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itsgivingmami · 3 months ago

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No More Than Three

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Warnings: smut

Series now finished-

Part Two

Part Three

Epilogue

—

You know better than to stare.

You’ve been with WWE long enough to know how these things go—what happens when backstage interviewers get too friendly with the talent. It never ends well—for your job, your reputation, or your ability to walk into gorilla without a hundred eyes on you.

You’ve seen it happen.

Smiles turning to whispers.

Whispers turning to rumors.

Careers thrown sideways over a few badly timed glances.

You swore you wouldn’t be that girl.

But tonight?

Rhea Ripley is making it very hard to pretend you don’t know what her mouth tastes like.

It’s worse on screen.

You thought the first time would burn the tension out of you—get it out of your system. But if anything, it made it worse. Now she looks at you differently in every segment. Stands just a little too close. Lets her fingers graze yours when she rips the mic from your hand. Smirks at you like she knows something the audience doesn’t.

Because she does.

She knows exactly what you sound like when she pins you to a wall and whispers, “Still pretending you don’t want me?”

She knows how your voice falters when she grabs your chin. How your thighs shake when she so much as looks at your mouth.

She’s controlled about it. Professional, even. But you feel it—every show, every stare, every line delivered with a little too much venom. A little too much heat. She makes it look like part of the act.

And you’re stuck trying to breathe through it.

—

Rhea’s never been careless. Not with her body, her name, this business.Especially not when it came to this. Hookups backstage are dangerous enough. Hooking up with people who don’t wear gear? That’s how rumors get born. That’s how your legacy gets tied to whispers you didn’t ask for. So she’s always been discreet.

Always calculated.

Only ever let herself get involved if she was damn sure they wouldn’t run their mouth—or worse, catch feelings they’d try to cash in public.

She’s had a few before.

Producers, media people– one stunning camera tech with a mouth like sin and no interest in anything more than a night or two. Another with hands almost as rough as hers, who liked getting bent over the ring crates just out of sight.

Always quiet. Always clean. Always her rules.

Never more than three times. A hard line she’s unwilling to cross. Enough to make the work of hiding it worth something—but not enough for anyone to get close, to remember every detail of what she likes, to learn her habits.

Then there’s you.

Too polished to be called shy, too sharp to play dumb. You had this low, quiet fire to you—professional, warm, but hard to pin down. The way you looked at people told her you saw everything. She noticed it in your first segment together. The way your fingers twitched when she got close. The way your voice dipped when you said her name. The way you stepped back, just half a beat late—like your body hadn’t gotten the message your brain was screaming.

You were trying to be good.

And it drove her fucking crazy.

—

It started quietly.

Backstage. Late. The kind of late where the building starts to empty out and everything feels more dangerous—more secret—just by being silent. You were finishing up notes after a post-show interview, curled in the corner of catering with your laptop open and your brain fried, when you looked up and saw her. Leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on you.

No smirk. No teasing swagger, And something in your chest went tight.

You knew that look.

You’d felt it during promos, backstage run-ins, live segments that left your hands shaking and your thoughts scattered. But this? This was different. She wasn’t on camera now. She didn’t have to play it subtle.

She walked toward you like a slow hunt, boots echoing in the quiet. You sat straighter. Forced yourself to look away. Back at your screen… lasted three seconds. Then her shadow hit the table, yo look to find her already standing over you—head tilted slightly, hands loose at her sides, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss you or drag you into the nearest wall and make you beg.

“You been watching me?”

Her voice was low. Steady. Commanding. Not teasing. Not light. Direct. You blinked, caught, already warm under your hoodie.

“Little hard not to,” you said, trying for casual. “You’re kind of loud.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t playful. It was slow. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me during interviews?”

Your mouth went dry.

“You think I don’t notice the way your hands shake when I stand close enough to breathe you in?”

Your stomach flipped. “Rhea—” She stepped forward, crowding you without touching. Close enough to smell the leather of her jacket, the faint trace of sweat from the match she hadn’t even changed out of yet.

