See you on the field."

She walks away, back to her teammates who have claimed a table on the other side of the restaurant, and you feel like you can finally breathe again. The air rushes back into your lungs, and you realize you've been holding your breath.

"Bueno," ("Well,") Mari says slowly, drawing out the word. "Eso fue intenso."("That was intense.")

Intense doesn't even begin to cover it.

You risk a glance across the restaurant and immediately regret it, because Rhea is looking back. She catches you watching and has the audacity to wink before turning her attention to her meal.

"Te dije," ("I told you so,") Mari sings under her breath.

This time, you don't argue.

Because the worst part — the absolutely terrible, no-good, very bad part — is that Mari might actually be right. And you're going to have to play against Rhea in a few days, knowing that every tackle, every moment of contact, is going to feel like this: electric and dangerous.

Your food has gone cold on your plate. Your hands are trembling slightly, and you press them flat against your thighs beneath the table where no one can see.

The World Cup was supposed to be your dream. Your moment. Your chance to prove yourself on the biggest stage imaginable.

You just hadn't counted on Rhea Ripley being part of the dream too — or possibly the nightmare.

As you force yourself to take another bite of your dinner, you can still feel her watching you from across the room. And god help you, you want to look back.

(...)

The hotel is different at 3 AM.

Quieter, obviously, but there's more to it than that. The silence feels almost sacred, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning and the soft pad of your bare feet against the carpet. You probably should have put on shoes, but Mari's desperate whisper of "Por favor, me muero de sed" ("Please, I'm dying of thirst") had sent you stumbling out of bed before your brain fully engaged. You’re too good of a friend.

So now you're padding through the hallways in your pajamas — soft silk shorts that barely reach mid-thigh and a loose tank top, the kind of thing that's perfectly reasonable for sleeping but feels suddenly, acutely vulnerable outside the safety of your room. Your hair is loose, probably a mess, and you're not wearing a bra. Because why would you be? You were supposed to grab a bottle of water from the lobby and be back in three minutes.

The universe, apparently, has other plans.

You round the corner into the lobby, and your feet stop moving entirely.

The space is dimly lit, most of the overhead lights turned off for the night. Only a few scattered lamps cast pools of warm, amber light across the plush furniture. It should be empty. It's supposed to be empty. But there, on one of the large leather couches near the floor-to-ceiling windows, is a tangle of limbs and dark hair and —

Mierda. (Shit.)

Rhea.

She's unmistakable even in the low light. Her back is to you, her broad shoulders blocking most of your view of whoever she's with, but you can see enough. The way her hand is cupped around the back of someone's neck. The angle of her head as she kisses them — her, it's definitely a woman, blonde hair spilling over Rhea's arm. There's a girl in her lap — blonde, wearing an Australia jersey that's riding up her back. The other woman's hands are fisted in Rhea's shirt, pulling her closer, and there's something desperate about it, something hungry.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's hungry, intense, the kind of kiss that makes heat crawl up your spine even though you're just watching, even though you shouldn't be watching, even though you need to turn around right now.

Your stomach does something complicated and unpleasant.

You should leave. Immediately. Just back away slowly and pretend you never saw this, never witnessed Rhea Ripley mid-makeout session with what is most likely an overeager fan who somehow gained access to the hotel. This is none of your business. This has nothing to do with you.

But your feet won't move. You're frozen there like an idiot, heat crawling up your neck, your heart doing that stupid hammering thing it's been doing since dinner. Because even from behind, even in the middle of kissing someone else, Rhea is —

Devastadora.

The word rises unbidden in your mind, and you hate how accurate it is. Devastating. That's what she is. All that height and curves, all those muscles shifting beneath her shirt as she moves. You can see the tattoos on her arms even in the dim light, intricate and dark, winding around her forearms like vines. She's wearing black jeans — does she own anything that isn't black? — and her hair falls loose down her back in waves that look unfairly soft.

You're staring. You're absolutely staring, cataloging details you have no business noticing. The curve of her jaw. The way her shoulders taper to a narrow waist. The confidence in every line of her body, like she's never doubted her effect on people for a single second of her life.

She's hermosa. Beautiful in a way that feels almost aggressive, like she's daring you to look away.

And you can't.

No. No. No. You start to spin around. Leave, just leave before — 

Rhea's eyes open. 

Even in the dim light, even across the space between you, you see the exact moment she registers your presence. Her eyes — those impossibly blue eyes — lock onto yours, and she doesn't stop. She doesn't pull away from the girl in her lap. She just keeps kissing her, keeps watching you, and there's something in her gaze that feels deliberate. Purposeful. 

Like she wants you to see this. 

Ay Dios. (Oh God.)

You’re just standing there in your pajamas like a complete idiot, one hand still gripping a pillar for support.

When she finally pulls away from the girl that slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face.

No. No no no no —

"Well," Rhea says, her voice carrying easily across the quiet space. "Look who's up past bedtime."

The blonde woman makes a confused sound, trying to pull Rhea back to her, but Rhea is already moving. She pats the woman's thigh — actually pats it, casual and dismissive — and stands up in one fluid motion. The blonde scrambles up after her, her expression shifting from confusion to annoyance.

"Babe, where are you — "

"Gotta cut this short, love," Rhea says, not unkindly but with finality. She's not even looking at the woman anymore. Her eyes are fixed on you, bright and predatory even in the low light. "Early training tomorrow and all that."

It's a lie. You know it's a lie. She knows you know it's a lie. But the blonde woman doesn't seem to realize she's been dismissed until Rhea starts walking toward you, leaving her standing alone by the couch.

"Are you serious right now?" The blonde's voice rises, sharp with indignation. "You're just going to — "

"Yeah, I am," Rhea says without turning around. "You can see yourself out, yeah?"

The woman makes a sound of pure frustration, grabbing her purse from the couch. She storms past you toward the exit, close enough that you catch a whiff of her perfume — something cloying and too sweet — and the fury radiating off her in waves. She shoots you a glare like this is somehow your fault, then shoves through the lobby doors with enough force to make them bang against the walls.

And then it's just you and Rhea.

In the quiet lobby.

At 3 AM.

With you in your pajamas and her looking at you like you're the most interesting thing she's seen all night.

Mierda mierda mierda — (Fuck fuck fuck)

"So," Rhea says, still walking toward you with that unhurried, confident stride. "Can't sleep, darl? Or did you just miss me so much you had to come find me?"

Your brain finally catches up with your body. You need to move. Now. Before she gets any closer, before you do something phenomenally stupid like notice how her lips are still slightly red from kissing that woman, or how the top few buttons of her shirt are undone, or how there's a flush high on her cheekbones that makes her eyes look even bluer.

You spin toward the small convenience area near the lobby desk, making a beeline for the refrigerated case with water bottles. "No te hagas ilusiones," you mutter, then remember she probably doesn't speak Spanish. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just getting water."

"In your pajamas?" There's amusement in her voice, warm and rich like honey. She's following you. Of course she's following you. "Cute shorts, by the way. You always wander around hotels in the middle of the night?" she asks, her accent wrapping around the words like honey. "Or just when you're hoping to run into someone?"

Heat floods your face, and you yank open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The cold air hits your overheated skin, providing exactly zero relief from the awareness prickling down your spine. "I wasn't—" You cut yourself off, furious at the implication. Furious at this ridiculous brute of a woman. "My friend needed water."

"Right. Your friend." Rhea's smile widens, like she doesn't believe you for a second. "That the same friend who called me a brute earlier?"

You grab two water bottles — one for you, one for Mari — and slam the fridge closed. When you turn around, Rhea is right there.

Too close.

Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at her, and god, you'd forgotten how much the height difference affects you. She's got at least ten centimeters on you, maybe more, and she knows exactly what it does. You can see it in the way she's standing, one hip cocked, arms crossed loosely over her chest, drawing attention to the lean muscles of her forearms and the dark ink that covers them.

"She wasn't wrong." Up close, you can see more piercings — a small hoop through the nostril of her nose, two on the other one. Her eyeliner is smudged slightly at the corners, giving her a dangerous, lived-in look that should be illegal. And her lips —

"Maybe not." Rhea takes a step closer, and you instinctively take a step back, your spine hitting the refrigerated section. The cold glass against your back is a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her proximity. "But I don't think that's why you're so worked up about it." You suddenly realize you can see her cleavage now and...Mierda.

You force your eyes back to hers. Safer. Except no, that's not safer at all, because she's watching you with this knowing expression, like she can read every thought crossing your mind. Your heart is trying to break through your ribs. "I'm not worked up."

"No?" She's close enough now that you can see the faint freckles scattered across her nose, the multiple piercings in her ears catching the fluorescent light. Close enough that if you breathed too deeply, you'd brush against her. "Because you look pretty worked up to me, darl. Been looking worked up since the restaurant."

"That's—" You're fumbling for words, for any response that doesn't involve admitting she's right. "You're so fucking arrogant."

Rhea laughs, and the sound vibrates through the small space between your bodies. "Yeah, I am. But I'm also observant." Her hand comes up, bracing against the glass beside your head, caging you in without touching you. "And I've been observing you."

Dios mío. This is bad. This is very bad. Because she's so close you can count her eyelashes, can see the faint scar above her eyebrow, can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. And she's hermosa—devastatingly, impossibly beautiful in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. All sharp angles and dangerous curves, gothic and gorgeous with her dark hair and pale skin and those piercing blue eyes that see too much.

It would be easy. 

No. Absolutely not.

"I need to go," you manage, but you don't move. Can't move. You're pinned by her gaze and by her, literally, the intoxicating pull of her presence.

"Yeah?" Rhea's voice has dropped lower, rougher. "Sure about that?"

You're not sure about anything anymore. Your thoughts are a mess of words you should say and pure sensation—the cold at your back, the heat in front of you, the way your body is betraying you by leaning slightly forward instead of pulling away.

"Rhea—" Her name on your lips feels dangerous.

"Say it again." It's not a request. Her eyes have darkened, fixed on your mouth, and there's something almost hungry in her expression. "Like that. With your accent."

This is insane. You're in the middle of a hotel shop at 3 AM, barely dressed, being cornered by the captain of the team you're supposed to destroy in a few days. The same woman who nearly crippled you six months ago. The same woman who was just kissing someone else. The same woman who's looking at you now like she wants to devour you whole.

And the worst part—the absolutely unforgivable part—is that you want to let her.

It doesn't seem like it would be bad at all.

"I have to go," you say again, but it comes out breathless, unconvincing.

Rhea hums, a low sound in her chest. Her free hand comes up, and for one heart-stopping moment you think she's going to touch you. Your entire body tenses in anticipation.

But she doesn't. Her fingers hover just a breath away from your jaw, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin but not close enough to actually make contact.

"Move," you say, and you're proud of how steady you sound despite the chaos in your chest.

For a moment, Rhea doesn't. She just looks at you, something complicated crossing her face—want and restraint warring for a moment. Then she pushes off the glass and steps back, giving you space.

Rhea doesn't try to stop you, but she does turn as you pass, tracking your movement. As you move past her, clutching your water bottle like armor, her voice follows you. "See you at breakfast, darl?"

"Maybe."

"I'll save you a seat."

"Don't bother."

Her laugh follows you across the lobby, low and rich and far too satisfied. "Already bothering, love. Can't seem to help it."

You don't respond. You just keep walking, clutching your water bottles like lifelines, your heart beating so hard you're surprised it doesn't echo off the walls. You can feel her watching you the entire way to the elevators, the weight of her gaze like a physical touch between your shoulder blades.

The elevator doors slide shut, blocking her from view, and you finally let yourself breathe.

"Mierda," ("Shit,") you whisper to your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes too bright. You look exactly like someone who just got flustered by their rival looking devastatingly hot while dismissing a hookup to talk to them instead.

Which is insane. Because you don't want to be that girl. You don't want to be another conquest for Rhea Ripley, another person she can make fall apart with just a smile and that low, accented voice.

You want to beat her on the field. To prove that you're better. To wipe that confident smirk off her face with a goal so beautiful it makes her eat her words and her stupid attitude. 

That's what you want.

Definitely.

The elevator reaches your floor, and you practically sprint back to your room. Mari is still awake, propped up against the headboard scrolling through her phone. She takes one look at your face and sits up straighter.

"¿Qué pasó?" ("What happened?") she demands. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or — " Her eyes narrow. "La viste a ella, ¿verdad?" ("You saw her, didn't you?")

You wordlessly hand her a water bottle and collapse face-first onto your bed.

"Ay, no," Mari says, but she's laughing. "¿Qué hizo esta vez?" ("What did she do this time?")

"Nothing," you mumble into your pillow. "Todo. She did everything."

"That makes no sense."

"Lo sé." ("I know.")

Mari is quiet for a moment, then: "¿Todavía piensas que no te gusta?" ("Do you still think you’re not into her?")

The question hangs in the air, damning and impossible to answer honestly.

Because the truth is, you're starting to suspect that "into her" isn't strong enough for whatever this is. This pull. This magnetic, inevitable thing that makes you notice the way her lips curve when she smiles, the rasp in her voice when she calls you "darl," the casual strength in every movement.

But admitting that — even to yourself — feels like losing.

"No me gusta,"("I’m not into her,") you say firmly. "She's arrogant and reckless and — "

"Hermosa," ("Beautiful,") Mari supplies helpfully.

