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Summary: Every night at the Moulin Rouge, men stare at you with hunger. Except for one. A quiet stranger in a black suit watches you like you are something precious rather than something to consume, and you realise almost immediately that “he” is not a man at all.
Paris glittered most beautifully at night. Rainwater reflected gold from the streetlamps, carriage wheels rattled over wet cobblestones, and laughter drifted from crowded cafés thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.
To most people, the city felt alive.
To Rhea, it felt exhausting.
“Stop glaring,” one of her companions laughed, nudging her shoulder as the group stepped from the carriage. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”
“I’d rather attend a funeral,” Rhea muttered.
The men around her burst into amused laughter. None of them noticed the bitterness beneath the words. They never did. Because to them, Rhea was simply another wealthy young gentleman in Paris. Quiet, intimidating perhaps, but still a man all the same.
That was the point.
The tailored suits.
The low voice she forced herself to maintain.
The careful posture.
The gloves hiding roughened hands.
Years of practice had made the performance almost effortless. And it was a performance. One she had perfected because the world gave men freedom in ways it refused women.
As a woman, she would have inherited nothing.
As a woman, she would never have earned respect.
As a woman, she would never have been permitted to move through Paris alone at night without becoming prey.
So she became something else instead.
Something safer.
Something powerful.
A man.
At least in the eyes of the world.
“Come now,” another friend insisted, already grinning toward the brightly lit building ahead of them. “You cannot spend all your evenings buried in work.”
Rhea glanced upward. The wind caught the spinning red sails above the building, glowing brilliantly against the dark Paris sky.
The Moulin Rouge.
Music came from inside alongside drunken laughter and the sound of applause.
Rhea exhaled slowly through her nose, she hated places like this.
Men became uglier in establishments like these. Still, refusing too often would raise questions. And questions were dangerous.
So she followed them inside.
The club overwhelmed the senses immediately. Velvet curtains. Golden chandeliers. Perfume thick in the air. Champagne glasses clinking endlessly.
Women dressed in glittering fabrics moved gracefully between tables while wealthy men stared openly at them without shame.
Rhea’s jaw tightened almost instantly. One of her companions laughed loudly as a dancer passed by.
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s paid to smile at you,” Rhea replied flatly.
The man barked another laugh.
“That is the point.”
Rhea said nothing. She sat in the corner booth instead, broad shoulders tense, while cigarette smoke curled through the room.
She already wanted to leave.
Then the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into applause immediately.
Rhea barely looked toward the stage at first.
Until you appeared.
And suddenly the entire world seemed to stop moving. You stood under golden stage lights like something unreal. Jewels glittered against your skin, soft silk clinging to your body while music swelled around the theatre.
Beautiful.
No.
That word felt too small.
Rhea stared without breathing properly for several long seconds. Around her, men whistled and leaned forward eagerly, already watching you with the same familiar hunger she had seen a thousand times before. But Rhea could barely hear them anymore.
Because you smiled.
And something deep inside her moved.
You danced gracefully across the stage, every movement elegant and practised, but your eyes gave you away. Most people would never notice.
Rhea did.
There was exhaustion hidden beneath the performance. A sadness buried beneath the glamour. You moved beautifully because you had learned to survive beautifully. And suddenly Rhea could not look away.
“She’s new,” one of the men beside her remarked casually. “Half the city’s obsessed with her already.”
Rhea swallowed slowly.
“She is,” she said quietly.
The man laughed. “Careful. You sound enchanted.”
Maybe she was. Because when your gaze lazily swept across the audience, clearly accustomed to men staring at you like starving animals, your eyes suddenly stopped.
On her.
Your expression changed instantly.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Rhea felt it immediately.
Recognition.
Not of her face but something deeper.
You stared directly at her for one dangerous second too long.
And in that moment, Rhea knew. You saw through her.
Your heart stumbled painfully in your chest. It happened instinctively the moment you looked at the dark-haired stranger seated among the wealthy men near the front.
At first glance, she looked no different from the others.
Tailored suit, sharp jaw, broad shoulders, but the eyes ruined the illusion immediately.
Because men looked at you with desire, greed or cruelty.
But never like that.
The stranger watched you with quiet reverence. With understanding.
And something inside you recognised it immediately.
Woman.
The realisation nearly made you miss a step.
You recovered quickly, continuing the performance smoothly despite the sudden racing of your pulse. But you could not stop looking back toward her afterwards.
Neither could she.
Every time your eyes met, something sharp and electric passed silently between you.
Rhea barely remembered the rest of the evening afterwards. She heard laughter around her, felt glasses pressed into her hand, listened to conversations she could not recall later.
All she could think about was you.
The way you moved.
The way you looked at her.
The horrifying possibility that someone had finally seen her for what she truly was.
It should have terrified her, but instead, she wanted to see you again so badly it physically hurt.
“You’re distracted tonight, Ripley.” one of her friends observed.
Rhea leaned back in her chair slowly. “Am I?”
“You’ve been staring at that performer for nearly an hour.”
Another man smirked immediately. “Careful, Ripley. You look in love already.”
Love.
Ridiculous.
Impossible.
And yet Rhea’s eyes drifted back toward the stage anyway, toward you.
Still glowing beneath the lights. Still pretending beautifully for a room full of men who would never truly see you.
The same way the world had never truly seen her and for the first time in years, she no longer felt entirely alone.
Later that night, long after the performance ended, you stood before the mirror in your dressing room removing jewellery with slow, tired movements. Your feet ached, your smile had long since faded. The theatre outside had finally begun growing quieter, yet your thoughts remained fixed stubbornly on the stranger in black.
Woman.
You knew it. You did not know how, but you knew.
A soft knock sounded against your dressing room door, you frowned slightly.
“Come in.”
One of the younger dancers peeked her head inside.
“There’s a gentleman asking about you.”
Immediately, your pulse quickened.
“What gentleman?”
“Tall,” she said with a grin. “Dark hair. Looks frightening.”
Your breath caught slightly, before you could answer, the girl giggled again.
“You must have impressed him.”
The door closed once more, leaving silence behind. You looked slowly toward your reflection in the mirror then toward the dressing room entrance and despite every sensible instinct telling you otherwise, you stood.
Because deep down, you already knew, this was not the last time you would see the woman pretending to be a man.
And somewhere downstairs, waiting patiently in the shadows of the Moulin Rouge, Rhea realised she would return to this theatre every single night if it meant seeing you again.
Rhea returned to the Moulin Rouge the following night.
And the night after that. Then again, the next week.
Always seated at the same table near the stage, dressed in dark tailored suits while wealthy men drank themselves senseless around her.
At first, she told herself it was harmless.
A temporary fascination.
Nothing more.
But temporary fascinations did not leave bruises under her ribs every time you smiled onstage, they did not haunt her thoughts while she worked and they certainly did not make her spend absurd amounts of money simply for the privilege of watching you dance beneath golden lights for an hour each evening.
“You are becoming predictable.”
Rhea looked up from her drink as one of her companions smirked knowingly beside her.
“What?”
“The performer,” the man said lazily, nodding toward the stage where you laughed softly at something another dancer whispered. “You’ve become obsessed.”
Rhea’s jaw tightened.
“I appreciate beauty. Hardly a crime.”
The man barked out a laugh.
“You barely even look at the others anymore.”
That part was true. The Moulin Rouge overflowed with beautiful women. Rhea only ever saw you.
Meanwhile, you had begun recognising her footsteps before you even saw her. Every evening, sometime shortly before your performance, she would arrive.
Always calm.
Always composed.
Always watching.
And unlike the other men, she never called out to you.
Never tried to touch you.
Never demanded your attention.
She simply looked at you like you were something precious.
It terrified you slightly.
Not because she frightened you, but because she did not.
That was the problem.
You found yourself searching for her instinctively the moment you stepped onto the stage each night, and every single time, she was already looking at you.
One evening, while adjusting your gloves backstage, another performer leaned beside you with a knowing smile.
“The dark-haired gentleman is here again.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, please,” the woman laughed quietly. “He watches you like you hung the moon.”
You looked away quickly before she noticed the heat rising into your face. But your thoughts lingered stubbornly on the stranger downstairs.
Because by now, you had learned her name.
Mr Ripley.
Quiet, wealthy, reserved and absolutely not a man.
The realisation only deepened the more you watched her.
Nobody else noticed.
But you did.
The careful way she moved through rooms, the restraint in her posture, the tension beneath the performance and her eyes.
God.
Her eyes gave everything away. Men looked at your body first. She looked at you.
Like she wanted to understand you rather than own you.
Sometimes you caught her staring during quieter moments of your performance with an expression so openly tender it made your chest ache.
Nobody had ever looked at you like that before.
Not once.
It happened properly three weeks later.
The club had nearly emptied for the evening, the final drunken guests stumbling toward the exits while musicians packed away instruments one by one.
You slipped quietly through the backstage hallway, still dressed in performance silks beneath a long coat.
And there she was.
Standing alone near the entrance.
Waiting.
Rhea looked up immediately when she heard your footsteps approaching.
For the first time since meeting her, genuine surprise crossed her face.
“You should not be back here,” she said carefully.
You stopped directly in front of her.
Close enough now to see the faint smudging of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
“You come every night,” you replied softly.
Something flickered across her expression.
“I enjoy the performances.”
“That is not why you come.”
Silence.
The air between you tightened almost painfully.
Rhea glanced briefly down the hallway before lowering her voice.
“You should go back inside.”
“Why?”
“Because this conversation is dangerous.”
You studied her carefully.
Up close, the details became impossible to ignore.
The voice slightly forced lower than natural. The careful posture. The tension in her jaw. You took one small step closer.
“You are not a man,” you said quietly.
The silence afterwards felt enormous. For one second, you thought she might walk away, but instead she looked at you with an expression so vulnerable it almost hurt to witness.
“How long have you known?” she asked finally.
“Since the first night.”
“That should frighten you.”
“Does it frighten you?”
“Yes.” The honesty in her voice startled you.
This woman, who carried herself so carefully and confidently every evening, suddenly looked painfully exposed standing under lights.
“You don't have to be afraid of me,” you said softly. Rhea laughed quietly at that.
“You have that backwards.”
After that night, everything changed.
Not publicly.
The performances continued. Rhea still sat among the wealthy men. You still danced.
But now there was understanding between you.
Intimate and dangerously fragile.
Some evenings after closing, you would find her waiting near the alley behind the theatre.
The first few conversations remained cautious. Rhea spoke little about herself at first. But she listened to you constantly. And nobody had truly listened to you in years.
“You hate it here.”
The words surprised you one rainy evening as the two of you walked through empty Paris streets under the shelter of her umbrella.
“What makes you say that?”
“You look miserable every time someone touches you.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly, most people assumed performers loved attention. They never saw what happened underneath it.
They never see the exhaustion. The fear. The humiliation.
You laughed, though no humour reached it.
“I needed money.”
Rhea’s expression darkened immediately.
“How much do they pay you?”
“Not enough. They stare at me. Every night. And I smile because if I do not smile, they stop paying.”
Rhea’s grip tightened slightly around the umbrella handle.
“You should not have to survive like that.”
You stopped walking suddenly.
“So why do you come?” you asked softly, Rhea looked at you carefully.
“Because you looked lonely.”
The answer shattered something inside you. Like she had seen through the performance immediately. Much like how you saw through hers.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly, Rhea noticed immediately.
“You do not need to cry,” she said quietly, almost alarmed, you laughed weakly, wiping your eyes.
“I think you may be the first person who has looked at me and actually seen me.”
Rhea very carefully, reached up and brushed her gloved knuckles lightly against your cheek. The touch felt unbearably gentle.
“I saw you,” she murmured.
Your breath caught.
And suddenly you understood with terrifying clarity that the two of you were already falling in love.
After that, Rhea’s obsession became impossible to hide. Not that you minded.
Fresh flowers began appearing in your dressing room. Books were left anonymously at your door because you once mentioned wanting to read them. Expensive silk gloves after Rhea noticed the old pair you wore beginning to fray.
“You spoil me,” you murmured one evening while tracing your fingers over the ribbon tied carefully around another bouquet of roses. Rhea leaned lazily against the dressing room wall, dark suit fitting her beautifully.
“You deserve nice things.”
“You barely know me.”
“I think I know enough.”
The way she said it made your pulse stumble.
Outside the dressing room, music and laughter echoed through the theatre.
Inside, the world felt impossibly small.
Just you and the woman who looked at you like something precious instead of something purchasable.
“You stare at me constantly,” you teased softly.
“You are very beautiful.”
“You say that very seriously.”
“I am serious.”
You laughed quietly, though your heart felt dangerously full, then your smile faded slightly.
“Rhea.”
Her expression changed immediately at your tone.
“What is it?”
You hesitated.
“I am afraid sometimes.”
“Of what?”
“The men here. What happens if I stop smiling for them. What happens if they grow angry. What happens if one day I cannot escape it anymore.”
“You will never belong to them.” Something cold entered Rhea’s expression then. The certainty in her voice made your chest ache.
“You cannot promise that.”
“Yes,” she said softly, eyes locked on yours, “I can.”
And for the first time in years, standing there under the dim lights of your dressing room, you believed someone might truly protect you.
Not because they wished to own you.
But because they loved you already.
Winter arrived in Paris.
Snow dusted rooftops in silver while the Moulin Rouge continued glowing brilliantly against the cold night like a beating red heart.
Inside, nothing changed.
Men still drank too much champagne.
Music still echoed through velvet halls.
Women still smiled because they were paid to.
And every single evening, Rhea still sat at the same table watching only you.
Though now, everyone had begun noticing.
“He has not looked at another performer in months,” one dancer whispered backstage.
Another laughed quietly. “I think he would burn this building down if someone upset his favourite.”
They were not entirely wrong, Rhea’s devotion had become obvious.
Not in loud declarations. Not in possessiveness meant for public display.
In quieter things.
The way her eyes softened the moment you stepped onto the stage.
The way she stood whenever drunken men became too handsy near you.
The way flowers appeared in your dressing room after difficult evenings without fail.
And worst of all? You had fallen completely in love with her.
“You’re unhappy tonight.”
You looked up from removing your earrings as Rhea stepped into your dressing room after the performance ended. Only Rhea came backstage now. Nobody questioned it anymore.
The moment the door closed behind her, the exhaustion slipped visibly from your shoulders.
Rhea noticed instantly.
She always noticed.
“I am tired,” you admitted and her expression softened.
“You barely smiled during the final song.”
“You notice everything.”
“When it comes to you, yes.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
God.
The way she loved you felt terrifying sometimes.
Because it was so careful.
So genuine.
You stood slowly from the vanity table. The corset you wore suddenly felt unbearable against your ribs.
“I hate this place.”
The words escaped before you could stop them. Rhea crossed the room toward you immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. That is the problem.”
Your eyes burned suddenly with frustrated tears.
“Every night I stand on that stage and let men look at me however they please because I need the money. I let them touch my hands and speak to me like I belong to them and I smile because if I do not smile, they become cruel.”
Rhea’s jaw tightened visibly.
“And I am tired. I am so tired of pretending I do not hate it.”
Rhea stepped directly in front of you, close enough that you could feel her warmth.
“You do not have to do this anymore.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Rhea.”
“I have enough money for both of us ten times over.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then tell me the point.”
The truth terrified you.
“If I leave, there is nowhere else for me to go.”
“You could come with me.” Very gently, she reached for your hands.
Your breath caught instantly, Rhea’s thumbs brushed softly over your knuckles.
“I know what this world does to women who love other women. But I swear to you, if you come with me, I will spend the rest of my life making certain nobody ever hurts you again.”
Tears blurred your vision almost immediately, not because the words sounded dramatic but because she meant them.
“You barely know how to stop pretending to be someone else,” you whispered softly.
“That is true.”
“And yet you would still ask me to build a life with you?”
Rhea looked at you then with such raw devotion it nearly broke your heart.
“You are the only time in my life I have ever felt real. When I didn't have to pretend.”
The tears finally slipped free, Rhea reached up instinctively, brushing them away carefully with her gloved thumb.
“I love you,” she admitted quietly.
Your chest ached so painfully you thought it might split apart entirely.
No performance. No disguise. No distance anymore.
Just truth.
You laughed shakily through your tears.
“You realise, that I fell in love with you the first night I saw you looking at me from the audience.”
For the first time since meeting her, Rhea looked genuinely stunned.
“You did?”
“You looked at me like I was a person. Not something to consume.”
Rhea closed her eyes briefly like the confession physically hurt her.
Then she kissed you. Like she had imagined doing it a thousand times. Your hands gripped the front of her coat instantly while her fingers settled against your waist.
You left the Moulin Rouge three nights later.
Quietly. No grand announcement. No dramatic farewell. Rhea simply arrived with flowers in one hand and your suitcase in the other.
“You’re sure?” you asked softly outside the theatre.
Rhea looked at the glowing red windmill one final time before turning toward you.
“Are you?”
You stared at her for a moment, at the woman who had spent years pretending to be someone else just to survive. The woman who's pretend life not only saved her, but it is about to save you now.
The woman who looked at you with so much love it still startled you.
You smiled.
“Yes.”
And just like that, you walked away together.
The apartment Rhea rented overlooked a quieter part of Paris far away from drunken crowds and theatre lights.
It was warm, peaceful and private.
Yours.
For the first few weeks, you barely left, not because Rhea kept you hidden. Because both of you became slightly addicted to finally existing freely together.
Mornings tangled together in bed. Late-night dancing in the kitchen.
And slowly, little by little, Rhea began letting herself exist as a woman privately around you.
The first time she removed her tie and loosened the careful performance she wore for the world, you thought your heart might stop entirely.
“There you are,” you whispered softly.
Rhea looked almost shy beneath your gaze.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It should have been.”
You stepped closer and kissed her gently before she could retreat back into herself.
“You are beautiful,” you murmured against her lips.
Rhea laughed quietly, though her eyes looked dangerously emotional afterwards.
“You say that like you’re trying to kill me.”
“Perhaps I am.”
Sometimes, late at night, you still danced for her. Only her.
The apartment lights dimmed low while music played softly from the gramophone in the corner.
Rhea would sit watching you with the exact same expression she wore the first night at the Moulin Rouge.
Only now there was no distance between you.
No audience.
No performance for strangers.
Just intimacy.
Just love.
One evening, after you finished spinning barefoot across the wooden floorboards, Rhea caught your waist and pulled you laughing into her lap.
“You know,” you teased softly, fingers brushing through her dark hair, “you are still obsessed with me.”
Rhea looked entirely unapologetic.
“Yes.”
“At least you are honest.”
“I spent enough years lying.”
“You are happier now.”
Rhea’s hands tightened against your waist.
“So are you.”
And she was right. Because for the first time in your life, nobody was watching you anymore.
Nobody demanding smiles. Nobody purchasing pieces of you.
You belonged only to yourself and willingly, lovingly, you chose to belong to Rhea too.
Years later, people still spoke about the performer who vanished suddenly from the Moulin Rouge at the height of her fame.
Some claimed a wealthy nobleman had taken you away.
Others insisted you had died.
Nobody knew the truth.
Nobody knew that in a quiet apartment hidden away from the glittering chaos of Paris, a former performer still danced some evenings beneath candlelight for the woman who first looked at her and truly saw her.
And every single time, Rhea still watched you exactly the same way.
Like you were the most beautiful thing she had ever known.
Masterlist
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
Summary: After accidentally witnessing a bank robbery, your life changes forever when the dangerous criminal decides she cannot let you walk away.
The first thing you noticed was the screaming.
Not loud, just distant enough to make you pause halfway down the pavement outside the bank, your hand tightening slightly around the strap of your bag.
Then came the alarms, echoing through the street.
People began shouting immediately afterwards, panic spreading like wildfire as customers stumbled out through the front doors, you frowned, stepping back instinctively as a crowd pushed past you.
“What happened?”
“Someone robbed the bank!”
“Oh-” your stomach dropped.
For a moment, you simply stood there, frozen by confusion as police sirens began wailing somewhere in the distance, then movement caught your attention in the alley beside the bank.
You turned your head and saw her.
Rhea Ripley emerged from the back exit carrying two black duffel bags, moving quickly but without panic. Dressed entirely in black, hood pushed back, dark hair damp from the rain beginning to fall around her.
She looked up, directly at you.
Everything inside you went still, there was no mask.
No disguise, nothing hiding her face and judging by the way her expression changed, she realised that immediately.
You should have looked away, but you didn’t. You couldn't.
For one long second, neither of you moved, then she swore under her breath.
Your pulse spiked and suddenly she was walking toward you.
Fast.
Every instinct in you screamed at you to run. You barely managed one step backwards before she reached you.
“Don’t scream,” she said sharply, grabbing your arm, fear hit you hard enough to make your knees weak.
“I won’t,” you blurted instantly.
Her eyes flicked over your face as the sirens grew louder.
Closer.
“Get in the car.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
“You saw me.”
“I didn’t see anything,” you whispered desperately.
“That’s not true.”
The honesty in her voice terrified you more than shouting would have.
You looked toward the street, there was simply too many people and too much chaos.
Nobody is paying attention to the alley.
When you looked back at her, she was already opening the passenger door of a dark car parked nearby.
“Please,” you said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
She stared at you for half a second too long.
“Get in the car.”
You obeyed, not like you had any other choice.
The drive lasted nearly an hour, and you spent every second of it trying not to panic.
Rain hammered softly against the windows while the city slowly disappeared behind you, replaced by empty roads and thick woodland.
Rhea drove with one hand resting loosely against the steering wheel, entirely calm even though she had just robbed a bank and kidnapped someone.
You kept stealing glances at her, trying to understand.
She did not look frantic or unstable or cruel, even.
She looked focused. And that almost made it worse.
“You’re staring,” she said suddenly.
You jumped slightly and looked away immediately. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologise.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
The question came out quieter than you intended, you barely heard your own voice. Her grip tightened slightly against the steering wheel.
“No.”
You looked at her sharply. “You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
“That is not comforting.”
“You talk a lot when you’re scared.”
“I was kidnapped.”
“Fair.”
You stared at her in disbelief.
She noticed.
“What?”
“You’re acting like this is normal.”
“For me, it is.”
That shut you up completely.
Her safehouse sat deep in the woods, isolated enough that you doubted anyone would hear you scream even if you tried. It was a small, modern cabin hidden among the trees, its dark windows reflecting the rain. Rhea grabbed the duffel bags before glancing toward you.
“Inside.”
The moment the door shut behind you, the reality of the situation settled over you. You were alone with a criminal. Somewhere, nobody could find you.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re safe.”
You almost laughed at the absurdity.
“I do not think kidnapped people are usually considered safe.”
She sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across her face.
“You’re safe from me.”
The wording mattered, you realised that instantly.
Safe from her, not necessarily safe in general. Your gaze dropped briefly toward the duffel bags sitting near the kitchen counter.
One had fallen slightly open, and the cash spilt from inside.
An impossible amount.
Rhea followed your gaze, then calmly zipped the bag shut.
“Right,” you whispered. “This is actually happening.”
The first night was horrible.
Not because Rhea hurt you.
She didn’t.
She barely touched you at all.
But fear stuck to you anyway, it was heavy and suffocating.
She gave you blankets for the sofa, left food on the table and kept her distance.
Which somehow made everything stranger, you expected cruelty.
Threats.
Something.
Instead, she moved around the cabin quietly, as if she was trying not to scare you further. That should not have made her easier to look at.
It did.
“You should sleep,” she said eventually.
You sat curled tightly under the blanket, watching her carefully.
“How can you possibly be this calm?”
She glanced toward you from the kitchen.
“Practice.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“You’re still talking.”
You frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means most people stop talking around me eventually.”
“Should I?”
Her eyes met yours properly then.
“No,” she said quietly.
Days passed, then a week. You stopped asking when she planned to let you go after the fourth day because every time you brought it up, something in her expression closed off completely.
It was not anger but something worse.
Conflict.
And slowly, you stopped being afraid all the time, not completely, but enough to notice things. Like the fact that Rhea always checked the locks three times before bed.
Or how she drank black coffee constantly.
Or the way she sometimes stared out the windows for long stretches of time, like she expected danger to emerge from the trees.
She was careful.
“You can stop watching me like I’m going to stab you,” she said one evening while cooking.
You looked up from the sofa. “I don’t watch you like that.”
“You absolutely do.”
“You robbed a bank.”
“And?”
"You cannot say ‘and’ to that.”
“You’re adjusting surprisingly well,” she noted.
“I think my brain gave up.”
That actually made her laugh, it caught you off guard completely, making you stare.
Rhea noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You laughed.”
“Dangerous observation.”
“It sounded nice.”
The words left you before you could stop them. Rhea looked at you for a long time before turning back toward the stove. But you noticed the faint colour creeping along the back of her neck and suddenly the cabin felt far too warm.
“You could leave.”
The words came out of nowhere nearly three weeks later. You looked up sharply from your book, Rhea stood near the door, arms crossed tightly.
“What?”
“I said,” she repeated carefully, “you could leave.”
You stared at her.
“What changed?”
“Nothing.”
“That is obviously not true.”
She looked frustrated, suddenly not with you, but with herself.
“I can’t keep you here forever.”
“You already have.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
You stood up slowly.
“And what exactly was the plan, Rhea?”
“You saw my face.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
For the first time since meeting her, she looked uncertain.
“You were supposed to be temporary.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully, you should have wanted to leave, you knew that, but instead, all you could think about was the idea of never seeing her again.
Never hearing her voice.
Never watching her smirk at your sarcasm across the kitchen.
It hit you all at once. You had fallen in love with her.
A criminal. Your kidnapper. Rhea watched your expression change carefully.
“You hate me now,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“I should’ve let you go immediately.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I liked you.”
Your heart nearly stopped, Rhea looked furious at herself for admitting it.
“You should leave before that becomes a bigger problem.”
You stared at her for a long moment.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Neither are you.”
Her breathing changed slightly, you stepped closer before you could lose your nerve.
“You could have hurt me,” you said. “You never did.”
“You should be scared of me.”
“Maybe,” you whispered. “But I’m not anymore.”
The tension between you became unbearable. Rhea looked at you like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous.
“You have no idea what choosing me means.”
“Then tell me.”
Her eyes dropped briefly to your mouth and that tiny movement ruined you completely.
“You don’t get to take it back later,” she muttered.
“I know.”
Another step closer. Close enough to feel her warmth, close enough that your pulse became unbearable.
“You stay and everything changes.”
You looked directly into her eyes.
“Then let it.”
Rhea kissed you like she had been holding herself back for weeks. One hand cupped your jaw instantly, the other pulling you against her hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
It was desperate.
Hungry.
But underneath all of it was something almost frighteningly careful, like she still could not quite believe you were real. Your fingers tangled in the front of her shirt immediately as she kissed you deeper, her breath warm against your skin. When she finally pulled back, both of you were breathing unevenly.
“This is such a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
She stared at you for another second, then kissed you again anyway.
Two nights later, she brought you on your first job. Not because she asked you to, but because you followed her willingly.
“You’re serious?” Rhea asked as you climbed into the passenger seat.
“Yes.”
“You understand there’s no normal life after this.”
“There stopped being a normal life the second I saw you in that alley.”
Police sirens echoed somewhere far behind you as Rhea started the engine.
Then she reached across and took your hand, as she looked at you, you realised neither of you could escape this now.
Not the crimes and not each other.
Five years later.
“Do you ever think they’ll stop making documentaries about us?”
You looked up from the sofa just in time to see your own masked face appear on the television screen.
Well, not technically your face.
Just grainy security footage of two women dressed in black disappearing through the emergency exit of a museum in Paris while alarms screamed in the background.
The narrator’s voice lowered dramatically.
“The pair known only as The Ghosts have once again escaped authorities after the theft of nearly forty million pounds worth of jewellery…”
Rhea snorted from the kitchen.
“Ghosts?” she called out. “That’s still the stupidest nickname.”
You smiled faintly, stretching your legs across the sofa.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I liked the money.”
She appeared a moment later carrying two mugs of coffee, dressed in loose black joggers and one of your hoodies, dark hair still damp from the shower.
To anyone else, she looked normal.
Just another woman spending a quiet evening at home with her girlfriend.
Nobody would ever guess she had stolen a diamond necklace from a heavily guarded museum less than forty-eight hours ago. She handed you your mug before dropping onto the sofa beside you. Immediately, your legs ended up tangled together. Rhea glanced at the television again, unimpressed.
“They’re still using that footage?” she muttered.
“Mm.” You took a sip of coffee. “Apparently the public likes mystery.”
“The public likes being dramatic.”
The narrator continued speaking over images of police barricades and flashing cameras.
“No confirmed identities have ever been linked to the women responsible. Some investigators believe the pair may have military training due to the precision of their operations…”
You burst out laughing, Rhea looked offended.
“What?”
“You failed PE.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“You got banned from football for fighting.”
“That kid deserved it.”
You laughed harder as she leaned over to steal your mug entirely.
“Hey.”
“You’re annoying me,” she informed you calmly, taking a sip.
“You are literally an international criminal.”
“And you love me.”
Your smile softened immediately.
“Unfortunately.”
Rhea grinned, then leaned over and kissed you anyway, the world was obsessed with you, that had become obvious around year two.
At first, newspapers simply reported the crimes.
Bank robberies.
Private vault thefts.
Disappearing artwork.
Impossible escapes.
Then people started noticing patterns. Two figures always seen together.
Never separated.
One taller. One slightly smaller. Their movements were perfectly coordinated.
The media became fascinated, then obsessed.
By year three, people online had started romanticising you both completely.
Conspiracy forums. Books. Podcasts. Late-night interviews discussing “The Ghosts”.
You once found fan art, Rhea had nearly choked laughing.
“They made me smaller!” you pouted.
“You are small.”
“Not that small!”
You had framed the drawing as a joke. It still hung in the hidden room downstairs.
Your home was in the middle of the city, small enough not to attract attention and warm enough to feel like home.
But underneath it, hidden behind a reinforced steel door concealed beneath the floorboards of your wardrobe, sat millions.
Cash stacked neatly in waterproof containers. Jewellery collections worth more than most buildings.
Gold watches.
Diamonds.
Rare paintings.
And enough fake passports to disappear six times over.
Not that you needed any of it anymore, that was the funniest part. You had more money than either of you could spend in three lifetimes.
The jobs were no longer about survival.
They were about the thrill, the planning and the danger.
The impossible challenge of getting away with it.
Together.
“C’mere.”
You looked up from the bed as Rhea stepped into the bedroom holding a velvet box. Your brows lifted immediately.
“What did you steal now?”
“I prefer acquired.”
“You robbed a private auction.”
“Details.”
You laughed softly as she sat beside you.
The box opened slowly, inside sat a diamond necklace so expensive it almost looked unreal, silver stones catching the dim light like shards of ice, your breath caught slightly.
“Rhea.”
“What?”
“You cannot just casually bring home things like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because normal couples do not do that.”
“We stopped being normal years ago.”
Rhea lifted the necklace before moving behind you.
“Hair up.”
You obeyed automatically, her warm fingers brushed your neck as she clasped the necklace into place.
The diamonds settled cold against your skin, then Rhea’s hands slid slowly to your waist.
“There,” she murmured softly behind you. “Pretty.”
You glanced toward the mirror across the room, the necklace glittered against your skin beautifully but when your eyes met Rhea’s reflection behind you, you realised she was not looking at the diamonds.
She was looking at you. Like she always did.
Dangerously in love.
“You like this too much,” you murmured.
Rhea smirked slightly against your shoulder.
“I stole it for you.”
“You stole it because you enjoy causing international incidents.”
“That too.”
You laughed quietly, then leaned back against her chest.
“You know, they’re calling us criminal soulmates now.”
Rhea groaned immediately. “God.”
“I’m serious.”
“That sounds disgusting.”
“You watched the interview three times.”
“It was funny.”
“You liked hearing them say I’m your weakness.”
Rhea’s silence gave her away instantly, your smile widened slowly.
“Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You absolutely did.”
She grabbed your waist suddenly, pulling you backwards fully into her lap until you laughed breathlessly.
“Careful,” she warned softly against your neck.
“Or what?”
“You know exactly what.”
The tension between you still hit just as hard as it had five years ago, maybe even worse now because now Rhea knew exactly how to touch you, exactly how to look at you, exactly how to ruin your ability to think properly.
And she used that knowledge constantly.
The Louvre heist had nearly gone wrong, that was the closest either of you had come to getting caught in over a year, you could still recall the details and the thrill.
“Left corridor,” your voice crackled quietly through Rhea’s earpiece.
“Two guards,” she replied instantly. “I see them.”
You crouched behind a marble pillar, dressed entirely in black, pulse hammering beneath your ribs while footsteps echoed through the museum. The diamond sat inside a pressure-sealed display case less than twenty feet away.
Worth nearly twenty million. Rhea’s voice returned calmly.
“Ready?”
You grinned despite yourself.
“Always.”
Thirty seconds later, the alarms exploded through the building.
Chaos followed instantly, security shouting, footsteps and glass shattering. And right in the middle of it all, Rhea caught your wrist as you sprinted through the corridor together.
“Move.”
You laughed breathlessly while running beside her.
“This is why we need therapy.”
“We have each other.”
“That feels unhealthy.”
“It probably is.”
Then she shoved open the emergency exit doors, and both of you disappeared into the Paris rain before the police even reached the staircase.
Back in the present, Rhea lay on the sofa with her head in your lap while another news segment discussed your latest robbery, and you played with her hair.
“They think there are six of us now,” you murmured.
“That’s insulting.”
“I know.”
Rhea glanced up at you.
“You regret it?”
“What?”
“This life.”
Her voice had softened and you looked down at her carefully. She was the woman who had kidnapped you five years ago and somehow become the centre of your entire world.
Your partner.
Your lover.
Your home.
“No,” you answered quietly.
Rhea studied your face for a long moment, as if she was making sure you meant it, then she relaxed again, eyes half-closing as your fingers continued through her hair.
“Good,” she murmured.
A comfortable silence settled over the apartment.
Outside, the city carried on normally.
Inside your apartment sat two of the most wanted women in the world, curled together on the sofa like nothing had ever been dangerous at all.
Three nights later, the headlines changed again.
THE GHOSTS STRIKE LONDON PRIVATE COLLECTION
AUTHORITIES BAFFLED BY IMPOSSIBLE ESCAPE
CRIMINAL COUPLE MOCK POLICE ONCE AGAIN
Rhea read the article over breakfast before snorting softly.
“They called us theatrical.”
You looked up from your coffee.
“You blew up a fountain.”
“It was a distraction.”
“You also left a rose at the scene.”
“That was funny.”
“You are unbelievable.”
She grinned across the kitchen island.
“You still with me?”
The question sat heavier than it should have.
It wasn't insecurity, just truth.
Because this life was dangerous and yet... You crossed the kitchen slowly before stopping directly in front of her, Rhea’s hands settled automatically on your waist.
“Always."
She kissed you slowly, gently, like despite all the violence in your lives, this was the one thing she still handled carefully.
Outside, the world searched desperately for criminals.
Inside, all Rhea could think about was you.
The house looked painfully ordinary, that had been intentional.
Small coastal town. Quiet neighbourhood. Nobody paid attention to the lesbian couple living there. Nobody questioned the expensive wine delivered every month or the fact that neither of you seemed to have jobs despite travelling frequently.
You kept to yourselves.
Smiled politely and brought desserts to neighbourhood gatherings. Every evening, the most wanted women in the world came home, locked the doors, and disappeared into a life nobody else would ever understand.
“Baby.”
You looked up from the kitchen sink as Rhea walked into the room carrying grocery bags.
“You forgot the coffee again.”
Rhea stopped immediately.
“… No I didn’t.”
You raised a brow. She stared back at you for a moment before slowly lowering her eyes toward the bags in her hands.
“Right,” she muttered.
“International criminal mastermind.”
“I’ve had a busy week.”
“You hacked into a private security network yesterday.”
“Successfully.”
“You still forgot coffee.”
Rhea dropped the bags onto the counter before moving directly toward you.
“You’re very smug for someone who used my expensive shampoo this morning.”
“That was one time.”
“You used half the bottle.”
“It smells nice.”
“It costs more than your first car.”
You snorted as her hands settled automatically on your waist, the movement was so natural now neither of you even thought about it anymore.
Outside the house, Rhea Ripley was a ghost. Cold. Precise. Untouchable.
Inside? She stole kisses while dinner cooked and complained dramatically about grocery shopping.
It still made your chest ache sometimes.
The contrast.
Your hidden room was under the house, protected by fingerprint scanners, reinforced steel, and enough security systems to terrify most governments. It is only accessible through the false wall hidden behind the wine cellar.
Rhea entered first, punching in the final code while you followed behind carrying two glasses of whisky. The heavy door slid open slowly. Gold light spilled across the room instantly. Even after years, it still looked unreal.
Cash stacked neatly floor to ceiling.
Glass cases filled with stolen jewellery.
Paintings worth millions.
Rare watches.
Diamonds.
Entire lives hidden underneath your home. Rhea took the whisky from your hand before setting it aside and walking toward one of the display cases.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Hilarious.”
You smiled faintly as she opened the case, inside was the necklace from Paris, the one she stole for you, Rhea lifted it carefully before turning toward you.
“C’mere.”
You stepped closer automatically, the diamonds glimmered between her fingers as she moved behind you.
“Hair up,” she murmured softly.
You gathered your hair while she fastened the necklace around your neck.
Cold diamonds against warm skin, then her hands slid slowly down your arms.
“Beautiful,” she said quietly.
You looked toward the mirror mounted against the far wall. The necklace sparkled almost violently beneath the low lighting, but again, Rhea was not looking at the jewellery.
Only you.
“You enjoy this far too much,” you murmured.
Her lips brushed lightly against your shoulder.
“I enjoy seeing you wear things nobody else gets to touch.”
You turned slowly in her arms.
“You know,” you said softly, “most couples collect fridge magnets.”
“We collect felonies.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
Rhea laughed quietly before kissing you slowly.
The world is still obsessed with you, maybe more now than ever. Especially because nobody understood how The Ghosts kept disappearing.
You and Rhea watched a documentary about yourselves curled together on the sofa one rainy evening. A criminal psychologist appeared on screen looking painfully serious.
“The relationship between these two women appears emotionally dependent, most likely obsessive.”
Rhea burst out laughing immediately, you nearly choked on your wine.
“He’s not entirely wrong,” you admitted.
Rhea looked offended. “Obsessive?”
“You stole a sapphire necklace because I said it matched my nails.”
“It did match your nails.”
“You threatened a man in Venice for looking at me too long.”
“He was annoying.”
“You hacked a journalist’s phone because she called me your accomplice instead of your partner.”
Rhea pointed toward the television.
“That one was justified.”
You laughed harder as she pulled you sideways against her chest. On screen, blurry footage showed the two of you fleeing through smoke during a robbery in Prague.
“No one knows the true identities of the women known as The Ghosts. Experts believe they may never be caught.”
Rhea rolled her eyes slightly before muttering against your hair.
“They’re getting repetitive.”
“You’re just upset they used the bad photo again.”
“That photo makes me look like I moisturise.”
You stared at her.
“You do moisturise.”
“That’s classified information.”
The final heist started as a joke. Like it always did.
“You know what we haven’t stolen?” you asked one evening, Rhea looked up from cleaning one of her pistols.
“A yacht?”
“The Crown Jewels.”
Silence.
“…That’s impossible.”
You smiled, Rhea stared at you for another second, then her expression changed into something dangerous.
“You’re thinking about it,” you realised.
“We could do it.”
“You absolutely cannot. I was just joking.”
“We absolutely can.”
You groaned immediately as she stood and walked toward the giant planning board already hanging in the hidden room.
“Rhea.”
“This would be historic.”
“This would be insane.”
“That’s why it’s fun.”
You watched her start sketching ideas anyway, and despite yourself, your pulse quickened, because this was what the two of you were.
Thrill-seekers. Partners in every terrible decision imaginable. And deep down, you already knew you would say yes.
Three months later, every news station in Europe exploded.
CROWN JEWELS STOLEN IN IMPOSSIBLE HEIST
THE GHOSTS STRIKE AGAIN
INTERNATIONAL AUTHORITIES LAUNCH GLOBAL SEARCH
You sat in the passenger seat of the car while helicopters thundered somewhere behind you. Rain hammered the windscreen. Your pulse was still racing violently, and beside you, Rhea looked more alive than you had seen her in years.
“You’re insane,” you breathed.
She laughed.
Adrenaline-drunk.
“You love it.”
“You almost got us caught.”
“But I didn’t.”
You stared at her for a second before both of you dissolved into breathless laughter together. The Crown Jewels sat hidden in the backseat, and for the first time in years, there was no next plan waiting afterwards.
No next target.
No next city.
Just silence.
“You ready?”
You understood immediately.
To disappear.
For real this time.
No more headlines.
No more chases.
No more Ghosts.
Just the two of you.
You reached across took her hand.
“Yeah, I am.”
Rhea squeezed your fingers tightly.
Then drove toward the border without looking back once.
The world searched for you for years.
Sightings flooded the internet constantly.
Two women in Italy.
A robbery in Brazil.
A possible appearance in Tokyo.
None of them was real.
The Ghosts had vanished completely after the Crown Jewel theft.
No arrests. No bodies. No evidence. Just gone.
The mystery became legend.
Books were written. Films inspired by the story. Endless theories. Nobody ever discovered the truth.
Years later, the two of you sat on the porch of a quiet house near the sea while the sunset painted gold across the water.
Older now and softer in certain ways. Still deeply, hopelessly in love.
Rhea sat beside you in silence, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders while a documentary about The Ghosts played faintly from inside the house. A younger version of yourselves flashed briefly across the television screen.
Blurry.
“Think they’ll ever stop talking about us?”
Rhea kissed the side of your head gently.
“Probably not.”
Inside the house, hidden beneath loose floorboards in your bedroom, sat one final velvet box containing the Crown Jewels themselves.
Untouched. Priceless.
And yours.
But neither of you cared much about the money anymore, because in the end, after all the crimes and headlines and years spent running together, the greatest thing either of you had ever stolen was time.
And somehow, against all odds, you still had plenty left.
A/N: The above pictures are from Pinterest, credit goes to their owners.
Summary: Rhea Ripley is confident, heavily tattooed, and impossible to ignore. You are only supposed to be getting one tattoo.
The tattoo shop smelled faintly of disinfectant, black coffee, and something darker underneath, something smoky and warm that clung to the walls and settled into your lungs the longer you stood there.
Music played overhead, low enough to blend into the buzzing hum of tattoo machines from the back rooms.
You almost turned around, not because you were scared of the tattoo.
… Well. Maybe slightly.
But mostly because everyone inside looked painfully confident, like they belonged in a completely different world than you, then someone looked up from behind the counter.
And suddenly, you forgot how to think properly.
Rhea sat lazily in a chair, heavy boots propped against the desk, tattooed arms crossed over a black shirt that fit her unfairly well.
Her dark eyes landed on you instantly as a smirk spread across her face.
“Well, you look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
She raised a brow, you didn’t even convince yourself.
“You’re standing in the doorway like it personally offended you.”
You glanced down.
Right. How embarrassing.
You stepped fully inside, the bell above the door chiming behind you.
“I have an appointment,” you muttered.
“With who?”
You checked your phone quickly. “Rhea.”
“That’s me.”
Of course it was.
The studio itself was strangely comforting once you got past the intimidation factor.
Dim lighting. Black walls covered in artwork and framed designs. Old leather chairs. Rhea watched you while you filled out paperwork.
“You’ve got good handwriting,” she commented suddenly.
“What?”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“Just saying.”
“You say that to all your clients?”
“No, most of them write like they barely finished school.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, her smirk widened slightly.
“C’mere. Let’s have a look at what you want.”
You followed her toward the back room, suddenly very aware of how tall she was.
And broad.
And unfairly attractive.
This was going badly already.
“So,” Rhea said, sitting down on a rolling stool, “first tattoo?”
You nodded.
She hummed softly. “Knew it.”
“How?”
“You keep looking around like you’re expecting someone to jump out and judge you.”
“I am being judged,” you muttered.
She leaned back slightly, a grin tugging at her mouth.
“Yeah, but not for the tattoo.”
You looked away quickly.
“Can we focus, please?”
“That nervous, huh?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The confidence in her voice should have annoyed you, but instead, it made your chest warm.
The stencil placement took longer than necessary, entirely because Rhea kept distracting you.
“You twitch every time I get close.”
“That’s because you appear out of nowhere like a vampire.”
She laughed at that.
“A bit dramatic.”
“You’re tattooed head to toe and dressed entirely in black.”
“And?”
“And it’s suspicious.”
She stepped closer then, close enough that you caught the scent of her perfume underneath the ink and disinfectant.
“You think I’m scary?”
“No,” you said quietly.
That seemed to surprise her, as if she was trying to read your thoughts but couldn’t.
“Good.”
The tattoo itself hurt less than you expected, mostly because Rhea kept talking to distract you, not with meaningless chatter, but rather with real conversation.
“What do you do for work?”
“What music do you like?”
“Why this tattoo?”
You answered without even realising how easily she drew things out of you and the entire time, her hand rested steadily against your skin.
“You’re doing really well,” she murmured after a while.
You looked down at her. “You say that to everyone?”
“No.”
The way she said it made your pulse stumble. By the time the tattoo finished, nearly three hours had passed. Rhea wiped the area gently before leaning back to admire her work.
“There,” she said quietly. “Pretty.”
You looked down at the tattoo.
Then back at her.
Her eyes were already on you.
Not the tattoo.
You.
The air suddenly felt too warm.
“You flirt with all your clients?” you asked softly.
Her grin returned instantly.
“Only the cute ones.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
You told yourself you would not come back just to see her, then you came back two weeks later for another tattoo.
“You again.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Baby,” she said, leaning lazily against the counter, “I’ve been thinking about you since you left.”
As much as you hate to admit, your entire body heated at once.
“You cannot just say things like that.”
“Sure, I can.”
She looked entirely too pleased with herself.
After that, it became a pattern.
You would show up, Rhea would tease you relentlessly and somehow, without either of you meaning to, the line between artist and client blurred into something else entirely.
You stayed after the appointments.
Shared takeaway in the studio after closing and sat on the counter while she cleaned equipment, listening to her talk about stupid customers and awful tattoos she had to fix.
“You’d tell me if I picked something ugly, right?” you asked once.
She snorted softly. “I already did.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“You survived.”
“You’re awful.”
“And yet, you keep coming back, Baby.”
That was the problem, you really, really did.
The first kiss happened after midnight.
Rain hammered softly against the shop windows while the city outside blurred into wet lights and empty streets.
You sat on the counter, wrapped in one of Rhea’s hoodies, while she locked the front door.
“You know, people are gonna start thinking you work here.”
You smiled slightly. “Maybe I do.”
She looked at you then, and the teasing faded from her expression little by little.
“You should stay,” she said quietly.
Your breath caught. “Tonight?”
“Mhm.”
The way she said it made your stomach flutter, like she wanted you there more than she wanted to admit.
You slid off the counter slowly. “What if I say yes?”
Rhea stepped closer immediately, close enough that your pulse started racing.
“Then,” she murmured, eyes flicking briefly to your lips, “I finally get to do this.”
And then she kissed you.
Slow at first, as if she was giving you time to change your mind.
You didn’t, instead your hands found the front of her shirt, gripping lightly as she pulled you closer.
Her forehead resting briefly against yours when she pulled back.
“You alright?” she asked softly.
You laughed breathlessly. “You ask that after kissing me like that?”
A grin spread slowly across her face.
“Fair point.”
Being with Rhea felt surprisingly easy after that.
You expected intensity, and yes, she was intense, but she was also gentle in ways nobody else got to see.
She made coffee for you every morning you stayed over.
Pressed kisses to your shoulder while drawing designs.
Pulled you into her lap whenever you moved too far away.
And slowly, the tattoo studio started feeling less like her space and more like yours together.
One evening, long after closing, you sat against her on the battered sofa in the back room while she absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm.
“You know, you ruined my whole mysterious reputation.”
You smiled against her shoulder. “How tragic.”
“Mhm. Now everyone thinks I’m soft.”
“You are soft.”
She looked down at you immediately. “Careful.”
You grinned. “Or what?”
Her eyes darkened slightly before she leaned down to kiss you again, deeper, enough to make your stomach flip.
When she pulled away, she stayed close enough that her nose brushed yours.
“You’re lucky I like you,” she murmured.
You smiled softly. “You love me.”
“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I really do.”
Your chest ached warmly.
“I love you too.”
And judging by the way Rhea looked at you afterwards, soft and stunned and completely gone for you, you knew she would spend the rest of her life making sure you never doubted it again.
Months later, the shop still smelled like ink and coffee and late nights.
But now it also smelled like your perfume lingering on Rhea’s hoodies, takeaway containers left on the counter, and the life you had quietly built together.
Sometimes she’d glance over mid-conversation with a client just to smile at you.
And every single time, your heart still skipped the same way it had the first day you walked through that door.
A/N: Above photos are from Pinterest, credit goes to the owners!
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Honestly, I’m not surprised itsgivingmami used ai cause they already seemed a bit weird?? Like they had this weird daddy kink thing going on with their readers and they would always include their hands in photos of their art. I’m not here to kink shame cos I’m in no position to do that but it still made me super uncomfy to the point where I unfollowed them
I’m sorry. I’m not sure how the two correlates. 😅
I get told I am weird myself and that people sometimes don’t like my blog because of that so I get that.
It's your opinion on whether or not they used AI at the end of the day, but I would bet any amount of money on the fact that it was AI, like I'm 1000% positive.
The vast majority of the time it doesn't know how to use em dashes correctly and it will just throw them in randomly and repetitively when it doesn't make sense to, which is the biggest giveaway
It's unfortunate that they just nuked everything rather than addressing it, and I did like some of the fics they had posted, but the whole thing just screams guilty
We can agree that it’s not a good look. But I would prefer to hear all sides before judging.
We don’t know all details and might never know since they deactivated.
I've been told people were aware that her work was AI for a good while now. I ran it through an AI detector at the time, since I don't like to consume fics written by AI, and it didn't detect anything, but we know how those work (or rather, don't work) 😅
There were far faaarrr too many context clues. em dashes being used too often and incorrectly, phrases being repeated practically every other sentence, etc etc.
I sent them 1 ask questioning why they used AI and rather than denying it, they just deleted every single fic. I sent them another asking if they deleted everything because they were using AI and then they deactivated. If they weren't, then immediately panic nuking everything is insane😭
I just absolutely loved their work and was concerned that they deleted their blog. I was trying to understand what happened here, I'm not here to stir or start drama.
You might have sent 1 or 2 messages, but no one deletes their entire blog just because of 2 messages. We don't know what was happening behind the scenes. It might just be that the 2 messages were what pushed them over the edge.
I don't understand why you believe so firmly that they used AI. I actually think this is a very interesting topic. Like, your side as the reader and me as a writer.
The useage of em dashes- I think, everyone who knows English grammar knows how to use them, also the fact that they were used incorrectly should be a giveaway, no? I would think AI would use it correctly.
Phrases being repeated- Could be their stylistic choice. I have read books and fanfiction that did the same. I remember back in school my teacher constantly nagging me about repeating words or phrases, it is what makes is human.
I wasn't there when they were writing or posting, but from what I have read, to me, the stories had soul and thought put into them.
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Have you seen that itsgivingmami deactivated? Got called out for using AI and ran😭
I have not seen it! But now that you mentioned, I checked because I had a number of her pieces saved and they are all gone!
Did they use AI or did they just had enough of people constantly saying it?
Because I also get messages saying my pieces are AI on here and my other blog when its not true. I'm afraid we are entering an era when people claim AI and the writer, who didn't use AI, gets fed up and deletes their work.
UPDATE: We got a post from itsgivingmami, check it out here.
Summary: Rhea struggles with telling you that she’s trans, fearing it might change how you see her or even cost her the relationship.
It starts with her being quieter than usual.
You notice it immediately. Of course you do. After all this time together, you’ve learned the language of Rhea Ripley in ways no one else seems to.
The way she grips your hand a little tighter when something’s on her mind. The way her shoulders carry tension she pretends isn’t there. The way her jokes come half a second too late.
Tonight, it’s all of it.
“Hey,” you murmur, nudging her gently with your shoulder as you sit beside her in the booth. “Where’d you go?”
She blinks, like she’s been pulled back from somewhere far away. “Nowhere.”
You give her a look. She huffs softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Okay. Not nowhere.”
That’s something she’s told you she likes about you. You don’t push. You don’t pry. You just… wait, patiently.
Her fingers tap nervously against the table, then stop. Then start again.
“I need to tell you something,” she says finally.
There’s something in her voice that makes your chest tighten, she looks so worried and vulnerable.
You reach across the table, turning your hand palm-up. She looks at it for a second, like it’s the safest thing in the world and the most terrifying all at once.
Then she takes it. Her grip is strong. Always has been. But now there’s something else under it. Uncertainty.
“I should’ve told you earlier,” she continues, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “Like… a long time ago.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Okay.”
She exhales shakily.
“I didn’t because… Because I didn’t know if it would change things. And I didn’t want to lose you over something that-"
She cuts herself off, you gently squeeze her hand.
“Hey. You’re not losing me mid-sentence, I promise.”
That almost gets a laugh out of her. Almost. Then she looks at you properly. And there it is. The thing she’s been holding back. Fear, sharp and raw under all that confidence she shows the world.
“I’m trans.”
The words land between you.
She braces. You can see it. Shoulders squared, like she’s about to take a hit.
You don’t let it come.
Instead, your thumb brushes slowly over her knuckles.
“Okay.”
She blinks. “…okay?”
“Yeah,” you say gently. “Okay.”
There’s a long pause.
“…that’s it?” she asks, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.
You tilt your head again, soft smile forming.
“What were you expecting? A dramatic monologue? Me flipping the table?”
“I don’t know. Something… worse.”
You move closer, your knee pressing against hers under the table.
“Rhea, you just told me something important about yourself. That’s not something I’m going to punish you for.”
“I trust you,” she says, like it’s a confession of its own.
“I know, and I’m really glad you told me.”
Her eyes search your face, like she’s waiting for the catch. The hesitation. The moment where things feel different, it never comes.
“You’re… not weirded out?” she asks, almost cautiously.
You laugh, gentle, not mocking.
“You date me. Your standards are already questionable.”
That gets her. A real laugh this time. Short, but bright.
You take advantage of it, sliding your hand fully into hers, lacing your fingers together.
“You’re still you, the same person I’ve been ridiculously in love with. And this?” you lift your joined hands slightly. “Doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”
She stares at you like she’s trying to memorise every word.
“…you’re serious.”
“Very.”
“You don’t… see me differently?”
You lean in just a bit, your voice dropping.
“I see you clearer.”
That does it.
Something in her expression breaks, not in a bad way. In a release. Like she’s been holding her breath for years and is only now realising she doesn’t have to. She stands abruptly, sliding into your side of the booth before you can even question it, arms wrapping around you tightly. You laugh in surprise, but immediately melt into her, hugging her back just as firmly.
“Hey,” you murmur into her shoulder.
She buries her face into your neck, holding you like she’s afraid you might disappear if she loosens her grip.
“You’re not going anywhere, right?” she mumbles.
You pull back just enough to look at her.
“Rhea. There is nothing you could say that would make me walk away from you.”
Her eyes shine, just slightly.
“Nothing?” she asks.
You smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Nothing.”
She exhales, shaky but relieved, and leans her forehead against yours.
“God, I was so scared to tell you.”
“I know. But you don’t have to be scared with me.”
Her arms tighten again, but this time it feels different.
“I love you,” she says quietly.
“I love you too.”
And for the first time that night, she smiles without anything holding it back.
Rhea Ripley with an Independent Girlfriend Headcanons
• She was interested in you because you didn’t need her
• Rhea is used to people either being intimidated or completely drawn in by her presence.
• You were neither.
• You didn’t chase her. Didn’t try to impress her.
• That got her attention immediately.
• “You don’t scare easy, do you?”
• “Should I?”
• Yeah, she was hooked.
• Your first real argument turned into attraction
• Not toxic, just… intense.
• You challenged her on something, didn’t back down, didn’t let her control you.
• Most people would have. You didn’t.
• She got frustrated.
• And somewhere in the middle of it, she just stopped, looked at you, and smirked.
• “God, I like you.”
• “You’re insufferable.” you almost laughed
• “Yeah,” she said, stepping closer, “and you’re still here.”
• She tries to be dominant… but you don’t just let her
• Rhea naturally leans into control, guiding, taking charge, especially in public.
• Hand on your waist, pulling you closer, steering you through crowds.
• But you?
• You push back in small ways.
• Turning her face toward you mid-conversation.
• Taking her hand first.
• Leaning in before she can.
• It drives her a little insane. In the best way.
• “Careful,” she murmurs sometimes.
• “Or what?” you reply.
• The look she gives you after that? Dangerous.
• She respects you more than anyone else
• Not just loves you, respects you.
• You have your own life, your own goals, your own strength.
• She never tries to take that from you.
• If anything, she’s your biggest supporter.
• “You don’t need me,” she once said.
• “I choose you.”
• That stayed with her.
• Rhea will step in if someone crosses a line. No hesitation.
• A look, a step forward, a hand on your back that says I’ve got this.
• But she never speaks over you.
• Never takes your voice away.
• If you handle it yourself?
• She’s watching from the side, arms crossed, a small, proud smirk on her face.
• The softness she only shows you
• To everyone else, she’s sharp edges and confidence.
• With you, she lets herself unwind.
• Head in your lap. Fingers lazily tracing your arm.
• Quiet. Comfortable.
• “Don’t tell anyone I’m like this,” she mutters once.
• You smile slightly. “Like what?”
• “Soft.”
• You brush her hair back. “Too late.”
• You ground her without trying
• Rhea runs hot. Emotionally, mentally, physically.
• You don’t try to control that.
• You just… steady her.
• A hand on her wrist. A look. A quiet “hey.”
• And she calms.
• Not because she has to.
• Because it’s you.
• She loves when you take control sometimes
• You pin her against a wall once. Just once.
• Not aggressively, just enough to flip the dynamic.
• She freezes for half a second.
• Then her eyes darken.
• “Oh?”
• You don’t back down.
• That night?
• Yeah, she does not let that go.
• “You think you’re in charge now?” she murmurs later, close, amused, a little breathless.
• You just smile.
• That’s exactly why she’s obsessed with you.
• Quiet jealousy, never insecurity
• Rhea isn’t easily threatened. She knows what she brings to the table.
• But when someone flirts with you?
• She notices.
• Her arm slides around your waist. Pulls you just a little closer.
• Not possessive.
• Just a reminder.
• You glance at her. “Relax.”
• “I am relaxed,” she says, not moving her hand at all.
• The way she loves you is intentional
• She doesn’t do anything halfway.
• Not her career. Not her presence. Not you.
• Every touch is deliberate.
• Every glance means something.
• Every “stay with me” carries weight.
• And you never doubt it.
• Not for a second.
Summary: In a rigid 19th-century world, you are forced into a marriage with a quiet, mysterious man who offers you safety when you have none.
A/N: This piece was inspired by the movie Albert Nobbs (2011)
The bell above the bakery door chimed, but you barely looked up at first. Another customer, another coin, another loaf.
That was your life.
Flour on your hands, aching feet, and just enough money to keep your mother from complaining, though never enough to truly satisfy her.
“Bread.”
The voice made you pause, it was low. Even. Controlled. You lifted your head.
He stood near the counter, tall, dressed in dark, well-kept clothing that did not quite match the simplicity of your shop. His coat was clean, his boots polished, his posture stiff .
Not a labourer. Not quite a gentleman either, but rather something in between.
You reached for a loaf with a small smile.
“That will be two pence.”
He placed the coin down without hesitation.
You handed him the bread. He took it, gave a single nod, and turned to leave.
No smile. No lingering glance.
He was just gone.
You told yourself you did not care, but he returned the next day. And the day after that.
Always at the same hour, always the same order and always the same quiet presence that seemed to draw your attention whether you wished it or not.
You could tell he was handsome, there was no question about that, but there was something about him. A mystery.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of you.
“Same again?” you asked one evening, already reaching for the bread.
“Yes.”
His voice was softer that time. You glanced at him briefly.
“You are a creature of habit.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“I find consistency… useful.”
That was all. But it stayed with you long after he left.
Weeks passed.
Winter settled in harsh and unforgiving ways.
The bakery grew colder, quieter. Fewer customers, less coin. Your hands cracked from the cold, your patience wore thin, and your mother’s temper grew worse with each passing day.
“You cannot continue like this,” she snapped one night, standing in the narrow kitchen with her arms folded tightly. “You are not a child.”
“I am working, I bring in what I can.”
“It is not enough.” Her voice cut like a blade. “You should have been married by now. Other girls your age have homes, husbands, security.”
You looked down at your hands.
“Not every man is kind.”
“Kindness does not feed you.”
That silenced you. Then she stepped closer, her tone colder.
“You will find a husband before the month ends. You will not remain under this roof.”
“You cannot mean that.”
“I do.”
And you knew she did.
Three days later, he was in the bakery again, watching you closely, you could feel his eyes following your movements.
“You are not well,” he said simply, placing his coin down.
“I am fine.” You frowned.
“You are thinner. You do not meet my eyes as often.” His gaze was steady, unsettling in its accuracy. “Something has changed.”
You hesitated. You should not have answered.
“My mother intends to turn me out.”
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Then, without warning:
“Marry me.”
You stared at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have a house. Income. Stability. You require those things.”
“That is not a proposal. That is a transaction.”
“If you prefer to call it that.”
Your heart pounded.
“Why me?”
His jaw tightened, just slightly.
“Because I trust you.”
“That makes no sense,” you whispered.
“It does to me.”
You searched his face for any sign of mockery, but you found none. Only a very serious man with an even more serious idea.
“You would be provided for,” he added, quieter now. “You would not be harmed.”
The words settled heavily in your chest. Not romance. Not love.
But safety.
And you were running out of choices, and so, you ended up agreeing.
The wedding was quick and practical.
A handful of witnesses, a priest who did not ask questions, and vows that felt more like an agreement than a promise.
You moved into his house that same evening.
It was larger than you expected. Neat. Orderly.
Like him.
He gave you your own space. Your own room. He did not demand affection, did not touch you beyond what was necessary for appearances.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt strange.
Because there were things that did not add up.
He never undressed in front of you. Never allowed you too close. And sometimes, when he thought you were not looking, his expression softened in a way that did not match the man he presented to the world.
You discovered the truth on a cold night.
You had woken to a sound, faint movement beyond your door. Curiosity pulled you from your bed. The adjacent room stood slightly ajar, candlelight flickering inside.
You stepped closer.
And looked.
Your breath caught.
He stood with his back turned, shirt half-removed.
Cloth wrapped tightly around his chest.
Binding.
Not a man.
The floor creaked beneath your foot.
He froze then turned.
The fear in his eyes was immediate.
“Close the door,” he said, voice low and urgent.
You obeyed without thinking.
“What is this?” you whispered.
“I will explain,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But you must not raise your voice.”
“You lied to me.”
“I survived, please.”
That word changed something.
You swallowed.
“You are a woman.”
“Yes. I have lived as a man for years. It is the only way to earn enough, to be taken seriously, to exist without constant threat.”
“And marrying me?” you asked.
Her gaze dropped briefly.
“A man without a wife invites questions. A wife provides… legitimacy.”
"What's your real name?"
"Rhea."
You stared at her, at Rhea.
Not him.
Her.
“You used me.”
Her expression tightened.
“At first, yes.” The honesty stung. “But not entirely,” she added, voice softer. “I chose you because I believed you would be kind. And I was not wrong.”
Silence stretched.
“If you tell anyone,” she said, quieter now, “I lose everything.”
You understood what she meant.
Everything.
Her work. Her home. Her safety. Her life.
You couldn't do that.
“You could leave,” she said. “I would not stop you.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “And go where?”
She had no answer. You looked at her again, truly looked.
At the tension in her shoulders. The fear she tried so hard to hide. And something inside you turned.
“I will not tell anyone,” you said.
"Why?"
"Because, I do not want to ruin your life."
After that night, the truth lived silently between you. Nothing changed outside those walls. To the world, you were still husband and wife.
But inside… Everything was different.
At night, she allowed herself to exist. The bindings came off. The rigid posture softened. The careful distance faded, little by little.
“You must be careful,” she told you once, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Even a glance held too long could raise suspicion.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? This life is not kind to those who are discovered.”
Your eyes met hers.
“Neither is the alternative.”
That earned a faint smile. The first you had ever seen her.
It happened slowly. The closeness. The trust.
One night, your hand brushed hers.
You expected her to pull away, but she did not. Instead, her fingers curled as though asking permission.
“Tell me to stop,” she murmured.
You shook your head.
“Don't stop.”
Then she held your hand properly.
Warm.
Careful.
Real.
“You deserve more than this,” she said quietly.
“Then why did you ask me to stay?”
She looked at you, something unguarded in her eyes.
“Because I wanted you here.”
Your heart skipped.
“Do you still?”
“Yes.”
The first time she kissed you, it was cautious. As if she feared you might disappear if she pushed too hard. You did not. You leaned closer instead.
And for the first time since your life had been turned upside down, something felt right.
The world outside did not change.
It remained harsh. Unforgiving. Quick to judge.
But inside your home, something was softer and stronger. You built a life together with Rhea.
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giiirl, i miss you. just hope you’re alive and okay
Hello. I’m doing good please do not worry. I’m just going through a little burn out regarding writing. I will try and get back to it as soon as possible. ❤️✨
