Sonne

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦: 𝘝𝘪

[neumond-alte-sonne]

๑ Early 20s

๑ She/her

๑ Masc lesbian (who is totally devoted to butches and mascs)

๑ Occasionally 18+ (I don't think I'm what you'd call good at writing smut, sorry)

๑ Exclusively Vi x Masc/Butch!Reader (because it's damn hard to find)

Masterlist °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Vi x Masc/Butch!Reader

Summary: After Vi casually calls you attractive one morning, she spends the entire day seducing you with escalating kisses

W/C: 2,100

18+

[domestic fluff] [established relationship] [steamy] [tender] [oral sex] [fingering] [first person POV]

Vi said I looked attractive today.

Those were her exact words. I was making coffee, still half-asleep, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, wearing the ratty old T-shirt I’ve had since college and a pair of sweatpants with a hole in the knee. Not exactly centerfold material.

She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and pressed her face into the back of my neck.

“You look really good today,” she said. Her voice was low, still rough from sleep.

I laughed. “I look like a disaster.”

“You look like my disaster.” She kissed the curve of my shoulder. “And you’re beautiful.”

I didn’t think much of it. Vi tells me I’m beautiful all the time. I still don’t believe her—I probably never will—but I’ve learned to accept it the way you accept the sun rising. It just happens. It’s just true, even if I can’t see it myself.

But then she kissed me again. On the jaw, this time. Soft and lingering.

And then again. The corner of my mouth.

And then she stole my coffee and took a sip and handed it back with a smile that said I’m not done with you.

That was at 8:13 in the morning. By noon, she’d kissed me twelve times.

I know because I started counting.

The first few were innocent enough. The kind of kisses we exchange without thinking—a peck on the lips while passing in the hallway, a quick press of her mouth to my temple while I was answering emails. Normal. Domestic. The background radiation of our marriage.

But by the third one, I noticed something different. The way her hand lingered on my hip. The way her thumb traced small circles against my waistband. The way she pulled back slowly, like leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Vi,” I said, looking up from my laptop.

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being something.”

She just smiled and walked away, and I watched her go, and I felt something warm coil low in my stomach.

By the sixth kiss, I was distracted.

She cornered me in the laundry room. I was folding towels—boring, domestic, completely unsexy—and she pushed the basket aside and backed me against the dryer. Her hands slid up my chest. Her mouth found mine. And this kiss wasn’t innocent. This kiss had teeth. This kiss had tongue. This kiss lasted long enough for the dryer to finish its cycle and beep at us plaintively.

When she pulled back, I was breathless.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“You looked hot, folding towels.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

She kissed me again, quick, and then she was gone, and I was left standing in the laundry room with a pile of unfolded towels and a heartbeat that wouldn’t slow down.

By the ninth kiss, I was starting to lose my mind.

She caught me in the kitchen while I was making lunch. Her arms wrapped around me from behind, her hips pressing against mine, her mouth hot on the side of my neck. She sucked lightly—just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make me gasp.

“Violet.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m trying to make a sandwich.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

She wasn’t. But she also wasn’t helping. Her hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, fingers splaying wide. Her thumbs traced the waistband of my jeans. Her mouth never left my neck.

I dropped the knife. It clattered against the counter.

“We have plans today,” I said, my voice embarrassingly unsteady.

“We have time.”

“Powder is coming over later.”

“Not for hours.”

She turned me around, pinned me against the counter, and kissed me like she was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Her tongue slid against mine, slow and deliberate, and I made a sound—a stupid, desperate sound—and she swallowed it like it was exactly what she wanted to hear.

When she pulled back, her pupils were blown. Her lips were wet. She looked at me with that dark, hungry expression that I know so well.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

She grinned. “Is it working?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. She could see it on my face.

By the twelfth kiss, I broke.

We were in the bedroom. I don’t remember how we got there. One minute I was putting away laundry, and the next she was pushing me onto the bed, crawling over me, her thighs straddling my hips, her hands pinning my wrists above my head.

“You’ve been doing this all day,” I said, my voice rough.

“I know.”

“Why?”

She leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because every time I looked at you, I wanted to take you apart. Because you’re fucking beautiful, and I’m tired of pretending I have any self-control.”

That was it. That was the moment.

I flipped us over.

After that, it wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t the slow, careful lovemaking we do when we have time and intention and candlelight. This was something else. Something hungrier. Something that had been building since she first kissed my shoulder at 8:13 in the morning.

I pinned her down. Her hands above her head, my fingers laced through hers. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hips bucking up to meet mine.

“You wanted this,” I said, low against her throat. “All day. You wanted this.”

“Yeah.”

“You could have just said something.”

“This was more fun.”

I bit her collarbone. Hard. She arched beneath me, gasping, and I felt her nails dig into the backs of my hands.

“You’re so mean,” she breathed.

“You love it.”

“I love you. Now fucking do something about it.”

I took her shirt off. Then her sport bra. Then her jeans, her underwear, everything, until she was bare beneath me and the afternoon light was painting stripes across her skin. I took my time looking at her—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her stomach tightened when I dragged my fingers down it, the slick heat between her legs that made my mouth water.

“Babe.” Her voice was wrecked already. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. But I wanted to hear her say it.

I trailed my fingers lower. Slid through her—slowly, so slowly—and watched her eyes fall shut and her mouth fall open and her hips lift off the bed

“Like that?” I asked.

“Yes... Fuck, yes.”

I didn’t make her wait long. I couldn’t. Not when she was like this—needy and desperate and looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I slid two fingers inside her, and she cried out—loud, unashamed, the kind of sound that would have embarrassed her in our early days but now just made me want more. I curled my fingers, found the spot I knew by heart, and pressed.

“God...” she gasped.

I fucked her with my fingers, hard and fast, the way she likes when she’s like this. My thumb found her clit, pressing in tight circles, and she bucked beneath me, her hands fisting in the sheets, her breath coming in short, broken moans.

“You’re so wet,” I said. It wasn’t an observation. It was worship.

“Because of you,” she said. “Always because of you.”

She came first. Hard, shuddering, her whole body tightening around my fingers, my name torn out of her like a prayer. I watched her face—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes stayed locked on mine even as she fell apart.

“Fuck,” she whispered, when she could breathe again. “Fuck.”

“We’re not done.”

She laughed—breathless, broken. “I didn’t think we were.”

I pulled my fingers out slowly, and she whimpered at the loss. Then I shifted, settled between her legs, and lowered my mouth to her.

She screamed.

Not loudly—we have neighbors, and Powder was coming over later, and somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that we should probably be quiet. But the scream was there, muffled by her own hand clapped over her mouth, her hips bucking against my face.