" — and I'm going to destroy her in the quarterfinals."

"Ajá. Sure you will." You throw a pillow at her. She catches it easily, still grinning like she knows every secret you're trying to hide.

Maybe she does. Maybe it's written all over your face — the want and the frustration, the way your skin still feels hot where Rhea's gaze had lingered. Maybe you're that transparent, that easy to read.

You pull the blanket over your head and try not to think about blue eyes and dangerous smiles and the way your name sounds in that accent.

You fail spectacularly.

Outside your window, Sydney sleeps. But you're wide awake, your mind replaying every second of that lobby encounter, and you know — you absolutely know — that when you finally drift off, you're going to dream of her.

Again.

The four hours of your shift unravel like a slow torture, each minute stretching thin and taut as a wire pulled to breaking.

You see wrestlers. Your hands move stitching wounds, distributing ice packs and anti-inflammatories with the mechanical awareness that comes from years of training. But your mind is not in this room. Your mind is elsewhere, replaying — on an endless, merciless loop — the sensation of Rhea Ripley's fingers in your mouth, the solid warmth of her thigh between your legs, her voice curling around the words "there's my girl" like a brand of ownership that should terrify you.

It doesn't terrify you. That's the problem.

Your phone sits on the desk like a live thing, pulsing with implication. You check it approximately seven thousand times, though you've memorized the text already. The words burn themselves into your consciousness with the permanence of something carved into stone.

Don't even THINK about finishing without me. I'll know.

How would she know? The thought circles your mind like a restless animal. She can't possibly know. That's ridiculous. You're a doctor — you deal in evidence and empirical data, not supernatural arousal detection. Yet something in the certainty of her words makes your stomach flip, makes heat pool low in your belly in ways that are deeply inconvenient for someone attempting to function as a medical professional.

You don't touch yourself. Obviously. Because you're a professional.

(And also because the thought of her knowing somehow, of her eyes narrowing with that dangerous smile, of her voice dropping low with disapproval makes your whole body respond in ways you're not prepared to examine.)

At 7:45, you're standing in front of your closet, which is frankly absurd considering you've been ready since 6:30. Your apartment — small, neat, filled with books and plants and the kind of organized chaos that comes from a life devoted entirely to work — feels too quiet tonight. Too empty. The silence presses against your skin like a physical thing.

You've changed outfits four times.

The first was too professional, too much of the doctor you are during daylight hours. The second was too casual, suggesting a comfort you don't feel. The third was accidentally too revealing in a way that made panic flutter in your chest, made you change back into the first with trembling fingers.

Now you're wearing something that you hope strikes the balance between effortless and intentional. Dark jeans that fit well without being obvious about it. A soft sweater in a color that someone once told you brings out your eyes — though you can't remember who, can't remember anything except the way Rhea's gaze had traced your face like she was memorizing it. Hair down, because the ponytail feels too clinical, too much like armor. And also because Rhea already destroyed one ponytail today and you're not certain your heart could survive a repeat performance.

At 7:58, you're in the lobby, pretending to read something on your phone while aggressively not thinking about what's about to happen.

Your phone buzzes at 8:00 exactly.

You don't answer. You simply push through the lobby doors, and there she is.

Rhea.

The sight of her steals your breath.

She's leaning against a sleek black car parked with casual illegality at the curb, and she's traded her ring chaos for something that somehow makes her even more dangerous: a Black Sabbath t-shirt, worn soft and clinging to her frame in ways that should be regulated by law, paired with dark jeans that do absolutely devastating things to her legs. The black lipstick remains, a slash of darkness against her mouth. Her hair falls slightly mussed, like she'd run her fingers through it once and decided that was enough effort.

She looks almost normal. That's what terrifies you.

She looks like someone you might see at a coffee shop, or walking down the street, or existing in the ordinary world — except no one at a coffee shop has that presence. No one walks down the street like they're personally responsible for the invention of gravity, like the world rearranges itself around them. No one looks at you the way she's looking at you now — like you're the most interesting thing she's seen in years — and makes you feel like the universe has narrowed to just the space between your bodies.

"There you are, Doc." Her voice washes over you, warm and almost soft, and she pushes off the car in one motion that makes your mouth go dry. "Right on time."

She closes the distance between you with three steps, and you brace yourself for something. Another kiss like before, perhaps. That possessive hunger that had made your knees weak, had made you forget your own name.

Instead, she leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. Barely there. Almost chaste. The warmth of her lips against your skin feels like a secret.

Your brain short-circuits for entirely different reasons.

"Hi," she murmurs against your skin, her breath warm, and then she's pulling back with a smile that looks almost shy. She reaches around you to open the passenger door with an actual flourish, movements exaggerated and playful. "Your chariot awaits, milady."

You stare at her, trying to reconcile this version — this gentle, almost sweet version — with the woman who had you pinned against a wall four hours ago.

"What?" She bats her eyelashes with theatrical innocence.

"You're being strange."

"I'm being charming." She gestures at the open door, waiting. "Get in, Doc. I don't bite." A pause, her smile turning slightly wicked. "Unless you ask nicely."

Heat floods your face. You get in the car before you can say something you'll regret.

The interior smells like leather and her perfume — that dark, spicy scent you're beginning to associate with poor life choices and quickened heartbeats. The engine purrs to life with the kind of expensive sound that makes you glance at her with new curiosity, recalculating assumptions you didn't know you'd made.

"What?" She catches your look as she pulls away from the curb with ease.

"Nothing." You're not going to admit you're reassessing wrestler salaries in real-time. "Where are we going?"

Rhea's smile turns slightly mischievous, dangerous in its playfulness. "That's a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"I know." She reaches over, and her hand lands on your thigh with casual possession — fingers warm even through your jeans, grip gentle but absolutely present, claiming. "That's why it's a surprise."

You jump. Actually jump, a full-body flinch that makes the seatbelt lock for half a second, makes embarrassment flood hot through your veins.

Rhea laughs, this low, delighted sound that shouldn't make warmth spread through your chest but absolutely does. Her hand softens immediately, turning from a grip to something gentler, fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh that are somehow worse than the initial contact. More intimate. More deliberate in their casualness.

"Relax, baby." The endearment rolls off her tongue like it belongs there, like she's been calling you that for years. "I'm just driving. You're safe with me."

"You had your fingers down my throat four hours ago," you say, voice flat despite the racing of your pulse. "Forgive me if 'safe' isn't the first word that comes to mind."

The laugh she gives this time is fuller, genuine, and she glances at you with something that looks dangerously close to fondness. "Fair point. Okay, maybe not safe safe. But I'm not going to jump you in the car, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's... actually reassuring."

"Don't get too reassured." Her thumb brushes along your thigh, barely there, a whisper of touch that makes your breath catch. "I make no promises about later."

Your mouth goes dry again. You stare out the window at the passing city lights and try very hard to remember how breathing is supposed to work, how your lungs are supposed to fill and empty without conscious thought.

The city slides by — streets you know, neighborhoods you've driven through a hundred times, but everything looks different tonight. Sharper. More vivid. Like someone turned up the saturation on reality, made the colors too bright, the shadows too deep. The world feels hyperreal, like you're living inside a moment that's simultaneously happening and being remembered.

Rhea drives with the kind of confidence that comes from complete comfort in one's own skin, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on your thigh like she has every right to be there. Like she's been doing this for years. Like you belong in this car, in this space, in this version of the world where she touches you casually and it feels like the most natural thing imaginable.

You should ask more questions. Should maintain some semblance of control. Should —

"Your hand is still on my leg."

"I'm aware."

"Is it going to stay there?"

Rhea considers this with exaggerated seriousness, her lips quirking. "Probably. Unless you want me to move it."

You don't say anything. Your silence hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication, and it's apparently answer enough. Her smile softens into something genuine, unguarded, and her fingers resume their idle patterns — circles and lines, absent-minded touches that feel almost intimate in their casualness, like she's memorizing the shape of you through denim and muscle.

The restaurant, when you finally arrive, is not what you expected.

It's tucked away on a side street, no bright sign or flashy exterior to announce its presence — just warm light spilling from windows like liquid gold, the unmistakable smell of garlic and tomatoes drifting out every time the door opens. A family-run Italian place, the kind you'd never find unless you knew someone who knew someone. The kind of place that feels like a secret.

"How did you..." You trail off, looking at her with new curiosity, new understanding that she's been paying attention in ways you hadn't realized.

Rhea shrugs, but there's something pleased in her expression, something almost proud. "You always order Italian when they bring lunch to the medical office. Pasta, mostly. Sometimes pizza, but you pick the mushrooms off." She grins, and the expression transforms her face into something boyish, playful. "Noted: Doc doesn't like mushrooms."

You stare at her, caught between embarrassment and something warmer, something that feels dangerously close to being cherished. "That's... incredibly creepy."

"Observant," she corrects, parking the car effortlessly, her movements fluid. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"I prefer to think so."

Inside, the restaurant embraces you with warmth — checkered tablecloths, candles flickering on every surface, the sound of an Italian family arguing good-naturedly in the kitchen, their voices rising and falling in a language you don't speak but somehow understand. The owner, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes that seem to see too much, lights up when she sees Rhea.

"Tesoro!" She rushes over, pulling Rhea into a hug that the wrestler accepts with surprising grace, melting into the embrace like she's starved for this kind of uncomplicated affection. "You didn't tell me you were coming! And you brought a friend — " Her eyes land on you, sharp and assessing and suddenly knowing, and her smile widens into something conspiratorial. "A very beautiful friend. Come, come, I have prepared the table for you."

Rhea glances at you with an expression that's almost shy — which is ridiculous, because this woman does not do shy — and gestures for you to follow.

The table is, objectively, the best in the house: tucked into a corner by the window, candle flickering between you like a tiny sun, private enough that you can't hear the other conversations but close enough to the kitchen that the smells are absolutely intoxicating. You can smell basil, oregano, the yeasty warmth of bread baking.

You sit. Rhea sits across from you, all casual confidence. The owner disappears with a promise to send over something special, and suddenly it's just you and her and the candlelight and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

"So." Rhea leans back in her chair, that blue gaze fixed on you with unnerving intensity, like she's trying to see straight through to your bones. "Tell me something about yourself that isn't on your medical license."

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"I want to know you." She says it simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like she's not asking for something you've never given anyone. "Not my brilliant doctor. I want to know you. What do you do when you're not saving lives or patching up us idiots? What makes you laugh? What were you like as a kid?"

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

No one's ever asked you that. Not like this. Not with genuine curiosity burning in their eyes instead of polite professional interest. Not like your answer actually matters.

"I..." You falter, suddenly aware of how small your world has been, how narrow. "I read a lot. Medical journals, mostly. But also — " This feels vulnerable, admitting it, like you're peeling back a layer of skin. "Also romance novels. The trashy kind with beautiful vampire girls on the cover. They're... comforting."

Rhea's eyebrows go up, but her smile is delighted, genuinely pleased. "Romance novels. Really."

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing." She's definitely laughing a little, but it's soft, fond, the kind of laughter that feels like being wrapped in something warm. "That's adorable. Go on. What else?"

You're not used to this — someone actually wanting to know the truth of you, the parts that don't shine under fluorescent lights. But she's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the world, and the words start coming before you can stop them, spilling out like they've been waiting for someone to finally ask.

"I was a weird kid. Books instead of friends, libraries instead of parties. My father wanted me to be a doctor, so I became a doctor, and I'm good at it, but sometimes I wonder if I ever actually chose anything for myself." You stop, horrified by how much you've just revealed, by the rawness of the admission. "Sorry. That's — that's too much. First date rules. You're not supposed to trauma dump."

"First date rules." Rhea's voice is warm, amused, but there's something serious underneath, something that makes you meet her eyes. "So this is a date, then?"

Your face goes scarlet, heat flooding your cheeks with embarrassing swiftness. "I — that's not — I meant — "

"Relax, Doc." She reaches across the table, and her hand covers yours — large and warm and surprisingly gentle, her thumb brushing over your knuckles with infinite care. "I'm glad it's a date. I've been trying to get you to notice me for weeks."

"You've been coming to my office with fake injuries for weeks."

"Observant and persistent." She grins, and the expression is pure mischief, pure unrepentant pride. "I’m a multifaceted girl."

The food arrives — homemade pasta in a sauce that tastes like it's been simmering for generations, bread that's still warm from the oven and practically melts on your tongue, wine that the owner insists is "on the house for Rhea's beautiful friend" — and somewhere between the first bite and the tiramisu that arrives later, rich and sweet and perfect, you forget to be nervous.

Rhea asks questions. Real questions. Not the superficial kind that people ask when they're being polite, but the kind that dig deeper, that require honest answers — what made you choose cardiology specifically, what's the hardest part of your job, do you ever miss the university. She listens when you answer, really listens, her eyes never leaving your face, like every word matters.

And when she talks about herself, it's with the same openness, the same willingness to be…Honest.

The wrestling world, she explains, is all anyone sees — the chaos, the leather, the persona she wears like armor. But underneath that is someone who loves what she does with genuine passion, who's worked her ass off to get where she is, who still gets nervous before big matches even though she'd never admit it to anyone else.

"Except apparently you," she adds, swirling wine in her glass, watching the liquid catch the candlelight. "Don't know what it is about you, Doc. Makes me want to tell you everything."