“I want you.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

“You want me. It’s easier if we skip the bullshit,”

You swallowed hard. Your whole body flushed hot. She was close now. Too close.

And you wanted it. God, you wanted it.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered. “This could ruin me.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off. Just raised an eyebrow.

“No faith in me?” You shook your head, Tried to steady your breathing.

“It’s not that. I’ve just… I’ve heard stories. About what happens when interviewers get involved with wrestlers.” She leaned in slowly. Close enough for her breath to brush your cheek. Close enough for her hand to slide onto the table beside yours—casual and possessive.

“Yeah?” Her voice was velvet and gravel. “You heard any about me?”

You froze. Shook your head.

“No.”

Her smile curved—slow and satisfied.

“Exactly.”

You didn’t remember standing. You just remembered the way her hand wrapped around your wrist. How her grip was firm, not rough—controlling without hurting. How her eyes never left yours when she backed you into the wall just outside the catering doorway.

“You tell me to stop,” she murmured, pinning you there with just the weight of her stare, “I’ll stop.”

She didn’t touch your waist. Didn’t kiss you yet. She waited. Let the heat of her body press into yours without a single hand on you. You nodded—once, barely—and whispered:

“Don’t stop.”

And that was it— She devoured you.

Her mouth was on yours before you could take another breath.

You gasped into her kiss, and she groaned—low and filthy—grabbing your jaw, her thigh slotting between yours like she already knew exactly how you’d move against her.

“You gonna pretend you don’t want this?” she growled against your lips. You shook your head, helpless. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” she murmured, lips brushing your neck now, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. “Might’ve fooled everyone else, baby. But not me.”

You gave in so easily. You melted into her hands like you’d been waiting your whole life for this. And maybe you had.

When it was over—when she finally let you go—you just stood there, breathless, marked in ways no camera could catch.

You left fifteen minutes later. Different door. Different car.

Different everything.

But the next night, during your segment together? She stood a little closer. Smirked a little deeper. Said your name like it meant something. And when she brushed the mic from your hand, her fingers lingered just long enough to make you tremble.

—

One month later.

Everything has changed.. And nothing has.

You’re still sneaking out of locker rooms after call times. Still pretending your hands don’t twitch when Rhea Ripley brushes past you in the hallway. Still trying not to look like you’re thinking about the way she kissed you up against a vending machine and made you sob into her mouth three nights ago in a hotel elevator and walked away like nothing happened.

You pretend you’re not affected and she pretends it’s no big deal.

Neither of you say what it’s becoming.

—

You’ve had a hell of a day.

Three pre-tapes. Two post-show interviews. And one talent—who shall remain nameless—who made a point of leaning way too close during a backstage segment and murmuring “You single?” into your mic when he thought production wouldn’t hear it and you suddenly felt dirt in your bones.

You didn’t even need to respond. Rhea was in frame watching the way your body recoiled.

You didn’t look, but you felt her shift beside you—shoulders tightening, stare sharpening, jaw flexing like she wanted to rip the poor bastard in half.

She didn’t say anything. Not when she brushed her hand against yours the second the camera cut, and whispered low enough that only you heard:

“He won’t ask again.”

—

Now it’s almost midnight. You’re back at the shared hotel block. Still in your soft black travel hoodie. Room key in your hand. Feet dragging. Your phone buzzes just as you slide your card into the lock.

MAMI:

Room 409.

You stop. The second buzz hits before you can even think.

MAMI:

Door’s unlocked. Lose the hoodie.

You laugh—quiet, flustered, breathless—and drop your forehead to your door for half a second before turning on your heel.

—

She’s not even pretending to play innocent anymore.

You knock once anyway and the door creaks open as you step forward. And there she is. Damp hair. Sports bra. Black boxers. Tattoos glowing gold under the bedside lamp. One knee bent up on the mattress like she owns the room—which she does. She looks up from her phone like she wasn’t waiting at all.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I had to shower,” you shoot back. “You’re not the only one who gets sweaty at work y'know.” She raises a brow. Tosses her phone aside. Leans back on her hands, eyes dragging down your body.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she murmurs as you step inside. Close the door behind you.