I held her down with one arm across her hips and ate her like she was the last meal I’d ever have. My tongue on her clit, my fingers back inside her, the taste of her flooding my mouth. She was so wet, so warm, so mine.

“Baby,” she sobbed. “Baby, I’m going to—I can’t—please—”

I doubled down. Sucked hard. Curled my fingers deeper. And she came again, this one longer, harder, her whole body convulsing, her thighs clamping around my head, her hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and holding on like she was drowning.

I stayed there until she stopped shaking. Until her grip loosened. Until her breathing slowed from gasps to sighs.

Then I crawled up her body and kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

“Good?” I asked.

“You know it was,” she murmured.

“I know.”

She pushed me onto my back then. Her turn. Her mouth found my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. Her hands were everywhere—pushing up my shirt, yanking down my pants, sliding between my legs with an urgency that made me whimper.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” she said against my skin. “Do you know that? Every time you smiled. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me with those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“Your eyes. The ones that make me want to climb inside you and never leave.”

I laughed, but it turned into a moan when her fingers found me. I was already so wet, so ready, and she knew exactly what to do. Two fingers, then three. Her thumb on my clit. Her mouth on my nipple, sucking hard.

“Vi...”

“I’ve got you.”

She fucked me with her fingers the way I’d fucked her—hard, fast, relentless. Her palm slapped against my clit with every thrust, and the sound was obscene, wet and rhythmic, filling the room. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. All I could do was hold on to her shoulders and let her take me apart.

“Come for me,” she said. Not a request. A command.

And I did. I came so hard I saw stars, my back arching off the bed, a string of nonsense falling from my lips. She didn’t stop. She kept going, kept fucking me through it, until I was oversensitive and shaking and begging her to stop.

She stopped. Kissed my forehead. Pulled her fingers out slowly and sucked them clean, watching me with dark, satisfied eyes.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” she said.

“You’re so dirty.”

“You love it.”

I pulled her down and kissed her. Soft this time. Tender. The storm had passed, and now there was only the quiet aftermath—the slowing heartbeats, the cooling skin, the way she fit against my side like she’d been made to be there.

We lay there for a while, tangled in sweaty sheets, not speaking. The afternoon light had shifted, gone gold and long. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. In a few hours, Powder would ring the doorbell, and we’d put on clean clothes and act like normal people who hadn’t spent the better part of an hour fucking each other senseless.

But that was later. Right now, there was only this. Vi’s hand on my chest. Her breath warm against my neck. The weight of her leg thrown over mine.

“So,” she said eventually. “Today was good.”

I laughed. “Today was something.”

“I told you you looked attractive.”

“You say that every day.”

“Today I meant it extra.”

I turned my head to look at her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. There was a red mark on her collarbone where I’d bitten her. She looked wrecked and happy and thoroughly loved.

“I love you,” I said.

She kissed my shoulder. “I love you too. Even when you pretend not to know how hot you are.”

“I don’t pretend. I genuinely don’t see it.”

“That’s what makes it so hot.”

I groaned. She laughed. And then she kissed me again—soft, sweet, nothing like the desperate kisses from before.

But I felt the promise in it.

Later. There would be more later.

There was always more with Vi.

And I wouldn’t have it other way.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Vi x Masc/Butch!Reader

Summary: After Vi casually calls you attractive one morning, she spends the entire day seducing you with escalating kisses

W/C: 2,100

18+

[domestic fluff] [established relationship] [steamy] [tender] [oral sex] [fingering] [first person POV]

Vi said I looked attractive today.

Those were her exact words. I was making coffee, still half-asleep, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, wearing the ratty old T-shirt I’ve had since college and a pair of sweatpants with a hole in the knee. Not exactly centerfold material.

She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and pressed her face into the back of my neck.

“You look really good today,” she said. Her voice was low, still rough from sleep.

I laughed. “I look like a disaster.”

“You look like my disaster.” She kissed the curve of my shoulder. “And you’re beautiful.”

I didn’t think much of it. Vi tells me I’m beautiful all the time. I still don’t believe her—I probably never will—but I’ve learned to accept it the way you accept the sun rising. It just happens. It’s just true, even if I can’t see it myself.

But then she kissed me again. On the jaw, this time. Soft and lingering.

And then again. The corner of my mouth.

And then she stole my coffee and took a sip and handed it back with a smile that said I’m not done with you.

That was at 8:13 in the morning. By noon, she’d kissed me twelve times.

I know because I started counting.

The first few were innocent enough. The kind of kisses we exchange without thinking—a peck on the lips while passing in the hallway, a quick press of her mouth to my temple while I was answering emails. Normal. Domestic. The background radiation of our marriage.

But by the third one, I noticed something different. The way her hand lingered on my hip. The way her thumb traced small circles against my waistband. The way she pulled back slowly, like leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Vi,” I said, looking up from my laptop.

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being something.”

She just smiled and walked away, and I watched her go, and I felt something warm coil low in my stomach.

By the sixth kiss, I was distracted.

She cornered me in the laundry room. I was folding towels—boring, domestic, completely unsexy—and she pushed the basket aside and backed me against the dryer. Her hands slid up my chest. Her mouth found mine. And this kiss wasn’t innocent. This kiss had teeth. This kiss had tongue. This kiss lasted long enough for the dryer to finish its cycle and beep at us plaintively.

When she pulled back, I was breathless.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“You looked hot, folding towels.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

She kissed me again, quick, and then she was gone, and I was left standing in the laundry room with a pile of unfolded towels and a heartbeat that wouldn’t slow down.

By the ninth kiss, I was starting to lose my mind.

She caught me in the kitchen while I was making lunch. Her arms wrapped around me from behind, her hips pressing against mine, her mouth hot on the side of my neck. She sucked lightly—just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make me gasp.

“Violet.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m trying to make a sandwich.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

She wasn’t. But she also wasn’t helping. Her hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, fingers splaying wide. Her thumbs traced the waistband of my jeans. Her mouth never left my neck.

I dropped the knife. It clattered against the counter.

“We have plans today,” I said, my voice embarrassingly unsteady.

“We have time.”

“Powder is coming over later.”

“Not for hours.”

She turned me around, pinned me against the counter, and kissed me like she was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Her tongue slid against mine, slow and deliberate, and I made a sound—a stupid, desperate sound—and she swallowed it like it was exactly what she wanted to hear.

When she pulled back, her pupils were blown. Her lips were wet. She looked at me with that dark, hungry expression that I know so well.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

She grinned. “Is it working?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. She could see it on my face.

By the twelfth kiss, I broke.

We were in the bedroom. I don’t remember how we got there. One minute I was putting away laundry, and the next she was pushing me onto the bed, crawling over me, her thighs straddling my hips, her hands pinning my wrists above my head.