You should say something clever. Something professional. Something that maintains the careful distance you've spent your whole life building, brick by careful brick.

Instead, you take a sip of wine, your throat suddenly tight with emotion you can't quite name.

(...)

The walk back to the car is different now. Easier. She caught your hand in hers, and it feels less like she's leading you and more like you're walking together — side by side, fingers intertwined with the casual intimacy of something that's been happening for years instead of hours. Like this is normal. Like this is something you get to have, something you're allowed to keep.

" — and then there's this part where the autopsy's happening," Rhea's saying, her free hand cutting through the night air with enthusiasm that makes you want to smile, explaining this creepy movie you absolutely have to watch with her. "and the medical examiner, right, he's like 'the liver shows signs of acute putrefaction' or whatever, and you can literally see that they just grabbed a pig liver from somewhere and dumped it on the table. It's not even the right color. And I'm sitting there yelling at the TV like you're a DOCTOR, you should KNOW this — "

You're staring at her.

You realize you're staring at her about three seconds too late, when she trails off mid-sentence and looks at you with that tilted-head confusion that's starting to become alarmingly endearing, like a puppy who's just discovered something fascinating.

"What?" She glances down at herself, then back at you, her brow furrowing. "Do I have something on my face? Is it the lipstick? I knew I should have checked — "

"No." Your voice comes out too quick, too defensive, and you look away because looking at her feels dangerous right now — at the sidewalk, at the parked cars, at anything that isn't her face in the golden streetlight. "Sorry. I was just — nothing. Keep going. Pig liver, right?"

Rhea doesn't keep going.

She stops walking entirely, and the sudden halt forces you to stop too, your hand still caught in hers. Her fingers tighten around yours, gentle but insistent, grounding you to this moment, to her.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, careful, the way you'd speak to something wounded. "What's going on in that brilliant brain of yours?"

You should deflect. Should make a joke, change the subject, retreat back behind the walls you've spent years constructing. Should protect yourself from whatever this is becoming.

Instead, you hear yourself ask, "Why me?"

The words hang in the cool night air between you, vulnerable and raw. Rhea's expression shifts — confusion flickering across her features like a candle flame before settling into something more focused, more intent, that laser-sharp attention she turns on you that makes your stomach flip.

"What do you mean, Doc?"

You bite your lip. Hard. The pain grounds you, gives you something concrete to hold onto while you force the words past the tightness in your throat.

"I mean..." You gesture vaguely, encompassing her, the night, the impossible situation you've somehow landed in without meaning to. "You're you. You're Rhea Ripley. You're — " Beautiful. Famous. Confident. Terrifying in all the ways that matter. "You probably have a line of girls wrapped around the block. Like super models, bodybuilders or I don't know — some super famous horror movie actress… " You stop, swallow hard against the tightness building in your chest. "So why me? Why go through all this trouble to what... charm me?"

The silence stretches like something elastic, pulled taut. You can feel her eyes on you, that heavy focus that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope, like she's studying you with the same intensity you usually reserve for cardiac tissue.

Then she chuckles. Softly. Almost to herself, like you've said something unexpectedly amusing.

"C'mere." She tugs your hand, pulls you closer with gentle insistence, and suddenly you're standing in the circle of her space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body like she's a furnace. Close enough to smell her — that dark perfume that clings to your clothes later, the faint trace of dinner, something underneath that's just her, indefinable and intoxicating.

"A cute girl is a cute girl." Rhea's voice is matter-of-fact, like she's explaining basic physics. "That's just basic math, Doc. But you — " Her free hand comes up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face with impossible gentleness, the kind of care that makes your chest ache. "You're more than cute. You're interesting. You're difficult.”

Your breath catches in your throat, trapped there.

"I like working for what I want." Her eyes hold yours, blue and steady and absolutely sincere in a way that makes you believe every word. "Always have. And you — " A pause, a small smile that transforms her face into something softer. "You are a lot of work, Doctor. Challenging. Complicated. Smart in ways that make my brain hurt." The admission should sound like a complaint. It doesn't. "And I'm interested."

She tilts her head, and something in her gaze shifts. Sharpens. You're being analyzed again. The feeling is so foreign — so exposing — that you actually shiver despite the warmth of the night.

Rhea notices. Of course she notices. A tiny smile plays at the corner of her mouth, pleased and knowing.

"You want to know why you?" She steps closer, close enough that her chest almost brushes yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet her eyes. The height difference feels significant suddenly, a reminder of the space she occupies in the world versus the space you occupy. "Because you don't give yourself enough credit. Because you're so busy being scared of wanting things that you forget you're allowed to have them." Her voice drops, softer now, almost intimate, meant only for you. "Because when you let go — like you did in that office — you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain has ceased all higher function.

She leans in, and her lips brush the shell of your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them, warm breath sending shivers cascading down your spine like falling dominoes.

"Can I take you home?"

Your brain short-circuits completely. Home. 

"My home," she clarifies, and you can hear the smile in her voice, feel it against your skin. Her home. The implications crash through you like a wave — warm and terrifying and God you want to, you want to so badly it makes your chest tight. "I'd love for you to meet my dogs."

Dogs.

She has dogs.

The mental image that crashes through you — Rhea Ripley, leather-clad chaos incarnate, coming home to wagging tails and dog toys and puppies — is so unexpectedly soft that it makes your chest ache with something tender, something that feels dangerously close to affection.

You realize you're nodding before you've consciously decided to, your head bobbing up and down like some kind of desperate bobblehead, all your careful control abandoned.

"Words, Doc." Her lips are still close to your ear, breath warm against your skin. "I need words."

"Yes." Your voice cracks embarrassingly. You clear your throat, try again with more conviction. "Yes. I'd like that. To meet your dogs. And — " You stop, face heating with the implication. "Yeah. Home. Your home. Yes."

Rhea pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and the expression on her face — warm, fond, hungry in a way that makes your stomach flip and heat pool low in your belly — is going to live in your memory forever, burned there with permanent ink.

"Okay, pretty girl," she murmurs, and the endearment wraps around you like a physical thing.

And fuck, the way those two words make you feel —  claimed, wanted — should be illegal in seventeen countries.

(...)

The house is obscene.

You try not to stare as Rhea pulls into the garage — an actual garage, not a parking spot, with room for two cars and what looks like a motorcycle shrouded beneath a cover — but it's impossible. The house looms beyond like something from a life you're not supposed to be living, modern and sprawling, all sharp angles and warm light spilling from windows. Isolated. Private. The kind of place that whispers wealth without needing to announce it, the kind of place where things happen that the outside world doesn't need to know about.

Your stomach knots with something that feels dangerously close to panic.

Rhea's hand rests on your thigh — warm, solid, grounding you to this moment — and you grip it with trembling fingers. She hasn't noticed your spiraling yet. Or maybe she has and she's giving you space to work through it, letting you exist in your fear without comment or judgment. You can't tell. Can't think. Can only stare at this house and try to reconcile it with the woman who stalked what you ate at work.

You've been with women before.

The thought is meant to be reassuring. It's a lie. You've been with women — nice women, safe women, women who didn't make your brain short-circuit and your knees weak with a single look. Women who didn't make you feel like you were standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying. You've never been with anyone like her. Anyone who looks at you like you're something to be devoured slowly, savored. Anyone who makes you feel like the most important person in any room simply by turning that devastating attention on you.

Anyone who has this much power over you already, after only hours.

The engine cuts. Silence floods the garage, pressing against your eardrums like water.

"You okay?" Rhea's voice is soft, careful. Her hand squeezes your thigh gently, thumb tracing absent patterns that feel almost soothing.

You nod. Lie through your teeth with practiced ease. "Fine."

She looks at you for a long moment — those blue eyes seeing too much, probably cataloging every micro-expression you're trying to hide — but doesn't push. Just smiles, warm and reassuring like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, and gets out of the car.

You take a breath. Then another. Force oxygen into lungs that feel too tight, too small. Then you open your door and step out on legs that feel embarrassingly unsteady, like you've forgotten the basic mechanics of standing.

Rhea's already coming around to meet you, reaching for your hand and when her fingers close around yours she stops. Frowns.

"Hey." She lifts your joined hands slightly, drawing attention to the tremor you can't quite control. "You're shaking. What's wrong?"

Everything. Nothing. I want you so much it terrifies me.

"Nothing." Your voice comes out too high, too bright. You clear your throat. "Just — it's been a long day. Long week. Long — "

"Baby." It's the way she says it — just that word, soft and certain — that cuts through all your deflection like a scalpel through skin.

You meet her eyes. She's watching you with genuine concern now, worry creasing her brow in ways that make your chest ache. The great Rhea Ripley, worried about you.

It's the kindness that breaks something in you.

Because you want to. God, you want to. You've been wound tight since the office, since her fingers in your mouth, since her thigh between your legs and her voice in your ear saying there's my girl like you belonged to her. The tension has been building and building and building like a pressure system waiting to break, and you're tired of being scared. Tired of overthinking. Tired of letting fear make your choices for you, dictate what you're allowed to want.

Maybe it would be better to just let it happen.

Not get it over with like it's a chore — nothing about Rhea could ever be a chore — but just... stop the spiral. Stop the anticipation that's been eating you alive from the inside out. Let it happen and prove to yourself that you can survive it. That you can want something this much and not shatter into pieces.

You pull her.

You're not strong. Not compared to her, not compared to the muscle and power she carries with such casual strength. But she comes so easily — leans toward you with that confused little frown — and before you can second-guess yourself, before fear can reclaim you, you're on your tiptoes, reaching for her mouth like it's the only thing that matters.

Rhea hesitates for just a second. A blink. A moment of surprise that flickers across her features like lightning.

Then she's kissing you for real.

She tastes like mint — she must have chewed gum on the drive, you realize distantly — and something underneath that's indefinably her. Warm and dark and exactly like every fantasy you didn't let yourself have, every want you refused to acknowledge in the daylight. Her lips move against yours with that same devastating confidence, but there's something else now. Something hungrier, sharper, more urgent. Like your initiation has shifted something fundamental between you, broken through some invisible barrier.

Her hands find your hips — large, warm, impossibly possessive — and pull you close with purpose. You feel everything. The hard planes of her body. The muscle beneath skin and fabric. The heat radiating from her like she's burning from the inside. And something else, something pressing against your stomach that makes your brain stutter and your breath catch —

You forget what you were thinking when she breaks the kiss to drag her mouth down your neck.

"Oh — " The sound escapes you before you can stop it, high and desperate and utterly shameless.

Rhea hums against your skin, pleased and hungry, and the vibration goes straight through you like an electric current. Her hands slide under your sweater — eager now, less careful than before — and her fingers are cool against your heated skin, a contrast that makes you shiver. They trace up your back, down your sides, mapping you like she's memorizing territory she plans to claim permanently.

Your hands find her shoulders. Solid. Grounding. You grip her like she's the only thing keeping you upright, which — honestly — she might be.

Then her tongue is in your mouth, and you need to anchor yourself to something real, need something to hold onto before you float away completely. Need —

You blink and suddenly you're lifted.

Rhea makes a sound — low, rough, utterly wrecked — as she hoists you like you weigh nothing at all, like lifting you is effortless. Your legs wrap around her waist instinctively, muscle memory from something you've never done, and she's breathing heavily against your mouth, eyes dark and focused with an intensity that makes you feel hunted in the best possible way.

"You have no idea," she mutters against your lips, voice rough with want, "what it does to me when you take what you want."

Then she's moving. Three steps. Four. Your back hits something solid — a table, you realize vaguely through the haze of desire, there's a table here in the garage, covered in weights and resistance bands and evidence of her life — and then you're sitting on it, Rhea between your legs, her mouth back on yours with renewed hunger.

Your sweater comes off. You don't remember the mechanics of its removal. It's just gone, disappeared somewhere, and then her hands are on your bare skin, and the sensation is almost too much — warm palms against ribs, fingers tracing the curve of your waist with something that feels dangerously close to reverence.

She's unzipping your pants.

You should care that you're in a garage. Should care that there are weights scattered around you, that this is not romantic or planned or any of the things you imagined when you let yourself imagine anything. Instead, you lift your hips and let her pull your jeans down your legs with eager hands, let them fall somewhere you can't see and don't care about, let yourself be here with her completely, without reservation.

Rhea freezes.

"Fuck," she breathes against your chest, and the word sounds like a prayer, like worship. "Fuck, baby."

You look down. The black lingerie you'd chosen — just in case, you'd told yourself while standing in your bedroom, definitely not because you were hoping — is suddenly very visible. Very deliberate. Very obviously intentional in ways that make your face burn.

Your cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and lust and something else you can't quite name.

But Rhea's expression isn't mocking.It's ravenous. It's hungry. Her fingers trace the edge of the lace with something approaching reverence, slow and delicate like she's memorizing the pattern, and when she looks up at you, her eyes are almost black with desire.

"You planned this." It's not a question. Her voice is rough, awed, like you've given her something precious. "You beautiful, beautiful thing."

Before you can respond — before you can die of embarrassment or pride or some combination of both — her hand slides lower. Past lace. Past everything. And when her fingers find you — trembling, wet, aching with want — she makes a sound that goes straight through you like lightning striking bone.