“Yeah?” you ask, voice lighter now. “What’d I do to earn that?”

She stands—slow. Controlled. Crosses the room to reach for you, her hands slide under the hem of the hoodie like it belongs to her.

“You showed up,” she says simply. Then, leaning down “And you keep showing up. No matter how many times I fuck the thoughts outta your head.”

You flush.She laughs, low in her throat, and kisses you—quick and rough and mine.

And then?

“Bed,” she says, voice already thicker.

You pause. “You’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?”

Her brow lifts.

“I had you for dinner in my shower last week. You wanna keep the streak going or get smart with me?”

You choke on a laugh.

Shove her shoulder.

Let her push you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and her mouth hits your throat.

Stretches her body over yours—solid muscle, warm breath, scent of leather and soap—and drags her mouth down the curve of your waist like she’s claiming it.

You whimper the second her hands slide under the band of your shorts.

She doesn’t rush.

She peels them down like a gift—inch by inch—revealing skin she already knows. You hear her breath hitch. Hear the low, reverent curse she mutters when she realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath.

“Fuck, baby.”

Her voice is wrecked. Low.

“You wore nothing for me?”

You nod, hips twitching up toward her mouth.

“Good girl.”

The praise hits you harder than her hands. You spread your thighs instinctively, and she hums—approves—pressing one heavy palm to the inside of your knee, pushing you wider, wider, until you’re open for her.

And then?

She fucking stares.

So close you can feel the heat of her breath ghosting over you. So close you can see her tongue wet her bottom lip before she dips her head—and finally, finally—

Her mouth meets you. The first slow lick has you gasping, fists curling into the sheets.

She’s patient. Devastating.

She drags her tongue from your entrance up to your clit in one long, languid stroke, groaning low in her throat like she can taste how badly you want her.

You arch up off the bed. She just presses her forearm across your hips, pinning you down.

“Stay still,” she growls against your cunt. “Wanna take my time with you.”

You sob—trying. But then her mouth seals over you—hot, wet, relentless—and your body betrays you, trembling under her weight. She eats you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. Long, slow licks. Gentle sucks. Circling your clit with the flat of her tongue until your thighs are shaking and you’re whimpering her name like a prayer.

“Mami—”

She moans when you say it. You feel it vibrate through you.

She dips her tongue into you—fuck, so deep—and then slides back up to suck your clit just a little harder, just enough to send shockwaves through your whole body. Your hands find her hair, gripping hard. She lets you, tries to ignore how much she wants to feel it again.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” she murmurs, voice wrecked, mouth slick.

“Y-Yes—”

“Yeah?” She smirks against you. “Do it.”

She slaps the outside of your thigh and picks up her pace, licks you harder, faster. Her hand curls under your ass, lifting you into her mouth, controlling every fucking movement.

Your whole body tightens.

Your toes curl.

Your vision blurs.

And when you finally come—loud, raw, sobbing her name into the dark—she doesn’t stop.

She fucking devours you, making you ride her through it, dragging out every last pulse until you’re a trembling, wrecked mess under her. She kisses your thigh when she’s done.

Soft. Reverent. Like you’re something sacred. Like you’re somewhere else, something else than this.

And when she crawls back up your body—when she kisses your mouth and you taste yourself on her tongue—your hands fist in her tank top.

You’re still catching your breath—hips twitching, thighs sticky and shaking—when Rhea kisses you again.

Soft. Lingering.

Her body heavy over yours, her hand stroking your ribcage like she’s trying to calm you down.

“You did so good for me, baby,” she murmurs. “Took everything I gave you.”

You whimper, barely nodding, still floaty and warm. But then—you feel it.

The slow, deliberate grind of the strap against your thigh. You blink up at her, dazed.

She’s grinning. Cocky. Hungry. Possessive.

“You’re not done,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

Your whole body shivers and you whimper again—higher, needier—when she shifts her hips, letting you feel just how big she strapped up for you.

“But Mami—” you start, breathless, sensitive to the point of pain.