“You’ve been doing this all day,” I said, my voice rough.

“I know.”

“Why?”

She leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because every time I looked at you, I wanted to take you apart. Because you’re fucking beautiful, and I’m tired of pretending I have any self-control.”

That was it. That was the moment.

I flipped us over.

After that, it wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t the slow, careful lovemaking we do when we have time and intention and candlelight. This was something else. Something hungrier. Something that had been building since she first kissed my shoulder at 8:13 in the morning.

I pinned her down. Her hands above her head, my fingers laced through hers. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hips bucking up to meet mine.

“You wanted this,” I said, low against her throat. “All day. You wanted this.”

“Yeah.”

“You could have just said something.”

“This was more fun.”

I bit her collarbone. Hard. She arched beneath me, gasping, and I felt her nails dig into the backs of my hands.

“You’re so mean,” she breathed.

“You love it.”

“I love you. Now fucking do something about it.”

I took her shirt off. Then her sport bra. Then her jeans, her underwear, everything, until she was bare beneath me and the afternoon light was painting stripes across her skin. I took my time looking at her—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her stomach tightened when I dragged my fingers down it, the slick heat between her legs that made my mouth water.

“Babe.” Her voice was wrecked already. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. But I wanted to hear her say it.

I trailed my fingers lower. Slid through her—slowly, so slowly—and watched her eyes fall shut and her mouth fall open and her hips lift off the bed

“Like that?” I asked.

“Yes... Fuck, yes.”

I didn’t make her wait long. I couldn’t. Not when she was like this—needy and desperate and looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I slid two fingers inside her, and she cried out—loud, unashamed, the kind of sound that would have embarrassed her in our early days but now just made me want more. I curled my fingers, found the spot I knew by heart, and pressed.

“God...” she gasped.

I fucked her with my fingers, hard and fast, the way she likes when she’s like this. My thumb found her clit, pressing in tight circles, and she bucked beneath me, her hands fisting in the sheets, her breath coming in short, broken moans.

“You’re so wet,” I said. It wasn’t an observation. It was worship.

“Because of you,” she said. “Always because of you.”

She came first. Hard, shuddering, her whole body tightening around my fingers, my name torn out of her like a prayer. I watched her face—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes stayed locked on mine even as she fell apart.

“Fuck,” she whispered, when she could breathe again. “Fuck.”

“We’re not done.”

She laughed—breathless, broken. “I didn’t think we were.”

I pulled my fingers out slowly, and she whimpered at the loss. Then I shifted, settled between her legs, and lowered my mouth to her.

She screamed.

Not loudly—we have neighbors, and Powder was coming over later, and somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that we should probably be quiet. But the scream was there, muffled by her own hand clapped over her mouth, her hips bucking against my face.

I held her down with one arm across her hips and ate her like she was the last meal I’d ever have. My tongue on her clit, my fingers back inside her, the taste of her flooding my mouth. She was so wet, so warm, so mine.

“Baby,” she sobbed. “Baby, I’m going to—I can’t—please—”

I doubled down. Sucked hard. Curled my fingers deeper. And she came again, this one longer, harder, her whole body convulsing, her thighs clamping around my head, her hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and holding on like she was drowning.

I stayed there until she stopped shaking. Until her grip loosened. Until her breathing slowed from gasps to sighs.

Then I crawled up her body and kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

“Good?” I asked.

“You know it was,” she murmured.

“I know.”

She pushed me onto my back then. Her turn. Her mouth found my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. Her hands were everywhere—pushing up my shirt, yanking down my pants, sliding between my legs with an urgency that made me whimper.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” she said against my skin. “Do you know that? Every time you smiled. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me with those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“Your eyes. The ones that make me want to climb inside you and never leave.”

I laughed, but it turned into a moan when her fingers found me. I was already so wet, so ready, and she knew exactly what to do. Two fingers, then three. Her thumb on my clit. Her mouth on my nipple, sucking hard.

“Vi...”

“I’ve got you.”

She fucked me with her fingers the way I’d fucked her—hard, fast, relentless. Her palm slapped against my clit with every thrust, and the sound was obscene, wet and rhythmic, filling the room. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. All I could do was hold on to her shoulders and let her take me apart.

“Come for me,” she said. Not a request. A command.

And I did. I came so hard I saw stars, my back arching off the bed, a string of nonsense falling from my lips. She didn’t stop. She kept going, kept fucking me through it, until I was oversensitive and shaking and begging her to stop.

She stopped. Kissed my forehead. Pulled her fingers out slowly and sucked them clean, watching me with dark, satisfied eyes.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” she said.

“You’re so dirty.”

“You love it.”

I pulled her down and kissed her. Soft this time. Tender. The storm had passed, and now there was only the quiet aftermath—the slowing heartbeats, the cooling skin, the way she fit against my side like she’d been made to be there.

We lay there for a while, tangled in sweaty sheets, not speaking. The afternoon light had shifted, gone gold and long. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. In a few hours, Powder would ring the doorbell, and we’d put on clean clothes and act like normal people who hadn’t spent the better part of an hour fucking each other senseless.

But that was later. Right now, there was only this. Vi’s hand on my chest. Her breath warm against my neck. The weight of her leg thrown over mine.

“So,” she said eventually. “Today was good.”

I laughed. “Today was something.”

“I told you you looked attractive.”

“You say that every day.”

“Today I meant it extra.”

I turned my head to look at her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. There was a red mark on her collarbone where I’d bitten her. She looked wrecked and happy and thoroughly loved.

“I love you,” I said.

She kissed my shoulder. “I love you too. Even when you pretend not to know how hot you are.”

“I don’t pretend. I genuinely don’t see it.”

“That’s what makes it so hot.”

I groaned. She laughed. And then she kissed me again—soft, sweet, nothing like the desperate kisses from before.

But I felt the promise in it.

Later. There would be more later.

There was always more with Vi.

And I wouldn’t have it other way.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

So, I'm trying to get back into drawing, and I had to draw the wife first.

[neumond-alte-sonne]

I saw an artist on twitter who makes fanart shipping pit fighter Vi and normal Vi... and I'm afraid I'm now a VixVi shipper 😔

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Firefighter!Sevika x Masc/Butch– Firefighter!Reader

Summary: Two broken firefighters find healing and love in each other, even as the flames around them never stop burning.

Note: I'm not entirely sure about this one... but here it is :)

W/C: 1,043

The first time I saw her, she was dousing flames with the kind of controlled fury that made me stop mid-stride. Sevika. My new captain. She moved through the chaos of the burning warehouse like she'd been born in fire, all sharp angles and harder edges. Her jaw was set, her dark eyes scanning for threats with a predator's patience. I'd heard the stories before I even applied—the captain who ran her station like a warship, who'd chewed through three rookies in as many months.

I didn't care. I needed this job.

"So, you're the new one," she said when I reported for duty. Her voice was low, graveled from years of breathing smoke. She didn't offer her hand.

"Yes."

She looked me over, and I felt it like a physical thing—the assessment, the dismissal. "Don't waste my time."

I nodded, swallowing the retort that burned in my throat. I'd been underestimated before. By men who thought my short-cropped hair and the way I carried myself meant something about my competence. By women who saw my broad shoulders and calloused hands and assumed I was all brawn and no brain. Sevika was different, though. She wasn't judging my body or my presentation. She was judging my soul, and finding it wanting.

The weeks that followed were brutal. She pushed me harder than anyone ever had. When I fumbled a hose connection during a drill, she made me run the course fifteen times, her eyes never leaving my form. When I hesitated at the mouth of a burning building, she grabbed my gear and yanked me forward, her fingers biting into my arm.

"Fear gets people killed," she snapped. "Get over it or get out."

I got over it.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifted. It was in the way she'd hand me a water bottle after a difficult call, her fingers brushing mine for just a second too long. In the way she'd watch me during briefings, her gaze lingering on the line of my jaw, the way my uniform strained across my shoulders. I caught her staring once, and she didn't look away. Neither did I.

"You're not like the others," she said one night, after a particularly grueling shift. We were sitting on the station's roof, watching the city lights blur into the horizon. I'd found her there, alone, a cigarette burning between her fingers.

"I don't smoke," I said, settling beside her. Close enough that our arms almost touched.

"Neither do I. Not really." She crushed it out against the concrete. "Bad habit I picked up in the service."

I didn't ask which service. I knew about her past—everyone did. The military, the dishonorable discharge that had nothing to do with dishonor and everything to do with who she loved. The years of fighting just to get this job. I saw it in her now, the way she held herself armored against the world, expecting betrayal at every turn.

"I know what it's like," I said quietly. "To have to prove yourself. Constantly."

She turned to look at me, and for the first time, I saw something other than steel in her eyes. Something raw and wounded. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're alone," I said. "I know you push everyone away because you think it's easier than letting them in. I know that look." I held her gaze. "I see it every morning in the mirror."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and charged. Then she laughed—a broken, surprised sound. "You're a fucking menace, you know that?"

"Captain," I said, my lips twitching.

The word caught her off guard. She'd demanded it on my first day, insisted on the formality even as the rest of the crew called her Sevika. But now it meant something else, something that passed between us in the dark. A title that was both respect and challenge.

"You scare me," she admitted, so quietly I almost missed it. "The way I feel when you're around. I haven't... it's been a long time."

I reached over, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. When my hand covered hers, she flinched. But she didn't move.

"It scares me too," I said. "But I'm not going anywhere."

She looked at our hands, at the way my fingers intertwined with hers. I could feel the calluses, the scars, the story written in every line. This was a woman who had fought for everything she had, who had crawled through hell and come out the other side still standing. And she was holding my hand like it was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.

"That warehouse," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "When you went in after the kid. I thought—"

"I know what you thought." I squeezed her hand. "But I came out. I'm here."

She turned to face me fully, and the distance between us was nothing. I could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight tremor in her jaw. She was terrified, I realized. Not of the fires or the danger or the never-ending fight. She was terrified of this—of wanting something that could be taken away.

"I can't do this," she said. "I can't lose another person."

"Sevika." I cupped her face, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone. She leaned into the touch, her eyes closing. "You won't lose me. I promise."

"I don't take promises lightly."

"Neither do I."

When she kissed me, it was like the first breath after a long dive—desperate and necessary and utterly consuming. Her hands fisted in my uniform, pulling me closer. She tasted like smoke and coffee, like surrender and strength.

We broke apart, panting. Her forehead pressed against mine.

"I still outrank you," she said.

I laughed, loud and bright. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Captain."

She smiled then, really smiled, and I saw the woman beneath the armor. The one who had been waiting, maybe her whole life, for someone to see her and not look away.

The next morning, she handed me a coffee without me asking. Her fingers brushed mine. The crew stared, but neither of us cared.

The fire was always waiting. But so were we.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Cowboy!Vi x Masc/Butch–Cowboy!Reader

Summary: A guarded ranch hand (you) reluctantly gives in to her boss's bold, flirtatious daughter (Vi), realizing love is what truly makes the ranch her home.

Note: Sooo, hello 👋🏼 Good news: I'm back again :D Bad news: the fascist won, oh well :(

W/C: 1,743

[cowboy au] [yearning] [restrained resire] [quiet strength meets fierce warmth] [POV first person]

The sun was a bastard that day, hammering down on the back of my neck like a personal grudge. I’d been mending fence along the north pasture since dawn, the wire biting into my calloused hands, the smell of hot sagebrush and dust thick in my lungs. It was good work. Honest work. The kind that left you too tired to think by the time your head hit the pillow. That’s what I needed. That’s what I’d always needed.

Vander had given me that. A chance. A place. When the rest of the world had looked at a broke, stubborn cowboy with a chip on her shoulder and a past she didn’t talk about, he’d just tipped his hat and pointed to the bunkhouse. “You’re strong and you’re quiet,” he’d said. “That’s all I need.” I’d been grateful. I still was. This ranch, this life, it was the only thing that felt real.

But gratitude doesn’t stop your heart from hammering in your chest like a trapped bird. And it sure as hell doesn’t stop Vi.

She was Vander’s eldest, and the man must have been a damn fool not to see what he’d created. A force of nature. She wasn’t the kind of woman you saw in magazines or dreamed about in soft-focus. She was all sharp angles and hard muscle, a body built for the same work I did, forged by years of hauling hay and wrestling steers. Her hands were as rough as mine, her shoulders broad, her jaw set in a way that could make a man think twice. But it was her eyes that got me. A pale, crystalline gray, always holding a glint of something that looked a lot like trouble.

And she knew it.

I heard her before I saw her. The low rumble of the ranch truck, the crunch of tires on the gravel path, and then the whistle. That low, appreciative whistle that slid down my spine like a hot coal.

“Well, well,” her voice drawled, smooth as molasses and just as sweet. “If it isn’t my favorite hired hand, working herself into a pretty little sweat.”

I kept my eyes on the fence post I was fixing, my jaw tight. “Vi.”

“Hi,” she echoed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. She hopped out of the truck, boots thudding softly on the dry earth. She was wearing a sleeveless flannel, the top buttons undone, the fabric stained with grease and honest labor. Her hat was pushed back, revealing a sheen of sweat on her forehead and a few strands of dark hair plastered to her skin. She walked over, the picture of casual grace, and leaned against the post I was working on, crossing her arms. The movement made the muscles in her forearms bunch and flex, and my gaze snagged on them for a fraction of a second too long.

“See something you like, cowboy?” she purred.

My face flushed, and I damn near cursed myself for it. I gave the wire one final, vicious twist and straightened up, wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. “Just trying to get this done before the sun cooks my brain. What do you want, Vi?”

“Can’t a girl come bring her favorite employee some water?” She tossed a canteen at me, and I caught it one-handed, reflex taking over. She cocked her head, that infuriatingly knowing look on her face. “Nice catch.”

“My hands know what they’re doing,” I grumbled, taking a long pull of the lukewarm water. It did nothing to cool the heat in my chest.

“Oh, I bet they do,” she said, her voice dropping a register, the words sliding into a space that was far too intimate. “I’ve been watching you all week. You’re fast, efficient. You don’t waste a single move. I like a woman who knows what she’s doing with her hands.”

I choked on the water. A fine spray of it hit the dry dirt, and Vi burst out laughing, a deep, rich sound that made my stomach clench. She had a laugh that was rough and honest, a little bit dirty, and completely infectious.

“Easy there, partner,” she chuckled, stepping closer. She was close enough now that I could smell her—sun, sweat, and the faint, clean scent of pine soap. It was a heady combination. “Don’t get all flustered on me.”

I shoved the canteen back at her, my fingers brushing hers. A jolt, sharp and immediate, shot up my arm. She didn’t flinch. She just smiled, slow and deliberate, and her fingers curled around mine for a moment, trapping me in the briefest of holds. “You know, I think you like it,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “The distraction.”

“I like my job,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I pulled my hand away and bent to pick up my tools, needing to put some distance between us. “I need my job, Vi. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” She was right behind me, her voice soft but insistent. “Can’t have a little fun?” I felt the warmth of her body at my back, and my whole being went on high alert, every nerve ending standing to attention. “Can’t admit you look at me just as much as I look at you? You think I don’t see you? When you’re in the barn and I’m saddling my horse, you think I don’t feel those eyes on my back?”

I closed my eyes, cursing the ground she walked on and the way she made me feel. She was right. I couldn’t lie about it. It was a consuming fire in my gut, a need that had been building for months. Every time I saw her lift a bale of hay, the muscles in her back rippling, I had to look away. Every time she laughed from across the yard, a sound that cut through the noise of the ranch, I had to force myself to stay focused on my work.

“I work for your father,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. It was my last line of defense, the only decent argument I had left.

“And I’m his daughter,” she countered, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. Her thumb moved in a slow, soothing circle on the tight muscle there. “And you’re not just an employee. You’re the person he trusts most. The person I’ve been watching. The person I want to watch. I want to see you do more than just work.” She stepped around to face me, forcing me to meet her eyes. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, honest desire that stole the breath from my lungs. “I want to see you let loose. I want to see what happens when you take that damn hat off and stop being the perfect, quiet ranch hand.”

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I was scared. Not of her, but of the want. Of what it meant. I’d built my life on being invisible, on being useful, on not needing anything. And here she was, looking at me like I was the most interesting thing in the world, challenging every wall I’d ever built.

“What do you want, Vi?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The question wasn’t an accusation anymore. It was a plea.

Her smile was a slow, wicked curve. She reached up, her fingers grazing the brim of my hat, and with a feather-light touch, she pushed it back, letting the sun fall across my face. Her hand lingered, tracing the line of my jaw, a touch so tender it made my heart ache. She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. “I want to see you smile when you’re not just being polite. I want to show you the sunset from the top of the ridge, the one no one else knows about. I want to know the sound you make when you laugh for real, not just that short huff you do when I’ve said something smart.” She pulled back, her eyes searching mine. “I want to know you. The real you.”

The last of my resolve crumbled like dry earth. I’d been so afraid of the distraction, of losing the one good thing I had. But I hadn’t understood. She wasn’t a distraction. She was the whole damn point. The years of hard work and loneliness, the feeling of being adrift—it had all been leading to this moment, to her. To the woman who saw right through me and didn’t just accept what she saw, but wanted it.

I looked at her, really looked. At the sun in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw, the gentle curve of her mouth. This wasn’t just a ranch I was working for. This was my life. And for the first time, I wanted to live it, not just survive it.

Slowly, so slowly, I reached out and took her hand. I turned it over in mine, my thumb tracing the lines of her palm, feeling the calluses that matched my own. She let out a soft, shaky breath, and it was the most vulnerable sound I’d ever heard from her. I looked up, catching her gaze, and for once, I didn’t look away.

“Okay,” I said, my voice rough and quiet. “Show me the sunset.”

A smile spread across her face then, radiant and unguarded, and it was better than any sunrise I’d ever seen. She gave my hand a squeeze and tugged me gently toward the truck. “Took you long enough, cowboy,” she murmured, but there was nothing but affection in her voice. “I was starting to think you’d never give in.”

As we drove up the ridge, the wind whipping through the cab and her hand resting warm and solid on my thigh, I realized that Vander hadn’t just given me a job. He’d given me a home. And Vi, with her sass and her strength and her unrelenting belief in me, was the heart of it. I was still a cowboy, still in love with the land and the work. But I finally had something else to love, too. And I wasn’t about to let it go.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tags: @qqueenpprincee

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

[mentallyadinonugget]

pov vi asking for a kiss after you guys get in a fight

(yall don’t sleep that night btw)

[neumond-alte-sonne]

omggg you’re back!!!! I hope you’re doing well <3

Hello hello 👋🏼😄

I'm a little worried about the situation in my country, but I'm doing well, yep. I hope to be more active here :)

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Cowboy!Vi x Masc/Butch–Cowboy!Reader

Summary: A guarded ranch hand (you) reluctantly gives in to her boss's bold, flirtatious daughter (Vi), realizing love is what truly makes the ranch her home.

Note: Sooo, hello 👋🏼 Good news: I'm back again :D Bad news: the fascist won, oh well :(

W/C: 1,743

[cowboy au] [yearning] [restrained resire] [quiet strength meets fierce warmth] [POV first person]

The sun was a bastard that day, hammering down on the back of my neck like a personal grudge. I’d been mending fence along the north pasture since dawn, the wire biting into my calloused hands, the smell of hot sagebrush and dust thick in my lungs. It was good work. Honest work. The kind that left you too tired to think by the time your head hit the pillow. That’s what I needed. That’s what I’d always needed.

Vander had given me that. A chance. A place. When the rest of the world had looked at a broke, stubborn cowboy with a chip on her shoulder and a past she didn’t talk about, he’d just tipped his hat and pointed to the bunkhouse. “You’re strong and you’re quiet,” he’d said. “That’s all I need.” I’d been grateful. I still was. This ranch, this life, it was the only thing that felt real.

But gratitude doesn’t stop your heart from hammering in your chest like a trapped bird. And it sure as hell doesn’t stop Vi.

She was Vander’s eldest, and the man must have been a damn fool not to see what he’d created. A force of nature. She wasn’t the kind of woman you saw in magazines or dreamed about in soft-focus. She was all sharp angles and hard muscle, a body built for the same work I did, forged by years of hauling hay and wrestling steers. Her hands were as rough as mine, her shoulders broad, her jaw set in a way that could make a man think twice. But it was her eyes that got me. A pale, crystalline gray, always holding a glint of something that looked a lot like trouble.

And she knew it.

I heard her before I saw her. The low rumble of the ranch truck, the crunch of tires on the gravel path, and then the whistle. That low, appreciative whistle that slid down my spine like a hot coal.

“Well, well,” her voice drawled, smooth as molasses and just as sweet. “If it isn’t my favorite hired hand, working herself into a pretty little sweat.”

I kept my eyes on the fence post I was fixing, my jaw tight. “Vi.”

“Hi,” she echoed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. She hopped out of the truck, boots thudding softly on the dry earth. She was wearing a sleeveless flannel, the top buttons undone, the fabric stained with grease and honest labor. Her hat was pushed back, revealing a sheen of sweat on her forehead and a few strands of dark hair plastered to her skin. She walked over, the picture of casual grace, and leaned against the post I was working on, crossing her arms. The movement made the muscles in her forearms bunch and flex, and my gaze snagged on them for a fraction of a second too long.

“See something you like, cowboy?” she purred.

My face flushed, and I damn near cursed myself for it. I gave the wire one final, vicious twist and straightened up, wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. “Just trying to get this done before the sun cooks my brain. What do you want, Vi?”

“Can’t a girl come bring her favorite employee some water?” She tossed a canteen at me, and I caught it one-handed, reflex taking over. She cocked her head, that infuriatingly knowing look on her face. “Nice catch.”

“My hands know what they’re doing,” I grumbled, taking a long pull of the lukewarm water. It did nothing to cool the heat in my chest.

“Oh, I bet they do,” she said, her voice dropping a register, the words sliding into a space that was far too intimate. “I’ve been watching you all week. You’re fast, efficient. You don’t waste a single move. I like a woman who knows what she’s doing with her hands.”

I choked on the water. A fine spray of it hit the dry dirt, and Vi burst out laughing, a deep, rich sound that made my stomach clench. She had a laugh that was rough and honest, a little bit dirty, and completely infectious.

“Easy there, partner,” she chuckled, stepping closer. She was close enough now that I could smell her—sun, sweat, and the faint, clean scent of pine soap. It was a heady combination. “Don’t get all flustered on me.”

I shoved the canteen back at her, my fingers brushing hers. A jolt, sharp and immediate, shot up my arm. She didn’t flinch. She just smiled, slow and deliberate, and her fingers curled around mine for a moment, trapping me in the briefest of holds. “You know, I think you like it,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “The distraction.”

“I like my job,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I pulled my hand away and bent to pick up my tools, needing to put some distance between us. “I need my job, Vi. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” She was right behind me, her voice soft but insistent. “Can’t have a little fun?” I felt the warmth of her body at my back, and my whole being went on high alert, every nerve ending standing to attention. “Can’t admit you look at me just as much as I look at you? You think I don’t see you? When you’re in the barn and I’m saddling my horse, you think I don’t feel those eyes on my back?”

I closed my eyes, cursing the ground she walked on and the way she made me feel. She was right. I couldn’t lie about it. It was a consuming fire in my gut, a need that had been building for months. Every time I saw her lift a bale of hay, the muscles in her back rippling, I had to look away. Every time she laughed from across the yard, a sound that cut through the noise of the ranch, I had to force myself to stay focused on my work.

“I work for your father,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. It was my last line of defense, the only decent argument I had left.

“And I’m his daughter,” she countered, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. Her thumb moved in a slow, soothing circle on the tight muscle there. “And you’re not just an employee. You’re the person he trusts most. The person I’ve been watching. The person I want to watch. I want to see you do more than just work.” She stepped around to face me, forcing me to meet her eyes. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, honest desire that stole the breath from my lungs. “I want to see you let loose. I want to see what happens when you take that damn hat off and stop being the perfect, quiet ranch hand.”

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I was scared. Not of her, but of the want. Of what it meant. I’d built my life on being invisible, on being useful, on not needing anything. And here she was, looking at me like I was the most interesting thing in the world, challenging every wall I’d ever built.

“What do you want, Vi?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The question wasn’t an accusation anymore. It was a plea.

Her smile was a slow, wicked curve. She reached up, her fingers grazing the brim of my hat, and with a feather-light touch, she pushed it back, letting the sun fall across my face. Her hand lingered, tracing the line of my jaw, a touch so tender it made my heart ache. She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. “I want to see you smile when you’re not just being polite. I want to show you the sunset from the top of the ridge, the one no one else knows about. I want to know the sound you make when you laugh for real, not just that short huff you do when I’ve said something smart.” She pulled back, her eyes searching mine. “I want to know you. The real you.”

The last of my resolve crumbled like dry earth. I’d been so afraid of the distraction, of losing the one good thing I had. But I hadn’t understood. She wasn’t a distraction. She was the whole damn point. The years of hard work and loneliness, the feeling of being adrift—it had all been leading to this moment, to her. To the woman who saw right through me and didn’t just accept what she saw, but wanted it.

I looked at her, really looked. At the sun in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw, the gentle curve of her mouth. This wasn’t just a ranch I was working for. This was my life. And for the first time, I wanted to live it, not just survive it.

Slowly, so slowly, I reached out and took her hand. I turned it over in mine, my thumb tracing the lines of her palm, feeling the calluses that matched my own. She let out a soft, shaky breath, and it was the most vulnerable sound I’d ever heard from her. I looked up, catching her gaze, and for once, I didn’t look away.

“Okay,” I said, my voice rough and quiet. “Show me the sunset.”

A smile spread across her face then, radiant and unguarded, and it was better than any sunrise I’d ever seen. She gave my hand a squeeze and tugged me gently toward the truck. “Took you long enough, cowboy,” she murmured, but there was nothing but affection in her voice. “I was starting to think you’d never give in.”

As we drove up the ridge, the wind whipping through the cab and her hand resting warm and solid on my thigh, I realized that Vander hadn’t just given me a job. He’d given me a home. And Vi, with her sass and her strength and her unrelenting belief in me, was the heart of it. I was still a cowboy, still in love with the land and the work. But I finally had something else to love, too. And I wasn’t about to let it go.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tags: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

If you would, I’d love a butch4butch fic with Sevika! Obvi up to u lmao :)

Okaaay, I think I will do it because I already have an idea 💡😏

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Hi!! Would you ever write for Sevika?

Hi hi. I hadn't really thought about that before tbh. I love Sevika tho. I don't know, if there are more people who'd like me to write something about Sevika, I might 🤔

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Hello, hello 👋🏼 I’ll be MIA for the next few weeks because my country is holding a presidential election. I’ll be out there trying to stop a fascist, Trump-like puppet from winning.

I'll be back soon. If not, expect updates from the mega-prison they'll throw me in for the unforgivable crime of being a lesbian AND having tattoos 😃

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Vi x Masc/Butch!Reader

Summary: Vi tries to ask you a question, but you're too lovesick and distracted by her kisses, so she decides to wait until tomorrow.

W/C: 471

[fluff] [teasing] [lovesick] [kind of loser!reader] [established relationship] [POV first person]

The world had narrowed to just this: Vi's mouth on mine, her body pressed against me, her hands roaming familiar paths across my skin. We were on my bed, in my room, the door locked, the rest of the universe temporarily nonexistent.

I was lost. Completely, blissfully lost.

Her lips moved against mine, slow and deliberate, and I made a sound I wasn't ashamed of because it was her, and she liked those sounds, and I liked making them for her.

Then she pulled back.

Just slightly. Just enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, could see the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Baby," she said.

I blinked. Tried to focus. Her face was right there, beautiful and close, but the words... the words didn't make sense.

"Hmm?" An intelligent response.

Her smile widened. She looked amused now. That was good. Amused was good.

"I need to ask you something," she said.

I nodded. Or I think I nodded. My brain was having trouble connecting to my body.

"Are you listening?"

"Mmhmm." I was definitely listening. Probably. Her lips looked very distracting, though. So close. So kissable.

Vi's eyes sparkled. She knew exactly what she was doing to me. "What did I just say?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...Yes?"

She laughed. That low, warm laugh that went straight through me.

"That's what I thought." She kissed me quickly, just a peck. "You're completely gone, aren't you?"

"Gone?" I managed. "Where?"

"Lost. Dizzy. Incapable of forming coherent sentences."

"Oh." I considered this. "Yeah. Probably."

Her laugh again, fuller now. She pressed her forehead to mine.

"I love you," she said, clear and slow. "You're adorable when you're like this."

"Mmm." I kissed her, quick and clumsy. "Love you too. So much. So, so much."

"I know." She traced my jaw with her fingers. "I was going to ask if you wanted to try something new. But I don't think you're in a state to make decisions."

"Try something?" That got through. "New? Yes. Whatever. Anything. With you."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know what it is."

"You." I kissed her neck. "Whatever you want." Her collarbone. "Always yes." The spot behind her ear. "With you."

She shivered. Good.

"Babe."

"Vi."

"You're impossible."

"You love it."

"I do." She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes soft and warm. "But we're talking about this tomorrow. When you can form sentences."

"Can't we talk now?"

"You can't even remember your own name right now."

I thought about this. She might have been right. After a few embarrassing and hesitant seconds, I offered my name.

"Yes. That's you. Well done."

I grinned, proud of myself.

Vi shook her head, still smiling, and kissed me again.

Tomorrow could wait.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

Vi x Masc/Butch!Reader

Summary: Vi tries to ask you a question, but you're too lovesick and distracted by her kisses, so she decides to wait until tomorrow.

W/C: 471

[fluff] [teasing] [lovesick] [kind of loser!reader] [established relationship] [POV first person]

The world had narrowed to just this: Vi's mouth on mine, her body pressed against me, her hands roaming familiar paths across my skin. We were on my bed, in my room, the door locked, the rest of the universe temporarily nonexistent.

I was lost. Completely, blissfully lost.

Her lips moved against mine, slow and deliberate, and I made a sound I wasn't ashamed of because it was her, and she liked those sounds, and I liked making them for her.

Then she pulled back.

Just slightly. Just enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, could see the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Baby," she said.

I blinked. Tried to focus. Her face was right there, beautiful and close, but the words... the words didn't make sense.

"Hmm?" An intelligent response.

Her smile widened. She looked amused now. That was good. Amused was good.

"I need to ask you something," she said.

I nodded. Or I think I nodded. My brain was having trouble connecting to my body.

"Are you listening?"

"Mmhmm." I was definitely listening. Probably. Her lips looked very distracting, though. So close. So kissable.

Vi's eyes sparkled. She knew exactly what she was doing to me. "What did I just say?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...Yes?"

She laughed. That low, warm laugh that went straight through me.

"That's what I thought." She kissed me quickly, just a peck. "You're completely gone, aren't you?"

"Gone?" I managed. "Where?"

"Lost. Dizzy. Incapable of forming coherent sentences."

"Oh." I considered this. "Yeah. Probably."

Her laugh again, fuller now. She pressed her forehead to mine.

"I love you," she said, clear and slow. "You're adorable when you're like this."

"Mmm." I kissed her, quick and clumsy. "Love you too. So much. So, so much."

"I know." She traced my jaw with her fingers. "I was going to ask if you wanted to try something new. But I don't think you're in a state to make decisions."

"Try something?" That got through. "New? Yes. Whatever. Anything. With you."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know what it is."

"You." I kissed her neck. "Whatever you want." Her collarbone. "Always yes." The spot behind her ear. "With you."

She shivered. Good.

"Babe."

"Vi."

"You're impossible."

"You love it."

"I do." She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes soft and warm. "But we're talking about this tomorrow. When you can form sentences."

"Can't we talk now?"

"You can't even remember your own name right now."

I thought about this. She might have been right. After a few embarrassing and hesitant seconds, I offered my name.

"Yes. That's you. Well done."

I grinned, proud of myself.

Vi shook her head, still smiling, and kissed me again.

Tomorrow could wait.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee

[neumond-alte-sonne]

I got a recommendation! What about Vi x mermaid!reader or mermaid!Vi x reader? Btw I loveeeee your stuff❤️

I had already written about this, I just hadn't posted it because I wasn't sure. Even though I like it, I know it's kind of weird. So, I don't know if it's what you were expecting, but here it is 😅

Thank you, thank you 🫶🏻😊

Mermaid!Vi x Masc/Butch–Pirate!Reader

Summary: A bloodthirsty pirate captain (you) offers her hand to a mermaid (Vi)—not knowing if she'll be eaten or loved, and not caring which.