"So ready for me." Her smile is proud and devastating and beautiful all at once, and you want to memorize it, want to keep it forever. "Look at you. Look what you did for me."

You can't speak. Can't think. Can only grip her shoulders and try to remember how breathing is supposed to work, how your lungs are supposed to fill and empty without conscious thought.

She slides her fingers through your slick heat — teasing, torturous, not nearly enough to satisfy — and you whimper. Actually whimper, high and desperate and utterly shameless, and the sound seems to please her immensely.

Then she's shifting, fumbling with her own pants with hands that aren't quite steady, and you're confused for just a second. A heartbeat. A moment of what is she —

Oh.

Oh.

She was…packing. This whole time.

The realization crashes through you with the force of revelation, reshaping everything you thought you understood about the evening. The toy is dark — almost black — and larger than anything you've used, larger than anything you've even considered. It's strapped into a harness that sits low on her hips, and your first coherent thought is there's no way that's going to fit.

But Rhea is pushing your ruined panties out of the way — not taking them off obviously — two of her fingers sliding in easy, your wetness welcoming her — stretching you open. You gasp, half-choked by the sensation of her skilled fingers rocking inside you, her thumb pressing that perfect, electric spot.

"That's too much." you whisper, voice trembling against her shoulder. Because that thing is definitely, absolutely too big for you. "Rhea, please—"

She just hums, voice a silken caress as her fingers curl slowly. "It’s okay, love. We’ll stretch you. Get you ready for me. It’ll fit just fine." Your heart hammers, and your thighs quake as slickness seeps around her fingers with every gentle thrust.

Love. She called you love.

The word sends heat flooding your cheeks. Your heart is racing like it's trying to escape your chest. You're leaking around her fingers, you can hear it with every movement she makes, every curl of her fingers inside you.

"Look at you." Rhea's voice is wonder and hunger mixed together into something that makes you tremble. "So responsive. So deliciously wet for me."

You bury your face in her shoulder. Can't look. Can't face the truth of what you want, how desperately you want it.

Her teeth graze your neck — gentle, teasing, a promise of something more — and then she's asking, voice soft with tenderness, "Open your legs a little more for me, baby."

The tenderness in her voice undoes you completely. Your legs fall open immediately, without thought or hesitation or any of the self-preservation you're supposed to have. Giving her everything. Offering yourself up like a sacrifice.

She pulls her fingers out slowly, and you feel empty, bereft, aching with a need so intense it borders on pain. Then something else presses against you — the toy, warmed from her body heat — and you freeze.

Rhea kisses your skin. Your collarbone. Your chest. Anywhere she can reach, mapping you with her mouth like she's learning you by taste.

"You're so pretty," she murmurs, and the words feel like they're coming from somewhere deep and honest. "I didn't think I'd make it home, you know. When you actually showed up... I was this close to just — " She cuts off with a soft laugh that sounds almost disbelieving. "Fuck, I wanted to be inside you so much, Doc."

Then she's pushing inside you.

It's too much.

It's exactly enough.

The stretch burns — good burn, deep burn, the kind that makes your eyes water and your toes curl and your breath catch somewhere between your lungs and your throat. You instinctively try to close your legs, to escape the overwhelming fullness, but Rhea's hands are on your thighs, holding you open, urging you open with gentle insistence.

"Relax for me," she whispers against your skin, her breath warm. "Breathe, baby. You can take it. I know you can."

You breathe. Swallow tears that spring unbidden, burning behind your eyes. Nod against her shoulder because you can't form words, can't make your mouth work properly.

When you look up, her smile is predatory and soft all at once. Beautiful in ways that make your chest ache, that make you understand why people write poetry about impossible things. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her.

"Good girl."

She presses a kiss to your lips — gentle, almost sweet, a stark contrast to the way she's filling you — and then she's moving. Pushing deeper. Slow and steady and relentless, giving you time to adjust, to stretch, to take her inch by impossible inch.

It hurts. God, it hurts. But the thought of her filling you — Rhea, claiming you, making you hers in this fundamental way — makes you tremble and tighten around her, and she groans against your mouth like you're hurting her too, like this is affecting her as deeply as it's affecting you.

"You're clenching so hard," she breathes, voice strained with effort. "Feel good? Tell me it feels good."

You can't form words. Can only nod, gasp, cling to her like she's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

Her mouth finds your neck again — nipping, soothing, distracting you from the burn with points of pleasure. Her fingers find your nipples — hard, aching, sensitive from wanting — and she rolls them gently, with the kind of attention that suggests she's been thinking about this, planning exactly how to take you apart.

Deeper.

Deeper.

And then she's seated. All the way. Filling you completely, impossibly, in ways you didn't know you could be filled.

Rhea pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, her eyes searching your face for something — and the satisfaction on her face is almost unbearable in its intensity, in its raw honesty.

"I knew you could do it." Her voice is rough, wrecked, like this is costing her something too. "Look at you.” Her voice gets lower when she looks down, where she's filling you up so perfectly.  “Your pretty pussy looks perfect around me.”

You're red. Your whole body is red, flushed with shame and lust and want mixing together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins, until it all becomes one overwhelming sensation.

Then she moves.

The first thrust is slow — testing, teasing, letting you feel every inch of her as she pulls out and pushes back in. The second is deeper, more confident. The third is harder, purposeful, claiming. And then she's fucking you, building a rhythm that makes you see stars, makes you wrap your legs around her hips and hold on her for dear life.

"So good," you gasp against her skin, words tumbling out without permission. "Rhea — Rhea, I'm — "

"I know, baby." Her voice is strained, focused, utterly present with you. "I know. Let go. Wanna see you come around my cock."

Your orgasm crashes through you like nothing you've ever felt before, like every sensation you've ever had was building toward this moment. It's everything releasing all at once in a wave that threatens to drown you, to sweep you away completely. You moan into her shoulder, loud and broken and completely shameless, and grip her back like she's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, to reality, to yourself.

Rhea fucks you through it. Slow and deep and perfect, drawing out every wave, every aftershock, until you're trembling and oversensitive and utterly spent.

When you finally still, when the tremors finally subside, she's smiling. Soft and proud and absolutely radiant, like she's just witnessed something miraculous.

"There she is." She brushes hair from your face with infinite tenderness, tucks it behind your ear with careful fingers. "There's my girl."

You can't speak. Can barely breathe. Can only exist in the aftermath, pinned beneath the weight of what just happened and the look in her eyes — warm and possessive and something else, something that looks dangerously close to affection.

(...)

You're floating.

That's the only word for it — floating in that warm, hazy space between consciousness and sleep, suspended in something that feels too good to be real. You're wrapped in the scent of her, in the lingering echoes of everything your body just experienced, and your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Heavy. Satisfied. 

Your fingers trace idle patterns on her arm. The tattoos are fascinating up close. You've seen them before, of course. In your office, in passing, cataloged them clinically the way you catalog everything. But never like this. Never with permission to explore, to map them with your fingertips like they're a language you're learning to read. The lines and shading blur under your touch, and you're half-asleep, half-gone, memorizing them anyway because some part of you needs to remember this, needs to keep it.

Rhea's breathing is slow and even against your hair, warm breath stirring the strands. You think maybe you could stay like this forever —

Then she moves.

It's subtle at first — just a shift of her body, a slight tension in muscles that were completely relaxed moments ago. You barely register it through the fog of exhaustion until she starts to pull away, her arm sliding out from you, the warm weight of her leaving you like the sun disappearing behind clouds.

A sound escapes you before you can stop it. Small. Needy. Something between a whine and a protest that would be mortifying if you had the cognitive capacity for embarrassment right now, if you could think clearly enough to be ashamed of how desperately you don't want her to go.

Rhea freezes. Then she laughs — that low, soft chuckle that vibrates through your chest where you're still pressed against her, that makes warmth bloom in your stomach despite the exhaustion.

"Shh, baby." Her lips press to your cheek, warm and gentle and achingly tender. "I'm not going anywhere."

You mumble something unintelligible. Probably a complaint. Definitely a protest against the loss of contact, against the emptiness her absence creates.

She laughs again, and then there's movement — the rustle of fabric, the sound of jeans being pulled up, leather and denim and the mechanics of getting dressed — and you're about to whine again when suddenly the world tilts.

Rhea has picked you up.

Your eyes fly open, hazy confusion giving way to surprise as you find yourself cradled against her chest like you weigh nothing at all. Which — you don't. Not really. You're a grown woman, a doctor, someone who's supposed to have dignity. But she's carrying you like you're made of air, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, and the casual strength of it makes something flutter low in your belly despite how thoroughly spent you are.

"Wh — " Your voice comes out rough. Used. Raw from sounds you didn't know you could make. "Where — "

"Bedroom," Rhea murmurs, already moving with purpose and that grace she has even when carrying another person.

Bedroom. The word filters through your foggy brain slowly, like honey through cheesecloth. Her bedroom. Her bed. Not the garage table where she took you apart the first time, but somewhere softer, somewhere more permanent.

"Oh." The sound is small, vulnerable in ways you're not prepared to examine.

Her smile is soft, knowing, like she can read every thought in your head. "Yeah. Oh."

The living room blurs past — huge couch, bigger TV, the vague awareness of dogs barking somewhere outside, wanting her attention — but Rhea doesn't pause, doesn't seem inclined to share you with anyone or anything right now. Her focus is absolute. Fixed entirely on you and whatever's waiting upstairs, and the single-minded intensity of it makes your chest tight.

She pushes the bedroom door open with her foot — a move so casual, so competent, that it shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is — and then you're being lowered onto the bed with infinite care.

Her bed.

You sprawl across it like something boneless, limbs going in every direction, hair fanned out beneath you in dark waves. The sheets are soft. Incredibly soft. They smell like her — that dark, spicy scent you're becoming addicted to, that you associate with poor decisions and quickened heartbeats — and the pillows are perfect, cradling your head like they were made for exactly this purpose.

You could sleep here. Actually sleep. Just close your eyes and sink into this warmth and never leave, never go back to your apartment and your careful life —

Weight settles over you.

Your eyes snap open.

Rhea is on top of you.

Not on you exactly — she's supporting most of her weight, one hand braced beside your head, muscles taut with the effort — but her body covers yours, warm and solid and absolutely present. Before you can process what's happening, she's reaching down, pushing a pillow under your hips with careful movements. Adjusting. Positioning you like she knows exactly what she wants.

You feel it immediately — the angle, the elevation, the way it tilts your body perfectly for —

"Oh." The sound punches out of you as she presses against you from behind, and even through the haze of exhaustion you can feel how wet you still are. How used. How your body immediately responds to her presence, her touch, her obvious want like you're conditioned to it already.

"Rhea." Your voice is small, uncertain. "I can't. I don't think I — "

"Please." Her lips brush your ear, breath hot and urgent. The word is soft, desperate, nothing like the confident woman who usually commands the ring with her presence. "Just one more, baby. Please."

You should say no. Your body is aching, overstimulated, trembling on the edge of too much. Every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, like you've been flayed open.

But her voice —

“I’ll bathe you after,” Her hips press forward slightly, just enough to remind you what she feels like, what it means to have her inside you. "I'll wash your hair. Massage your feet. Whatever you want. Just — " Another press, more insistent. "One more. Let me have one more."

Your hips lift.

You don't consciously decide to do it. Your body just moves, tilting into her like it belongs to her now, offering itself up without consulting your brain, and the sound Rhea makes — this broken little gasp against your ear — is worth every bit of ache you're feeling, every tremor of overstimulation.

"Fuck," she whispers, and the word sounds like reverence.

And then she slides inside.

You gasp. Choke on it. On air and sensation and the overwhelming fullness of her. Because God — she's so deep like this. The angle, the pillow, the way your body is already open and ready, already shaped to accommodate her — she's everywhere, filling you completely, and the stretch is just on the edge of too much, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

Rhea's moan is low and rough in your ear, vibrating through you. “Fuck, you feel so — ” She cuts off, breath hitching. “Incredible.”

You can't answer. Can't form words. Can only press your face into the pillow and feel her, feel every inch of her inside you, feel the weight of her body covering yours like a blanket made of want.

She starts to move.

Slowly at first — rocking, almost, testing the angle, learning exactly how to make you gasp, how to pull those desperate sounds from your throat. Her hand comes down, spreads you open, and you should feel embarrassed. Should feel exposed. Should care that you're completely at her mercy —

Her hips snap forward harder and your brain stops working entirely, shorts out like an electrical system overloaded.

"Right there?" Her voice is strained, rough with effort and desire. "Is that — "

You thrust back, a low, shameless moan ripping from you.

"That's it." She picks up speed, her body trembling against yours with the effort of holding back, and you can feel how close she is — the tension coiling in her muscles, the way her breath catches and stutters. "That's — God, baby, you're so — "

She's not just close. She's there.

When she comes, you feel it — the way her whole body seizes above you, the broken sound she makes like you've destroyed her, the way she presses deeper, deeper, hips stuttering, pressing into you as if desperate to imprint herself deeper inside, as if she could somehow get closer than this, as if there's any space left between you to eliminate. And something about it — about her falling apart on top of you, inside you, because of you — sends you spiraling after her like you're tied together.