“I know, baby,” she coos,. ”You’re sensitive, huh?”

You nod. Fast.

She hums, leaning down, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“That’s why it’s gonna be so good.”

You whimper again, but your legs fall open anyway. Rhea kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your jaw.

Slow and careful.

“I’ll go slow,” she promises, the sweetness foreign in her mouth. She swallows that for now.

The first push is slow.

Agonizing.

You moan—high and broken—as she presses the strap inside you, inch by inch, until you’re stretched wide around her.

“Good girl,” she breathes. “God, look at you.“ Your hips buck weakly. She grabs your waist—steady, grounding—keeping you pinned as she rocks her hips shallowly, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch. “You can take it,”

your hand reaches blindly forward towards her hips, a silent ask for her to move. She catches your wrist easily bringing it above your head as she leans forward “My pretty girl,” she murmurs. “All fucked out and it’s still not enough, is it?”

You shake your head.

You need more.

You need her.

“Please,” you breathe. “Mami, please.”

And that’s all it takes. She starts moving for real.

Deep, slow thrusts. Dragging the strap almost all the way out before slamming it back in, every stroke sending sparks up your spine. You sob in pleasure into her shoulder. She praises you the whole time.

“That’s it, baby.”

“Taking me so good.”

“So tight around me. Fuck—never gonna get enough of you.”

Swallows that truth too.

Her pace picks up. Harder now. Rougher.

You’re writhing under her, nails scratching down her back, tears spilling freely. And when she reaches between your bodies—finds your clit with her fingers, rubbing tight, messy circles—you lose it.

You come again—violently—screaming her name, your whole body locking up around her.

She fucks you through it.

Doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let you go until you’re nothing but soft whimpers and spasming thighs and broken little gasps of her name. She slows, finally.

Eases out of you with a whispered, “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re shaking. Panting.

She hovers above you with a smirk, you try and grin back lazily, you way of checking in with eachother. The strap ends up tossed near her bag as she goes to get a washcloth.

You’re asleep in the two minutes it takes her.

It’s inevitable. You’re limp and sated, wrapped in soft hotel sheets. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and throws a T-shirt over her bare frame, plopping into the arm chair, the only sound in the room is the quiet hum of the AC and the echo of something aching in Rhea’s chest.

She doesn’t sleep.

Not right away.

Instead—stares at the curve of your jaw, the necklace you have on glinting softly in the lamplight, the faint outline of her fingerprints still ghosting over your hips.

She should be done by now. Bored even.

This should be the end. Three times. That’s her rule.

More than three, and people start hoping. Start asking. Start catching feelings and pretending not to.

But you?

You never asked. You just keep showing up. And somehow that makes it worse.

You shift in your sleep—murmur something incoherent, half-whimpering— she finds herself moving to get up before her brain catches up and she stiffens. No.

Too soft.

Too much.

She runs her hands over her face, through her hair. Exhales like she’s been holding it in for weeks.

Then—quiet, disappointed, like she’s cursing herself—

“Three.”

—

It’s not supposed to happen again. She should fall into her normal routine, ignoring for the most part with guarded professionalism and when her partners look at her with curious eyes she meets them, which always gets her message across: “It’s over, and I’m not changing my mind”

But two nights later?

You knock on her dressing room door again to let her know you have to push her interview tomorrow a few minutes.

Still in your work clothes. Eyes tired. Smiling like you don’t know what you do to her. You almost escape, she almost lets you go, but the pull is strong as she watches your hair curl down your back. She tells herself it’s different this time.

“You’re coming to my place tonight,” she whispers as she opens the door for you

That the moment she backed you into the catering wall and stuck her tongue down your throat didn’t count. That wasn’t sex. That wasn’t a hookup. That was tension. That was heat. That was nothing.

It’s flimsy— but it’ll do for tonight.

—

She lays you down in her bed for the first time. Not a quick fix in the locker room showers like the first. Not a hotel mattress like the second.

Her bed.