W/C: 1,343

[forbidden desire] [predator and prey] [self-destruction as devotion] [Vi's a touch-starved creature] [POV first person]

The first time I saw her tail, I told myself it was a trick of the light. A stray wave catching the sunset wrong. Maybe a dying whale thrashing its last. But the second time—that spine, jagged and dark as volcanic glass, cutting a slow circle around the boat hull—I knew better. My crew muttered about krakens and sea serpents, old wives’ curses. I told them to shut their mouths and mind the rigging.

But I watched.

She watched back. I’m sure of it now.

For three days she stalked us. Never attacking, never surfacing fully—just that crimson tail, scales like wet rubies, slashing through the foam. My first mate, a burly man named Scar who’d sailed with me through mutiny and cannon fire, pulled me aside. “Captain,” he said low, “that thing is hunting us. We should make for shallower waters.”

“She’s not hunting,” I said, surprising myself with the pronoun.

Scar gave me a queer look. I dismissed him.

I was a fearless captain. I have gutted men who begged for mercy and burned ships that flew flags of truce. I do not frighten easily. But this creature—she made my bones ache with something that wasn’t fear. Want, maybe. Recognition.

It was a windless midnight when my crew fell asleep. Dead calm, the sea like black oil. I should have roused them, posted a watch, but something in me wanted solitude. Wanted her. I walked to the prow, boots silent on the wood deck, and leaned over the rail.

The water stirred.

She rose without sound. First her face. Then her shoulders, broad and slick with bioluminescent streaks that pulsed soft green.

God help me, I did not flinch.

She was terrible. Her skin was the color of drowned coral, pale gray-pink where it wasn’t webbed with dark veins. Her eyes were large, pupils slit vertical like a serpent’s, but the iris—that deep, burning blue—held something almost human. Almost. Her mouth was a gash of teeth. A crown of spines ran from her brow down her spine, and her wet hair was a deep pink that barely reached her shoulders.

She was terrifying. She was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

“You,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was proud of that.

Her head tilted, a slow, predatory motion. Water cascaded off her shoulders. Below the surface, I caught the immense sweep of her tail, powerful enough to shatter our keel like kindling.

She did not speak. Instead, she dragged a webbed hand—each finger tipped with a crimson shard—across her own throat, then pointed at me. A question. Or a threat. I couldn’t tell which.

I should have drawn my cutlass. I should have screamed for my crew. Instead, I leaned closer, close enough to smell her: brine and copper and something deeper, like the heart of a cave after rain.

“Are you going to eat me?” I asked, quiet as if speaking to a spooked horse.

Her lips pulled back from those teeth. Not a smile—a display. But her eyes… her eyes traced my face like she was memorizing it. She reached out, claws stopping an inch from my cheek, and I saw her hand tremble.

She didn’t know. I understood it then, bone-deep: she didn’t know whether to tear me apart or press her brow to mine.

“Same,” I whispered.

A low sound came from her chest, not a growl or a purr but something in between. A vibration that hummed through the wood and into my boots. She swam a slow circle around the prow, never looking away, and when she came back, she was closer.

I did something stupid. Brave, I’ll call it now, but stupid then. I reached over the rail and laid my bare hand on her shoulder.

Her skin was cool, smooth as river stone, but underneath—muscle like coiled cable. She went rigid. Her eyes flared from light color to a dark blue, almost black, and her mouth opened wide, wide enough to take off my head in one bite.

I didn’t pull back.

“It’s all right,” I said, my thumb tracing a slow circle on her shoulder. “I’m not afraid of you.”

She closed her mouth. Her eyes shifted back to blue slowly. Her webbed hand came up, hesitant, and covered mine. For a long moment we stayed like that, beast and captain, predator and—what? Prey?

Then she pulled my hand toward her mouth.

I knew what was coming. Any sane person would have yanked away. But I am not sane. I am the butch who sailed into a hurricane to catch a prize ship, who carved her name into a pirate lord’s desk with his own knife while he bled out at my feet. Sanity is not my currency.

Her teeth scraped my palm, not breaking skin at first—just a rough drag, a tasting. I held her gaze. She seemed almost surprised when I didn’t flinch.

So she bit harder.

The pain was sharp and bright, and I sucked in a breath. Blood welled up, black in the moonlight, and the creature’s pupils blew wide. A sound came from her then, low and guttural, almost a groan. She seized my wrist—gently, impossibly gently for something with that much strength—and pulled my bleeding hand to her mouth.

She licked.

Her tongue was rough as a cat’s, warm despite her cool skin, and when she lapped at my blood, her eyes slid half-closed. Not hunger. Something rawer. Something like need.

I watched her taste me, and I felt it in my gut, my chest, the space between my ribs where I keep my heart locked up tight. She was not eating. She was knowing me.

When she finished, she lifted her head. A thread of my blood still clung to her lower lip. She released my wrist, and her fingers trailed down my arm, leaving faint white lines that didn’t break the skin.

“What are you?” I breathed.

She answered by sinking back into the water, slow as a dream fading. Only her eyes remained above the surface for a moment, watching me. Then those too slipped under.

The sea went still.

I stood there bleeding onto the deck, my heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might crack. My hand throbbed where her teeth had been, but I didn’t bind it. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to remember.

The crew found me at dawn, still at the prow, my blood dried black on my palm. Scar asked what happened. I told him a barnacle cut me. He didn’t believe me, but he’s smart enough not to push.

She came back the next night. And the next. Each time, my crew asleep—or maybe she made them sleep; I don’t pretend to understand her powers. Each time, she rose from the depths, terrible and beautiful, and each time I offered her my hand.

She always licked the blood. Sometimes she just held my wrist, eyes closed, as if listening to something only she can hear. Once, she pressed her forehead to my palm, spines retracting just enough not to draw blood. I cupped her face, scales rough against my calluses, and she made that low humming sound again.

I still don’t know if she’ll eat me one day. Maybe she doesn’t know either.

But I have never run from anything I wanted. So I lean over the rail, night after night, bleeding for a monster who looks at me like I’m the strange and terrible one.

She surfaced tonight. I cut my palm on my own dagger before she could bite. She took my wrist, blue eyes soft, and licked the wound clean.

“Stay,” I whispered.

She didn’t. She never does.

But for a moment, her tail coiled around the anchor chain, and she rested her cheek against my knuckles. The spines lay flat. The teeth stayed hidden.

And I thought: Maybe she doesn’t know whether she wants to eat me or love me.

But I do. I know exactly what I want.

I want to follow her down.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Tag: @qqueenpprincee