Your second orgasm tears through you like a wave pulling you under, drowning you in sensation, and you're vaguely aware of making sounds — desperate, wrecked sounds that would mortify you later — as your body clenches around her and your vision whites out completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Rhea is heavy on top of you, her breath hot against your shoulder, her body still trembling with aftershocks that match your own. You can feel her heartbeat — or maybe that's yours, you can't tell anymore — pounding against your ribs like it's trying to break through.

"Okay." Her voice is wrecked, destroyed. "Okay, that was — yeah."

You laugh weakly into the pillow. Or maybe you cry. It's hard to tell at this point, hard to distinguish between the different ways your body is trying to process what just happened.

She stays inside you for what feels like minutes — soft, warm, connected — both of you just breathing, existing in this space, letting the world slowly come back into focus around you. Your body is limp. Aching in ways that feel almost good. Completely and utterly worn out in the best possible way, in ways you didn't know you could be.

Finally, she stirs. Presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, gentle and tender. Eases out of you with a carefulness that makes your chest hurt, makes something ache behind your ribs.

When she rolls to the side and you can finally see her face, she's grinning. Bright and satisfied and absolutely radiant, like she's just accomplished something miraculous.

"What did I say, Doc?" Her voice is warm, teasing, but her eyes are impossibly soft. "Always the same place."

You manage to lift a hand, tap weakly at her shoulder in mock protest. "You're — " Your voice gives out. You try again, forcing the words past your raw throat. "You're insufferable."

Rhea laughs — full and genuine and beautiful, the sound filling the room like sunlight — and presses a kiss to your forehead that feels like a promise.

"I know." She's already moving, swinging off the bed with energy that seems frankly unfair given what just happened, given that she should be as destroyed as you are. "I'm running you that bath. You stay right here. Don't move."

"Wasn't planning to." The words come out slurred, half-asleep already.

She pauses at the door, looking back at you — sprawled across her bed, thoroughly wrecked, probably covered in evidence of exactly how thorough she's been with you. Her expression softens into something achingly tender, something that makes your heart stutter.

"You're so beautiful." The words are quiet. Honest. Like she just needed to say them, needed you to know.

You don't know how to respond to that. Don't have words for what it does to you, the way it makes warmth bloom in your chest and your eyes sting with something that might be tears.

So you just watch her go, listen to the sound of water running in the distance, and let yourself feel — really feel — the terrifying, wonderful reality of being wanted by Rhea Ripley. Of being seen. Of being worth the effort. Of maybe, impossibly, being hers.

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.

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

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

The gilded cage of the Central Command ballroom was, as always, a special kind of hell. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting a deceptive warmth over the sea of Amestrian blue and brass. The air was thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the dense weight of political ambition. You stood near a towering ice sculpture of the Amestrian crest, a delicate flute of champagne in your hand that you had no intention of drinking.

You were the youngest daughter of the new Fuhrer, your old idiot dad, Grumman, a prize to be won, a jewel to be collected. All evening, a relentless parade of officers, aristocrats, and their simpering sons had approached you. Their words were polished, smiles practiced, calculating the political value of your hand. You smiled, you nodded, you gave non-committal answers, all while feeling like a doll being appraised for purchase.

And through it all, you watched the grand entrance, hoping against hope for a glimpse of her. 

But General Olivier Mira Armstrong, the Ice Queen of Briggs, hated these events as much as she hated cowardice. Politics, to her, were a battlefield for the weak-willed. Her absence was a dull feeling in your chest, a constant reminder of the chasm between your private world and this public facade.

You wished Mustang took the role he obviously wanted. Let you live your life as a daughter of a minor general. Maybe you could visit Briggs more often.

Then, the great oak doors of the ballroom swung open with a force that silenced the string quartet for a moment.

And she was there.

Olivier. In full dress uniform, a vision of terrifying, severe beauty. The blues of her coat were sharp and immaculate, the medals on her chest a testament to honor forged in the frozen north, not bought in gilded halls. Her blonde hair was pulled back in its signature severe style, and her eyes, those piercing blue glaciers, scanned the room with open contempt. 

She was closely followed by Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, a smirk playing on his lips as if he were enjoying a private joke.

A warm, liquid heat pooled in your stomach at the sight of her. Gods, she looks good  in that uniform. She carried the authority of it like a second skin, and you knew, with absolute certainty, that she would wear it to her own wedding if protocol allowed. She knew the effect she had, and she wielded it like a weapon.

You tried to distract yourself. It wasn't appropriate to stare. Especially not someone like her. You're engaging in a conversation with Lieutenant Maria Ross, who was pleasantly tipsy and happily gossiping about the various dignitaries.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Maria said, gesturing with her glass to the opulent room.

“You have no idea,” you murmured, your eyes flickering involuntarily towards where Olivier was now locked in a tense, quiet conversation with your father. If the parade of men fawning over you bothered her, she gave no sign. Her composure was a fortress in itself.

The grand ballroom of Central Command shimmered with a cold, oppressive opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling light over a sea of dress blues and glittering gowns, the air thick with the cloying scent of perfume, expensive cigars, and the relentless hum of political machinations. I stood near a towering ice sculpture of the Amestris crest, feeling like I was slowly suffocating. This was my personal hell.

As the youngest daughter of the newly appointed Fuhrer, I was a prize to be won, a doll to be dressed up and paraded before a pack of wolves in military uniforms. I clutched a flute of champagne I had no intention of drinking, my knuckles white.

“Another triumphant event for your father, wouldn’t you agree?” You raised your eyes to find a portly colonel, his breath smelling of fine whiskey and poor decisions. He was the third one to approach you in the last half-hour. “The stability he brings to Amestris is… unparalleled.”

You offered a thin, practiced smile. “Indeed, Colonel. Unparalleled.”

His eyes, small and piggish, roamed over the delicate embroidery on your gown. “A fine piece. It suits a woman of your… standing. It’s a shame such beauty is wasted on these old walls. It should be admired in a proper home.”

The implication was as subtle as a brick. His home. His arm. His bed. You felt a familiar coil of disgust tighten in your stomach.

“My interests lie beyond the home, Colonel,” you said, your voice cool. “I find the strategic developments at Fort Briggs particularly fascinating these days.”

He waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that made you want to break his fingers for some reason. “Briggs? A frozen fortress full of brutes. No place for a delicate flower. A woman like you needs a man to handle the harsh so she can focus on raising beautiful kids.”

He saw you as a decorative object to be placed on a shelf. Nothing new on the Front.

Then, you felt it. A gentle, but undeniable pressure of a gloved hand on the small of your back. The touch was proprietary, grounding. A shiver ran down your spine. The scent of cold air, gun oil, and her unique, clean fragrance washed over you.

"Ah, Colonel Blackwood, perhaps you would like to spend a season at Briggs and teach my men a little civility? I'm sure they would love the company." Olivier’s voice was calm, but her glare was anything but friendly. The colonel paled. As it was expected.  

"General Armstrong, I was merely..."

"No need to get defensive, Colonel. Fortunately, for you, I'm here as a guest. Though I would advise you to mind your tongue in the future, if you intend to keep it." The colonel vanished as quickly as he showed up. Maria chuckled.

The general paused for a second, and her tone changed subtly. A low, husky murmur close to your ear, a sound meant only for you. “Enjoying your evening, little one?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling very young and very flustered. The space between your legs grew warm and tight with a familiar, needy ache. Olivier was taller and radiated a physical strength that made you feel deliciously small. And she was touching you, so openly, in front of Ross.

Maria’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. A slow, knowing chuckle escaped her. “I, uh… I think I see a refill calling my name,” she stammered, quickly making her escape.

Olivier hummed in agreement, a low, approving sound in her chest. As Ross disappeared into the crowd, Olivier leaned in again, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her breath warm against your skin. “It’s been a while.”

The words, simple and direct, sent a jolt straight to your core. You blushed a deep, furious crimson. “I… I’m...Yes. It's nice to see you, general.” you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Would you be so kind as to give me a minute of your time, my dear?" She didn't wait for a response, turning and weaving through the crowd. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. As if you could ever say no to this woman.

Within two minutes, you were slipping through the door of your private chambers within the Command complex, the muffled sounds of the gala fading away. You leaned against the door, letting out a shaky breath, your skin still tingling from her touch.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t expect to find the General there.General Olivier Mira Armstrong, a stark portrait of command seated at your mahogany desk as if it were her throne. One booted foot was propped on her opposite knee, and the room itself seemed to bend to her will. In that moment, she owned the very air you breathed.

“Come here.”

The words were a low, whip-crack of sound, deceptively calm, but her eyes… her eyes were a blizzard of pure want. You were moving before the command had fully registered, drawn across the plush carpet by an invisible tether. You had no chance to speak before her hands, strong and certain, seized your hips and pulled you down, forcing you to straddle her lap. The rough, starched wool of her uniform scraped deliciously against the thin silk of your dress, a thrilling contrast that made you shiver.

Her gloved fingers made quick, efficient work of your cleavage buttons. She didn’t bother to undress you fully, just shoved the fabric aside, baring your skin to the cool air and her ravenous gaze. She didn’t kiss you. She devoured you. Her mouth was a brand of ownership on your neck, your collarbone, and finally, your lips. She kissed like she waged war—all strategic precision designed to conquer and claim, a brutal contrast to the shocking softness of her lips that left you pliant and dizzy in her arms. You could taste whiskey on her tongue but it’s her. It’s her taste. 

When her mouth abandoned yours, a pathetic whimper escaped you. She ignored it, her lips trailing a searing path downward until they closed over a pebbled nipple. A sharp, keening cry was torn from your throat. Instinctively, you tried to shift, to grind down against the solid muscle of her thigh, seeking any relief for the ache building between your legs.

Olivier’s hands clamped down on your hips, holding you immobile with effortless strength. “Be still,” she growled against your breast, the vibration resonating deep within your core. “You move when I tell you to move. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes, General,” you panted, the title a prayer and a surrender.

Her touch was reverent in its intensity, yet laced with a cruel, knowing patience. She knew exactly what she was doing to you. Her gloved hand slid down your stomach, over the silk, and cupped you through the fabric. You jerked in her grasp, a sob catching in your throat.

“So wet for me already,” she murmured, her voice thick with dark satisfaction. She pressed down hard, making you gasp. “All those pathetic men downstairs, dreaming of taking you. But this… this desperate, pretty little thing?” Another deliberate press and you know you're grinding against the hard fabric of her gloves. “This is mine.”

In one fluid, ruthless motion, she rucked your dress up to your waist and tore your underwear aside. The sound of ripping fabric was obscenely loud. Then, she brought her gloved hand to her mouth and pulled the leather off with her teeth, one finger at a time. She needed to feel you, skin to skin. She was possessive of what was hers. Two bare fingers, slick with your arousal, pressed against your entrance.

“Look at me.”

You forced your hazy, pleasure-drunk eyes to meet her stormy gaze. Blue. The sky before a snowstorm. She held it, unblinking, as she pushed her fingers inside you in one slow, relentless stroke, stretching you, filling you so completely a broken moan was ripped from your lips.

“That’s it,” she purred, her breath a ghost across your face. “Take it. Take every inch of what I give you.”

She established a steady, punishing rhythm that had you clutching at the epaulets on her uniform. “Now you can move,” she rasped. “Ride my hand.”

You obeyed, rocking your hips in a frantic, desperate cadence, chasing your release. The world narrowed to the feel of her fingers inside you, the scent of cold air and gun oil on her skin, the fierce, possessive look on her face.

“That’s my girl,” she coaxed, her free hand splaying over your lower stomach, pressing down as if to feel herself inside you. “Come on. Let go. I want to feel you come on my fingers.”

It was that possessive pressure on your stomach that shattered your last thread of control. You came with a shattered cry, your face buried in the crook of her neck, your body convulsing around her thrusting fingers.

Before the last tremor had even subsided, she lifted you as if you were weightless and placed you on your unsteady feet. Your legs were liquid. With a firm hand on your back, she bent you over the bed, forcing you onto all fours, the silk of your ruined dress pooling around your waist.

You barely had time to process the new position before you felt the press of her hips against you, the hard, cool brass of her belt buckle a stark contrast to your heated skin. She was still fully, impeccably clothed. The thought was dizzying.

She entered you from behind in one deep, claiming thrust and all you could do was whimper. 

“Uh. Still so tight, baby.” You could feel her front molding to your back, her breath warm on your neck. 

“I’m-m sensi-...” Her movements were slower now, deeper, a physical declaration of ownership. You were so sensitive from your first climax, every movement a spark of overwhelming pleasure-pain.

“I know, darling.” She whispered, her breathing getting heavier in your ear. “But you can take it. You always do.”  She curled her fingers just on the right spot and you saw white for a moment, your fingers twisting in the bedsheets. The raw power of her movements drove you swiftly toward another devastating peak.

“Gonna come again?” It’s the way her voice sounds so breathless. It’s the general losing her pose. “Come on, little one. I know you can do it, you’re milking me already.” That undid you completely. 

A second, more powerful orgasm wrecked you, and you did scream her name—“Liv!”—your voice raw and broken as your body gave out beneath you.

She followed you down, her body covering yours, her thrusts slowing to a deep, rolling rhythm as she milked the last of your climax. 

She gave you a few seconds to breathe, just a few seconds. You should have expected it, Olivier wasn't satisfied until you were a mess.

She flipped you onto your back as easily as if you were a doll. So strong. She fitted herself between your splayed legs, still fully clothed in her pristine uniform, a vision of absolute power while you lay beneath her, naked, flushed, and utterly ravished.

She admired her work, her gaze a physical caress over the love bites on your neck and chest, the sweat-sheened skin, the helpless, panting mess she had made of you.

“You’re beautiful,” she mused, her voice a low thrum of possession. Her words ignited a new, dangerous fire in your belly. You pout, though. You can't even feel her skin on you. Olivier looks at you in confusion, and you gently tug on the sleeve of her blue jacket.

The general rolls her eyes, only briefly, before undoing the buttons on her standard-issue military jacket and tossing it to the corner of the bed. Now you have the perfect view of her broad shoulders, her strong arms, and veiny forearms. She's beautiful. So beautiful.

She leaned over you, bracing herself on one arm while her other hand found its way between your legs again. Two fingers, slick with your shared arousal, pushed back inside you, so deep you whimpered. Fuck this woman and her lack of finesse.

“So deep,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed.

Her lips were at your ear, her whisper a dark, intoxicating promise. “Deep enough to breed.” Her hand splayed over your lower stomach, pressing down as if to mold you to her will. “I could fill you up right here.” She pressed down harder, her fingers curling inside you, hitting a spot that made you see stars. “Fuck…Wanna see you filled up to the brim.”

The fantasy, the sheer possession in her words, combined with the relentless thrusts of her fingers, coiled the tension in your belly for a third, shocking time. You were sobbing now, completely overwhelmed, your body a doll to her command.

“Please,” you begged, the word meaningless, a sound of pure surrender.

“Let go for me, darling.” She didn’t ask, she ordered, her breath scorching your skin. 

You shattered. The climax was a convulsion, violent and all-consuming, wracking your body with uncontrollable tremors. You cried out, a wordless, broken sound, as the pleasure-pain washed over you, leaving you boneless and weeping softly into the pillow.

You can't breathe for a moment, your ribcage aching. You can only feel the slight movement of Olivier gently removing her fingers from inside you. You feel a little empty and have to stop yourself from pouting.

You were a limp, a trembling mess. But as you felt the general's long fingers run down the back of your neck, you smiled at the thought. You were her mess. 

She let you lay on her chest for a few minutes, just listening to the rhythmic beating of her heart, tracing the small scars on her forearm. And the General shifted. The fierce mask of the conqueror slipped, replaced by a look of intense, quiet focus. She withdrew her fingers and stood. You heard the soft clink of her belt, the sound of water in the adjoining bathroom. She returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned you with an efficiency that was strangely tender, wiping away the evidence of your wild sex. She helped you back into your torn underwear and re-buttoned your blouse with the same meticulous precision she used to plan a military campaign—another territory secured, another victory won.

She didn’t say another word. She simply pressed a hard, possessive kiss to your forehead, straightened her uniform, and left as silently as she had arrived.

It took you another twenty minutes to find the strength to go back downstairs. Your body felt heavy, used, and gloriously sore. As you descended the grand staircase, slightly limp, your skin flushed with a dozen hidden marks that only she would ever see, you caught Lieutenant Maria Ross’s eye from across the room.

Ross took one look at you, at the dazed, well-fucked look in your eyes and the slight wince in your step. A slow smile spread across her face. She raised her glass of champagne in your direction, a silent, knowing toast to the formidable power of the Ice Queen of Briggs.

The late afternoon sun at the stables was a dusty, golden blanket, and you were wrapped in its warmth. You’d spent the whole day there, your world reduced to the rhythmic swish of tails, the soft snorts of contented horses, and the feel of coarse mane between your fingers. Animals were easier than people; they didn’t ask for explanations, they didn’t hold grudges, and their patience was a deep, quiet well you could always draw from. You’d brushed and watered, mucked out stalls and checked hooves, losing yourself in the simple, physical labor.

But all day, a different, more intense energy had followed you. Abby. You’d felt it like a physical touch as you’d hoisted a saddle, like a whisper against your neck as you’d run a hand down a mare’s flank. She’d been helping with the heavy feed sacks, her muscles corded and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, but her eyes… her eyes had been on you. Especially at the day’s end, when you’d led the quietest mare, Juniper, back to her stall. You’d mounted her bareback, just for a short walk, feeling the powerful, placid animal move beneath you, a study in controlled strength. When you’d slid off, you’d caught Abby’s stare from across the yard, a storm brewing in the clear blue of her irises.

So it was no surprise, really, that the moment the two of you were alone in the privacy of her small, bunk-lined room, the door clicking shut against the world, she was on you. Or rather, she was pulling you onto her.

You barely had a moment to register the familiar scent of pine soap and leather on her before her hands were on your hips, guiding you, turning you, and then you were sinking down, your knees bracketing her thighs, settling into her lap. The rough canvas of her trousers was familiar, but the hard, unyielding pressure you felt against your core was a thrilling jolt. Abby was prepared. The efficiency of it, the directness, sent a flush of heat straight to your face.

“Long day, huh?” she murmured, her voice a low rasp against the shell of your ear before her mouth found your neck.

You gasped as her teeth grazed your collarbone, a sharp, possessive nip that was more promise than pain. “You were watching me,” you managed to breathe out, your fingers tangling in the short strands of hair that escaped her braid.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Couldn’t help it.” Her thumb stroked the line of your jaw. Calloused. Warm. Abby. “The way you move with them… all that quiet control.” She leaned in. Her warm breath tickled your skin. Then her mouth was on yours. Gentle at first. You can feel the gentle pressure she uses to get you to open your mouth for her. Her tongue plunged inside then, a hot, wet claim that tasted of the mint leaf she’d been chewing. One hand fisted in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to her assault. She was more urgent than usual, a spring of intent.

Her hands went to work on the buttons of your shirt, fumbling only for a second before popping them open. You reciprocated, yanking her own tank top up and over her head, needing to feel the solid, sculpted planes of her shoulders and back, the powerful ridges of her abdomen. You wanted her skin under your palms when she fucked you.

“So impatient,” she teased, her voice thick as her calloused palms slid down your bare back, cupping your ass and grinding you down harder onto the rigid shape in her pants. A broken moan escaped your lips.

“Abby…” you pleaded, her name a prayer on your lips.

She chuckled, a dark, delicious sound. “I know.” One hand slipped between your bodies, her fingers finding you through the fabric of your pants. You bucked against her touch, already embarrassingly wet, your body singing for her. “Soaked for me already,” she observed, her voice laced with smug satisfaction. 

Even in her urgency, there was a meticulous care to her. She worked your pants and underwear down your legs, her hands soothing on your thighs. You heard the click of a cap, the slick sound of lube, and then her fingers were there, not where you desperately wanted her, but preparing you, stretching you with a slow, torturous precision.

“You’re so tight,” she breathed, watching your face as she worked a second finger inside. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me. Gotta take all of me.”

You were trembling, a live wire of anticipation, your nails digging half-moons into the firm flesh of her shoulders. “Please, Abby. I-I…”

“I know, baby.” she cooed, finally withdrawing her fingers. She unbuckled her own belt and pulled down the zipper on her pants and just the sound made you wetter. She held you firmly by the hips, preventing you from sinking down onto the silicone cock that now stood proud from the harness strapped to her. “Easy now. Just the tip. Let me feel you take it.”

She guided you, letting you lower yourself until the broad, slick head of the strap-on pressed against your entrance. You gasped, your head falling forward to rest against her forehead. The pressure was immense, a sweet, burning stretch. You clenched around nothing, desperate for more.

“That’s it,” she encouraged, her breath hot on your face. “Just like that. Now, a little more.”

You pushed down, crying out as the tip slipped inside, the sensation of being filled, of being opened, almost too much to bear. You were panting, your body shaking with the effort of control.

“Look at you,” Abby whispered, her eyes locked on where your bodies joined. “Look how you’re taking me. So fucking beautiful.”

She let you set the pace for a moment, a slow, agonizing descent that had you seeing stars. You felt every inch as you sheathed her inside you, deeper and deeper, until your ass was resting on her thighs and you were fully, completely impaled. A full, aching pressure bloomed in your core. You felt stuffed, stretched to your absolute limit.

“Oh, god,” you whimpered, your voice strangled. “Abby… you’re so deep.”

A groan rumbled in her chest as she nuzzled your neck. “Fuck, you feel incredible. Now ride me. Slow. I want to watch you.”

And so you moved. It was a slow, rolling grind at first, your hands braced on her shoulders, your eyes shut tight as you acclimated to the overwhelming sensation of being so utterly filled. It felt different tonight, more intense, as if she were reaching a new, untouched place inside you. A broken sob escaped your lips.

“That’s it, baby,” Abby moaned against your ear, her praise a potent fuel. “Take what you need. Use me. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Her words sent another jolt of lightning through you. You could feel yourself leaking around her, the slick sounds of your movements filling the quiet room. Your grip on her biceps tightened, your fingers digging into the hard muscle there, using her as an anchor to lift yourself up and then sink back down, each stroke pushing a ragged moan from your lungs.

But your thighs, tired from a day in the stables, began to tremble and burn. The deep, steady rhythm faltered.

Abby sensed it instantly. “Getting tired, love?” she murmured, her hands, which had been resting on your hips, smoothing over your skin. “Let me help you with that.”

In one fluid, powerful motion, her arms wrapped around you, and she flipped you both. The world spun in a dizzying whirl of wooden walls and rumpled blankets before settling with you on your back on the bunk and Abby hovering over you, her body caged between your legs. Her eyes, those beautiful, stormy eyes, were locked on yours, dark with desire and something fiercer, something like reverence.

She didn’t pull out. She just started moving, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs.

“Feel how deep you’re taking me, baby?” She pressed her large hand to your stomach and you whimpered at the sensation. So deep. She grunted, driving into you with a force that made the bunk frame creak. 

“Ye-s. Abby!” you cried out, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands scrambled for purchase on her sweat-slicked back, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a dissolving world.

“So fucking beautiful…” she breathed, her face buried in your neck. “Mine.”

You sobbed, the coil in your belly tightening to a breaking point. “Yours, I’m yours…”

Her thrusts became faster, more erratic, her own control fraying. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

It was an order you were powerless to disobey. The world shattered into a million points of blinding, white-hot pleasure. Your body seized, convulsing around her in wave after wave of intense, pulsing release. You shook, a broken litany of her name the only sound you could make as you held onto her, your fingers pressing into the hard muscle of her back, grounding you, keeping you from flying completely apart.

Through the haze, you felt her rhythm stutter and slow, her body slumping over yours, her weight a comforting, solid presence. She nuzzled into your neck, her breathing ragged and hot against your skin.

“God,” she panted, her voice wrecked. “Sometimes I wish I could be a horse.”

You laugh. Loud. Abby laughs too, and suddenly your stomach hurts from how this hot, beautiful woman fucked you so good and is now making you laugh your head off.

Oh. You do love her.

The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a living, breathing entity that didn't just fill your ears but vibrated up through the steel ring steps and into the very marrow of your bones. You sat on the bottom step, chest heaving, the acrid scent of your own sweat and the arena's stale air filling your lungs. Every muscle screamed in protest, a sweet, familiar ache. The dark match had been grueling, a war of attrition you’d somehow won. The image flashed behind your eyes: your finisher, hit with clean, brutal precision, and the resulting pop from the audience—a genuine, thunderous wave of sound that was better than any drug.

You were lost in the echo of it, trying to remember how to draw a breath that didn't feel like fire, when the light changed. A shadow fell over you, long and imposing, blotting out the harsh glare of the work lights. You didn't need to look up. You knew her by the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way the air itself seemed to still and bow in her presence. And then came her scent—her perfume, something dark and smoky like sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine—cutting through the sweat and desperation like a knife.

“Hey, you,” Rhea’s voice, a low, melodic rasp, was a balm to your frayed nerves.

You tilted your head back, a weary but genuine smile already gracing your lips. There she was. Rhea Ripley. The Eradicator. Dressed in her ring gear, she was a vision of terrifying beauty, all sculpted muscle and dark intensity. But her expression, the look in those stormy blue eyes, was soft. It was a look reserved solely for you.

She reached out, her fingers—strong and calloused from years of gripping ropes and bending opponents to her will—gently carding through your sweat-damp hair. The contrast of her rough skin against your temple was electrifying.

“Good job out there,” she murmured, her thumb stroking a soothing rhythm. “A really good job. You’re getting so much better. They see it. I see it.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with your recent exertion bloomed deep within your chest, a feeling that spread up your neck and flooded your cheeks. You felt the blush, hot and unmistakable, and you ducked your head, a helpless, giddy smile pulling at your lips. The crushing exhaustion vanished, replaced by a fizzy, effervescent joy that made you feel weightless. Her praise was a trophy more valuable than any championship.

“Thanks, Rhe,” you mumbled, your voice thick with a shy, overwhelming pride.

She noticed. Of course she did. Rhea Ripley missed nothing. A curious, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect she had on you. She said nothing more, just gave your hair a final, gentle tug before turning to head towards Gorilla Position for her own segment, leaving you buzzing in her wake.

She only realized the full depth of it, however, a week later.

You were both squeezed into a small, brightly lit set for a post-PPV digital exclusive. The host was lobbing questions about the future of the women’s division, and you were content to simply listen, to bask in the easy, formidable confidence Rhea exuded. You were the champion's girlfriend. In that moment, you would have been happy to live forever in her shadow.

Then you felt it. Her hand, warm and sure, finding your knee under the flimsy table. Her touch was electric, a jolt that went straight through the denim of your jeans and into your very soul. You froze, your entire world narrowing to that single, searing point of contact.

“...and I think the future is incredibly bright,” Rhea was saying, her voice smooth and authoritative for the cameras. Then she turned her head. Her bright blue eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity was absolutely overwhelming. “I mean, just look at my girl here. One of the best prospects this company has seen in a long time. Absolute star power.” Her fingers squeezed your knee gently, emphasizing her point.

The praise, so public, so direct, so utterly sincere, hit you like a blow. A wave of heat, so intense it was dizzying, crashed over you. Your breath hitched in your throat. Almost of its own volition, a tremor ran through your legs and they pressed together tightly, a desperate, involuntary movement seeking friction, seeking grounding against the sudden, overwhelming ache her words had ignited deep within you.

You saw her eyes flicker down for a nanosecond, then snap back to yours. The look on her face shifted in an instant—from professional pride to something dawning and deeply predatory. Her gaze sharpened, honing in on you, and the smirk from the ringside returned, but this time it was laced with a thrilling, dangerous knowledge. She saw it. She saw the full, flustered, physical effect she had on you. And she understood exactly what it meant.

The interview wrapped up in a blur. The chaotic whirlwind of separate brands and different travel schedules meant you barely had a moment to yourselves in the following weeks, just frantic, longing texts and rushed phone calls whispered in dark parking lots. But the memory of that look in her eyes, the dark promise held within it, simmered under your skin, a constant, low hum of desperate anticipation.

Which is why, when your phone lit up with her name days later, your heart leapt into your throat.

“Just landed. You free, love?”

Your fingers flew across the screen, all pretense of coolness abandoned.

“Are you kidding me? Get your gorgeous ass to my apartment right now. I’ve missed my gf 😔”

“Oh, I’ve missed you too. Be there in twenty. Be good.”

Be good. Two simple words that shouldn’t have meant nothing.

Yet they did.

✮⋆˙ 

Your apartment was steeped in the comfortable silence of a lazy afternoon, broken only by the epic soundtrack of Baldur's Gate 3 spilling from the television. You were utterly engrossed, curled on the couch with a controller in hand, navigating your Tiefling warlock through a tricky dialogue with a particularly surly Owlbear. But of course…It's just a distraction until your beautiful gothic girlfriend arrived.

The key turned in the lock with a soft click, a sound so familiar it barely registered until the door swung open.

There she was. Rhea Ripley, your Rhea, backlit by the hallway light, looking like a vision ripped straight from your most cherished daydreams. A simple black shirt stretched across her shoulders, paired with tactical cargo military pants and heavy boots. She wheeled a small suitcase in behind her, her eyes instantly finding you on the couch.

A wide, uncontrollable smile split your face. You practically threw the controller aside, the game forgotten. In one fluid motion, you launched yourself off the couch and into her waiting arms.

"Whoa, there!" she laughed, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through her chest and into yours. She caught you with an effortless strength that never failed to make your head spin, her arms wrapping around you and holding you tight as if you weighed nothing at all. “Miss me much?”

"You have no idea," you breathed out, before her lips found yours.

Rhea adjusted her grip, shifting your weight in her arms like you were a feather pillow, and turned toward the bedroom. You buried your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, airline air, and her own unique perfume.

It wasn't a gentle hello kiss. It was a month of pent-up longing poured into your lips. Her mouth moved against yours with a hungry familiarity, and you moaned softly, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. One of her hands slid down, palm covering your ass, squeezing possessively before gripping your thigh to hoist you higher against her. You clung to her shoulders, pushing the heavy leather jacket off as you kissed her back with equal fervor.

She didn't so much lay you down on the bed as she gently tossed you onto it, the comforter puffing up around you. You let out a breathy laugh, watching her with hooded eyes as she made quick work of her boots, kicking them off with a clunk before pulling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

There she was. All defined muscle and captivating tattoos. Your moon. Your sanity. Your everything.

Then she was on the bed, crawling over you, her powerful frame caging you in. She settled between your legs, the rough fabric of her pants a delicious friction against your inner thighs.

You were already achingly hard, your core wet and throbbing with need. You instinctively rolled your hips, seeking more contact. Rhea chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. One strong hand splayed across your lower belly, holding you down, stilling your movements with infuriating ease. 

"Ah, ah, ah," she chided, her voice a low, smoky whisper. Her eyes, dark and full of intent, held yours. “Behave.”

And just like that, the fight left your body. You went completely limp beneath her, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The power of that single word, the subtle promise in her tone, unraveled you completely. It was so easy it was almost funny. You want to please her. So much. 

A slow, predatory smile spread across Rhea's face. “That's it. So much better.”

She leaned down, her mouth finding yours again for a searing kiss before she moved lower. Her fingers hooked into the hem of your thin sleep shirt and pulled it up and over your head, tossing it aside. Her dark eyes roamed over your exposed skin with open hunger before she lowered her head. 

Her mouth was hot and demanding on your breast, her tongue, cool from the metal of her piercing, flicking and circling your nipple until you were whimpering, your fingers tangling in her dark hair. She lavished attention on each breast before trailing a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, her teeth grazing your hip bone.

She loved this. She loved how you melted for her, how you became this pliant, sensitive thing in her arms when she told you what you needed to hear.

“So beautiful for me,” she whispered against the waistband of your shorts, her breath ghosting over your dampening skin. “Always so good.”

Her fingers teased you through the fabric, a slow, maddening circle that had you pushing up into her touch. With a deft movement, she hooked her fingers into your shorts and underwear and peeled them down your legs, discarding them. The cool air hit your wetness for only a second before her mouth was on you, faster and more intense than you’d anticipated.

The first flat stroke of her tongue had you jolting, your legs closing reflexively around her head.

Rhea simply chuckled, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive skin. She didn't use force. She just placed her hands on your inner thighs, her thumbs pressing in gently. “Come on, now. Open up for me. Let me taste you, baby.”

The request, so softly spoken yet utterly commanding, made you blush from your chest to your hairline. You wanted to please her so badly. You let your knees fall apart, opening yourself to her a little shyly.

"Wider," she whispered, and you obeyed, spreading your legs until you felt utterly exposed.

“So wet for me already,” she observed, her voice thick with pride and raw desire. She teased you with two fingers, sliding them through your slickness, circling your aching entrance but not pressing in. "Soaked. All for me? All this?”

You were panting, your hips making tiny, desperate circles. “Yes. Please, Rhea.”

"Please, what?" she prompted, her fingers still tracing maddening patterns. Not pressing in. Not giving you what you needed.

“Please, I need you. Please.”

The mischievous adored smile returned. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Before you could form a coherent answer, two of her long fingers sank into you in one smooth, firm thrust. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.

“There she is,” Rhea breathed, her lips right by your ear as she began to move her hand, setting a deep, relentless rhythm. “There’s my girl. So tight and still taking me so well. You feel fucking incredible.”

Each word of praise was like a bolt of lightning straight to your core. You blushed deeper with every filthy compliment, every groan of approval from her lips, and your body responded accordingly, growing wetter, tighter, clenching around her fingers.

“That’s it, come on,” she urged, her free arm wrapping around you to hold you close. “Let me feel you milk me, baby.” You sank your fingers into her hair, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly snapped. You came with a broken cry, arching off the bed, your vision whiting out as you convulsed around her hand.

Rhea held you through it, kissing your shoulders, your cheeks, your sweaty forehead. “Good girl. So good for me.”

Before you could even float down from the high, her hands were on you again, turning you onto your belly with a swift, practiced motion that stole your breath. You were boneless, oversensitive, and you whimpered a weak protest into the comforter.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” she soothed, her body covering yours, her fingers finding their way back inside you from behind. You gasped at the new, deeper, more invasive angle.

“Rhe…I-I can't…” you pleaded, your body trembling violently, still alight with the aftershocks. “Too much… no way…”

“One more, baby. Come on, you’re so strong. My strong girl. I know you can give me one more.” Her fingers plunged into you, deep and sure. You gasped, your eyes rolling back. Her other hand snaked under you to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between her clever fingers. Her breath was hot on your ear.

“You’re doing so good, baby. So perfect.” You felt her open-mouthed kiss against the pounding pulse in your throat. Your body was betraying you, clenching around her, your hips pushing back against her on their own accord. “Think you can come for Mami again? Hmm?” she whispered, her voice a hypnotic lure. This accent is going to be the death of you. “If you do this for me…I might let you ride my strap later… nice and slow… just how you like it. All for you. But you have to earn it.”

The image her words painted - riding her, watching her eyes, feeling her even deeper inside of you -, her fingers so thick pumping inside of you, her breath on your neck. It was too much. Your undoing. A second, shocking orgasm ripped through you, so intense it bordered on pain. You saw stars, crying out helplessly into the pillow as you gushed around her fingers, your entire body shuddering through a release that felt endless.

As the waves finally receded, leaving you a trembling, breathless wreck, you managed a ragged thought. Oh, this woman… she’s good.

Rhea gently withdrew her fingers, turning you onto your side and spooning up behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. “See? I knew you could. My strong beautiful girl.”

And you knew, with every fiber of your spent and blissful being, that you would do anything, anything at all, to hear her say those words again. And again. And again.

The air in the small town square is thick with the smells of autumn—crisp, cold air undercut by the sweet, sugary burn of candied apples, the savory smoke from a distant barbecue pit, and the earthy scent of hay bales stacked around the edges of the dance floor. Strings of warm, glowing lights are looped from pole to pole, casting a honeyed glow on the laughing, flushed faces of your neighbors. From the stage, a gentle, twangy melody spills into the night, a softer counterpoint to the earlier, boot-stomping reels. It’s the annual fall festival, a celebration of the harvest and the one night a year this dusty, whisper-quiet town truly feels alive. Just a little bit though. 

You’re behind the makeshift bar your father made up, a long trestle table draped in a checkered cloth, its surface sticky with spilled beer and cider. You’ve been busy all evening, keeping the good people of this town happily lubricated. 

“Come on, mi cielito,” Manny said, leaning so far over the counter you could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath. You’ve smiled through his attempts at charm through most of the night, his broad grin and easy compliments rolling off you like water.  “One dance. I’ll show you moves that’ll make your papa blush.”

You’d just laughed, a genuine, airy sound that made his eyes crinkle. “You’d probably show me moves that’ll make my papa draw his shotgun, Manny. Go on, get lost. I’m working.”

He’d feigned a wounded heart but had sauntered off, no doubt to find another pretty girl to pester. That’s how it always was with him. But it was never just Manny. He at least was funny. But you like to keep things discrete. 

In a town this size, the walls don't just talk; they sing full-blown operas.

Your eyes, almost of their own volition, scan the crowd until they find her. Abby. Abby Anderson.

She’s across the square, head thrown back in a full-bellied laugh at something Nora said, while Mel shakes her head fondly. She’s a vision of solid, easy strength in tight, faded jeans and a green flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows to reveal forearms corded with muscle from a lifetime of working her father’s farm. You bet the green makes her eyes look like chips of arctic ice, brilliant and startlingly blue. And, of course, there is a white cowboy hat on the top of her head. Of course.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on stacking clean glasses with a clatter that’s a little too loud. The soft music wraps around you, and you find your head swaying almost unconsciously, your shoulders moving to the pleasant rhythm. You’re lost in the simple motion, the warmth of the lights, the hum of the crowd, when a shadow falls across the counter.

You look up and your breath hitches.

Leaning against the bar is Abby Anderson. In the flesh. Her posture is relaxed, one hip cocked, her powerful arms crossed over her chest. The position makes the muscles in her forearms flex, and you have to consciously stop yourself from staring. A half-smile plays on her lips, a smile that suggests she knows exactly the effect she has.

“How’s business?” she asks, her voice a low rumble that cuts through the music and goes straight to your bones.

You swallow, willing your voice not to betray the sudden, frantic beating of your heart. “Uh, good. Great, actually. I think I’ve sold twice as much beer as old man Bill usually moves. The sheriff might have to keep an eye on him driving that tractor home.”

Abby nods, her eyes flicking toward the stage for a brief second before returning to you. That blue gaze is intense…Focused. It feels like being under a spotlight. She uncrosses her arms, planting her hands on the sticky countertop. They are large, capable hands, calloused and nicked with small, white scars—a cowgirl’s hands.

“Wanna dance?”

The question is so simple, so direct, it knocks the air from your lungs. Heat floods your cheeks so fast you know you must be blushing a furious, tell-tale red. “I… I’d like to, but…” You gesture helplessly at the stand, at the bottles and glasses, a flimsy shield for your nervousness.

Abby doesn’t look away from you. Instead, she turns her head slightly, addressing your father, who is filling a mug for one of the mayor’s sons. “Sir?” she says, her tone shifting into one of pure, respectful politeness that is utterly disarming. “Mind if I steal her for a dance? Just for a song or two.”

Your father looks from Abby’s earnest face to your flustered one. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his features, and he gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “Go on, honey. Have some fun. I’ve got this.”

The permission, given so easily, makes you blush even deeper. There’s no hiding now. No professional barrier left to cling to. With slightly trembling fingers, you untie your apron and drape it over a barrel. You place your hand in Abby’s outstretched one.

Her palm is rough and warm, enveloping yours completely. It’s so comfortable, secure. She leads you through the crowd, her presence parting the sea of people effortlessly. You step onto the makeshift dance floor just as the band slides into a slower, sweeter tune.

You tentatively slide your arms up around her neck, and her hands come to rest on your waist. Her thumbs press gently against your sides, and you can feel the solid strength in her grip even through your layers of clothing. She pulls you close, and you can feel the heat of her body. 

You’re closer now than you’ve ever been. You can smell the beer on her breath, yes, but underneath it, the scent of her—soap and leather and pure, solid Abby. You feel her warm breath stir your hair as she dips her head closer.

“You look lovely tonight,” she murmurs, her voice so low it’s almost a vibration against your skin.

The compliment, spoken so intimately, makes you shiver. Head to toe. “You do, too,” you gasp out, the words feeling inadequate. Abby is not lovely. Abby is beautiful. Marvelous. There are no words for her really. 

Abby’s chest rumbles with a soft chuckle.“Yeah? Wouldn’t have guessed you thought so, the way you never give me the time of day.” Abby was different. Her flirtation was a slow, persistent burn. She’d stay late, long after Manny had called it a night, nursing a final beer while you wiped down counters and restocked glassware. She’d watch you, her eyes tracking your movements with a focus that made the back of your neck feel warm.

Patient. Like a well-bred girl. Or a predator. Either way.

“I was working,” you retort, finding a sliver of your usual composure. “It’s called professionalism.”

Her eyes, when you dare to meet them, are sparkling with mischief and something warmer, something darker and more enticing. “You’re not working right now.” she points out, her voice dropping even lower.

You have to look away then, your gaze darting around as Mrs. Adams and her husband waltz past, throwing you a curious glance. Abby sees it, the flicker of something shy in your eyes. She just leans in, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a jolt of pure lightning straight down your spine.

“If you’d prefer,” she whispers, her tone playful but laced with a promise, “I could always climb through your bedroom window. Like Romeo.”

A surprised, breathy laugh escapes you. You dig your nails lightly into the short hairs at the nape of her neck. She shivers, a full-body tremor that you feel against your own. In response, her fingers tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against her until every curve of your body is molded to the hard lines of hers. You can feel the steady, strong beat of her heart, a rhythm faster than the music.

“If you give me a chance,” she murmurs, her lips moving against your temple, “you’ll forget everything about this shitty little town with these shitty, small-minded people.”

The raw honesty of it makes you pull back just enough to look at her. Her face is so close. The honeyed festival lights catch the flecks of gray in the blue of her eyes, and you can see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that she gets from working in the sun all day. Your heart is a wild, frantic drum in your chest.

You wet your lips, your voice barely a whisper, only for her. “My window is the third one on the left. On the second floor.”

Abby’s smile is wide and triumphant, a brilliant, beautiful thing, only for you. She dips her head, and her teeth graze your earlobe in a gentle, possessive nip that makes your knees go weak. It’s a promise. A claim.

Then, as the final notes of the song hang in the air, she pulls away, her expression shifting back to one of innocent nonchalance. The moment is over, but the world has irrevocably shifted.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks, her voice back to its normal rumble, though her eyes still burn with that same blue fire

And all you can do is nod.

✮⋆˙

You won’t lie and say you weren’t anxious. The walk home with your father was quiet, filled only with the crunch of gravel under your boots and the distant, dying echoes of the festival music. The cold night air did little to cool the feverish memory of Abby’s hands on your waist, her breath in your hair, her promise hanging between you like a secret.

You kissed your dad goodnight on the cheek at the top of the stairs, his own skin rough and familiar. “Had a good time, kiddo?” he’d asked, his eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Yeah, Dad,” you’d breathed out, your voice sounding strangely high. “I had a really good time.”

You retreated to your room, the door clicking shut behind you like the closing of one life and the opening of another. The shower was a necessary ritual, washing away the lingering smell of beer and fried food, steam filling the small bathroom until the mirror was fogged and opaque. You pulled on a simple cotton sleep shirt and a pair of soft shorts, your skin humming with a nervous energy that soap and water couldn’t touch.

Back in your room, you never locked the door. There was no need. Your father slept like a hibernating bear, and the biggest threat in this town was usually a raccoon in the trash cans. But tonight, your fingers trembled as you turned the little brass lock, the click echoing in the quiet. It felt monumental. It felt like an invitation.

You sat on the edge of your bed with a book open in your lap, but the words were just black squiggles on a white page. Your ears were tuned to a different frequency, listening past the creaks of the old house settling, past the whisper of the wind in the oak tree outside. You were half-expecting, half-not expecting her to show up. The rational part of your brain said it was a flirtation, a line delivered under the spell of music and moonlight. The other part, the part that had felt the possessive nip of her teeth on your earlobe, knew it was a promise.

Twenty minutes later, you heard it. A soft, almost hesitant tap-tap-tap on the glass.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You were across the room in a second, your fingers fumbling with the curtain latch before you yanked them back. And there she was, suspended in your oak tree, her face a pale moon in the darkness, a grin playing on her lips. You shoved the window up, the cool night air rushing in.

She moved with a surprising grace for someone so solid, swinging one leg and then the other over the sill and landing softly on your rug. She straightened up, brushing a few stray leaves from her flannel shirt.

“Your window,” she giggled softly, her voice a husky whisper in the quiet room, “is a hell of a lot harder to climb through than it looks.”

A giggle escaped your own lips, nervous and breathy. You were blushing, you could feel it, a warm flush spreading from your chest to your cheeks. Because Abby Anderson was here. In your bedroom. Still in her party clothes, smelling of night air and faintly of beer, her presence making the room feel suddenly, incredibly small.

She reached up and removed her cowboy hat with a theatrical flourish, holding it over her heart. “Ma’am,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Oh, shut up.”

She laughed, a low, warm sound, and tossed her hat onto your desk chair. The playful glint in her eyes softened, replaced by something more intense. She took the two steps that separated you, and her large, calloused hands came up to wrap around your hips, pulling you close until your bodies were aligned. She buried her face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“God,” she murmured, her voice vibrating against your skin, making your legs tremble. “You smell so good."

She lowered her face slightly, and you felt the warm caress of her breath on your cheek. It was a question. An unspoken plea. You turned your face just a fraction, and that was all the answer she needed.

Abby sealed your lips.

Her kiss wasn’t at all what you expected. It didn’t take; it gave. It was surprisingly soft, a slow, exploring pressure that melted the last of your resistance. Your legs felt a little wobbly, and your hands came up to squeeze her solid biceps for balance. Her mouth was so warm, her lips impossibly soft, and you wanted to stay like this, kissing her forever.

Emboldened, you slid the tip of your tongue across the seam of her lips. Abby’s breath caught in her throat, a sharp, ragged intake of air. That was all the encouragement she needed. The kiss deepened, turning hungry and possessive. She pulled you tight against her again, and you could feel the heat radiating from her body, a furnace that kindled a matching fire low in your own belly.

You made a small, desperate sound against her mouth, and Abby almost growled in response, the sound primal and thrilling. Her large hands slid up your back, gathering the fabric of your sleep shirt between them. You broke the kiss long enough for her to pull the soft cotton over your head and toss it aside.

Her hands found your breasts immediately, kneading the soft flesh, her thumbs circling your already taut nipples. And she never stopped kissing you, her tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that made your head spin. A strong thigh pressed insistently between your legs, and you couldn’t stop yourself from rocking against it, a tiny, desperate movement to find the friction you craved.

“Abby,” you gasped, breaking the kiss.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice rough with want. “I know.”

You pulled her onto your bed, and she came willingly, following you down, her body covering yours. Her cheeks were flushed, and her practical braid was coming a little undone, strands of blonde hair framing her face. She kissed her way down your neck, your collarbone, before taking one breast into her hot mouth, sucking deeply while her hand attended to the other.

You cried out, arching into her, your fingers tangling in her hair. She lavished attention on your breasts before moving lower, her teeth grazing the delicate skin of your hips, leaving beautiful, possessive marks as she went.

“So fucking beautiful,” she murmured against your stomach, her breath hot on your skin. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long. Wanted to feel you come on my tongue.”

Her words sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. Then she was there, her breath ghosting over your wet folds, making you shiver.

“So pretty,” she whispered, and then her tongue was on you, a flat, slow stroke that made you jolt. She smiled against you, the sensation making you quiver. She licked slowly, building a pressuring torturous rhythm until you were writhing beneath her, clutching at your sheets.

Then she pulled away. You whimpered at the loss, looking at her questioningly. She just sat up, shuffling back to lean against your headboard, and patted her lap.

“Come here,” she said, her voice a low command.

Flushed and trembling, you moved to straddle her lap. She kissed you again, deep and slow, her hands roaming your back, your ass. You could feel the rough fabric of her jeans against your bare thighs. One hand slid between your bodies, her fingers testing your readiness, sliding through your wetness before carefully inserting one thick finger into you.

You gasped, your hips instinctively rocking, trying to take her deeper, but Abby held you still with a firm hand on your hip.

“Easy, baby,” she cooed. “Let me take care of you.”

She stretched you slowly, meticulously, adding a second finger when she felt you could take it. The stretch was exquisite, filling you perfectly. You were already fucking yourself on her hand, lost in the sensation, but Abby controlled the pace.

“That’s it,” she groaned, watching your face. “Ride my hand, baby."

You moved on her, your eyes locked with hers, your breath coming in ragged pants. Her thumb found your clit, circling it in time with the thrust of her fingers.

“You feel so good inside,” she rasped, her own breathing becoming labored. “So tight and wet for me. You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna squeeze my fingers?”

You couldn’t hold back. Her touch, the look in her blazing blue eyes—it was too much. The orgasm crashed over you, a silent, shuddering wave that made you clench around her fingers, your body gushing onto her hand as you buried your moans against her shoulder. Your whole body was trembling and you felt you couldn't breath for a moment.

But Abby wasn’t done.

With a strength that left you breathless, she turned you over. A firm hand on your hip guided you up onto your hands and knees. The change in position was sudden, dominant, and a fresh thrill shot through your spent body. The cotton sheets were cool against your flushed skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from her as she moved behind you.

You felt the solid weight of her knees framing your thighs, the rough denim of her jeans brushing against your bare skin. Her large hands smoothed over the curve of your ass, a possessive, approving touch that made you shiver.

“So fucking perfect,” she growled, her voice thick with want.

One hand slid down your inner thigh, urging you to widen your stance for her. The other settled firmly on the small of your back, holding you in place. You felt the blunt, wet pressure of her fingers at your entrance, already slick from your first release. She didn’t push in immediately, just circled, teasing, making you push back against her in a silent, desperate plea.

“You want it?” she murmured, leaning over you, her chest pressing against your back, her breath hot on your neck.

“Yes,” you gasped, the word muffled by the mattress. “Please, Abby.”

With a low groan of satisfaction, she gave it to you. She sank two fingers into you in one smooth, deep thrust, filling you utterly. You cried out, your back arching, your fingers clutching at the sheets. She held herself there for a moment, buried to the knuckle, letting you feel the full, stretching ache of her.

Then she began to move.

She set a relentless, driving rhythm, fucking you on her hand with a power that stole the air from your lungs. Each thrust was precise, aimed, hitting a spot deep inside that made your vision blur. The sound was obscene and electric—the wet slap of skin on skin, her ragged breaths, your choked whimpers against the bed.

Her free hand roamed your body, gripping your hip to pull you back onto her fingers, then sliding up to tangle in your hair, gently but firmly holding your head in place. She owned every part of you in that moment.

“You take me so good,” she rasped, her voice strained with the effort of her pace. “So deep. Christ, you feel incredible.”

You could only moan in response, lost in the sensation of being so completely claimed. The building pressure was different this time—deeper, more overwhelming. It coiled tight in your core, a spring wound by every perfect, pounding thrust.

“You gonna come for me again?” she demanded, her thumb finding your clit, applying a rough, perfect circle of pressure. “Do it. One more time, angel."

It was a command you couldn’t disobey. The climax tore through you, a raw, blinding wave that shattered your senses. Your body clenched around her, milking her fingers as you shook uncontrollably, a broken sob ripped from your throat.

She rode you through it, her movements slowing to a gentle, prolonging pulse until the last shudders subsided. Carefully, she withdrew, and you collapsed completely onto the mattress, spent.

She held you through the aftershocks, her body spooning yours, her fingers gently stroking your stomach. You groaned in half-hearted irritation and tugged at the fabric of her flannel shirt.

“Off,” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. “Too many clothes.”

Abby chuckled softly, a rich, satisfied sound. She shifted behind you, and you heard the soft pop of buttons being undone. She shimmied out of the shirt and tugged her undershirt over her head before pulling you back against her. This time, it was her warm, bare skin against your back. You sighed, contented, melting into her embrace.

You felt her breath warm on your ear as she nuzzled closer. “You just rest up,” she murmured, her voice a sleep-filled promise. “The second you feel your legs again, you let me know. I’m not nearly done playing with you yet.”

You flicked her head in weak reprimand. Abby just chuckled. Cowgirls, right?