She peels your jeans off slowly. Sinks her fingers inside you like she’s trying to memorize the way your hips stutter when you gasp her name. Kisses you under her own sheets like she doesn’t care about the clock or the noise or the way her pulse won’t slow down after you come.

And when you fall asleep on her pillow—again—her rules slip even further out of reach.

And tells herself it still doesn’t count.

—

She makes it three days.

It’s her fault this time. You didn’t initiate it.

You didn’t even flirt when she passed you in the hallway before your segment. You had heard her silence loud and clear, disappointed? A little, but you couldn’t be upset or feign ignorance that you didn’t know what this was when it started.

And now that it has ended you were being good.

But she wasn’t.

She watched you all night.

Watched your hands. Watched your mouth. Watched some overconfident talent let his fingers brush your back too long and make you flinch without meaning to.

She saw red.

Didn’t say anything.

But when the show ended, and you were packing up in your little corner of the media suite—alone, quiet, head down—Rhea showed up in the doorway like she had every right to be there.

“You coming?”

You looked up, confused. Tired.

“Coming where?” She didn’t answer.

Just nodded toward the hallway.

You followed.

—

She fucked you slow that time.

On the couch in her room, still half-dressed, your shirt bunched around your ribs and her hand between your thighs like she couldn’t wait to get you naked.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about tension.

It was about control. She needed you to come on her fingers. Needed to hear your voice crack on “Mami.” Needed to see your thighs shake and your chest heave and your hand reach for hers like you trusted her with something bigger than your body.

When it was over, she cleaned you up gently.

Helped you dress.

Didn’t kiss you again.

Didn’t hold you after.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Because she knew she wouldn’t be able to deceive herself after.

She lay awake that night with her phone in her hand. Your name sat at the top of the thread, a soft glow in the dark.

The message bar pulsed—cursor blinking like it was waiting on her. Like it could see the truth backing up behind her teeth.

The honesty trying to force its way down through her fingers made her chest tight with a kind of anxiety she didn’t know how to fight. Not with fists. Not with strength. Not with steel chairs or kendo sticks or training until her body gave out.

This was different.

This was internal.

Invisible.

And she had no armor for it.

Being a victim to her own thoughts wasn’t something Rhea Ripley had allowed in years.

She was good at burying things. Good at locking them down, shoving them into corners of her chest no one else would ever reach. That darkness was familiar. Controlled. Hers.

But you?

You were an infection she didn’t see coming. Now she couldn’t breathe without tasting you in the silence.

And in the quiet, her mind turned cruel.

She could hear the way you laughed when she trash-talked on camera—sharp and quick, like you were trying not to let it show how much you loved it. She could hear the sound of your breath stuttering when some idiot in the crew wouldn’t shut up and you were too polite to interrupt. She could hear the pleasure she’d pulled out of you just hours earlier—hear it, feel it, like an echo in her skin. Your voice in her head wasn’t something she could silence.

Not tonight.

Not when she’d let herself believe—for just one second—that maybe this was more than a body in her bed.She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve cut the cord, like always. But she didn’t.

And now?

Now her fingers hovered over the screen, useless.

“We need to stop.”

Backspace.

“We can’t do this again.”

Backspace.

Her jaw locked. Her chest ached. that question—the one she’d stomped into the farthest pit of herself—came clawing back up with bloodied nails and teeth.

Would she want more too?

The thought made her flinch.

More.

She’d always wanted more. Since the day she stepped into this business. More belts. More cheers. More bruises that meant something. More of the things that made her feel like herself.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t about domination or drive or legacy. This was the way you kissed her without flinching. The way you made her laugh even when she didn’t want to. The way you held her after, like she was something worth holding onto.

And that scared her more than anything else ever had.

So she made a choice.

The only one she trusted herself to make. She typed it with hands that didn’t feel steady.

We’re done.

She didn’t read it over. Didn’t let herself hesitate. She hit send.

Turned out the light.

And laid there in the dark, alone with her silence and the phantom heat of your body beside her.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t sleep.

—

Listen I know I said “coming soon,”… it’s soonish. Thanks for reading😘 likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated.