Luca

27// They/Them // If I asked you to name all the things that you love, how long would it take for you to name yourself

[chaacoonnee]

eight seconds — sylus

“You lasted eight seconds on that bull...and I’m wondering if you can last longer.”

“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.

His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”

synopsis: you think conquering a bull looks easy, so rodeo champion sylus decides you need a lesson in riding—in the backseat of his pickup truck

tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, cowboy!sylus x city girl!reader, lust at first sight, riding, teaching, kissing, car sex, size difference, cowgirl position, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, creampie, fluff + smut

wc: 13.2k / ao3

a/n: save a horse, ride a qin che ;)

The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.

You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.

“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.

“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.

“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”

What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”

“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”

“This is way better than a spa!”

“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”

“That’s the best part!”

You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—

“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”

The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.

Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”

“Him who?”

“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”

“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”

“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”

“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”

“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”

You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”

“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”

A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.

“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”

“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”

You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”

Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.

The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.

The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:

“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”

Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”

“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”

“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.

Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.

The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.

You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.

Six seconds. Seven. Eight.

The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.

You finish off your beer.

“...That’s it?” you mutter.

“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”

“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”

Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying.

You glance up just in time to see him.

Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.

And then they find you.

Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights.

You.

His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.

Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”

“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.

“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”

You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.

You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about.

The gesture lands like an insult.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.

Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”

“Like nothing.”

“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”

“He probably does that for lots of people—”

“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”

She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.

“Excuse me?” you say.

“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”

“I mean...I was?”

Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.

“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”

They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.

The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”

“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”

“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.

“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”

“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.

“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”

“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”

You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

Unknown Number: Tell me.

Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?

Your stomach drops.

You: who is this?

Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.

Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.

Fuck.

You: how did you get my number?

Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.

Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.

You’re going to murder Tara.

You: that’s borderline stalking

Sylus: It’s resourceful.

Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.

Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.

You: you’re insane

Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane.

Sylus: So. What’s your damage?

You: excuse me?

Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph.

Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.

Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.

The audacity of this man…

You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off

Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.

You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent

Sylus: You’re cruel.

Sylus: I like you.

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.

You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.

You: why would i do that?

Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.

Sylus: Or are you scared?

You: of what? you?

Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.

You: you’re delusional

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.

You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.

You: ...i’ll think about it

Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.

You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.

“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.

“HE DID?!”

You wave your phone in her face as evidence.

“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”

“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”

“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”

Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.

“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”

“He’s not—”

“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”

“I’m not going—”

“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”

“You’re a little too excited about this.”

“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”

“Tara.”

“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”

You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.

“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”

You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.

Just to tell off the cowboy.

Obviously.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—

Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.

He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.

He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.

“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.

You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”

“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.

“And you are?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.

“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”

“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”

“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”

Princess.

He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.

“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”

His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”

“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”

“Show me.”

You blink. “What?”

“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”

“I’m not getting on a fence—”

“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”

Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.

His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight.

“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”

“I wasn’t going to fall—”

“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.

You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.

He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.

“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.

“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”

His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.

“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”

You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”

He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.

“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”

You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”

“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”

You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”

His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle. “Like this?”

Your breath catches.

His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.

“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”

The air shifts between you.

“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”

It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.

“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”

“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”

You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.

“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”

“What—”

“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”

You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.

Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.

Or maybe prove him right.

You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.

—

The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.

“Absolutely not.”

“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”

“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”

The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”

“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”

You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Then stop stalling.”

You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.

“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”

“I can do it myself—”

“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.

“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”

“Then how—”

“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”

His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference.

“Squeeze.”

You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.

“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”

You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.

“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”

He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.

“This feel unstable?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple—”

“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”

The bull lurches to life.

Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.

“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”

You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.

“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”

“That’s not helpful—”

"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”

Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.

The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.

“What are you—”

“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”

His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.

“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”

You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.

“Ready?”

You nod because words are impossible.

The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.

“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”

His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.

“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”

You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.

“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”

You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.

“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”

The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.

“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”

You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.

“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”

“Sylus—”

“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”

The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.

“This is—”

“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”

The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.

“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”

And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.

When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.

“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”

“You were helping—”

“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”

You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.

“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”

Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”

His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”

He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.

His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”

“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”

“I don’t need you to feed me—”

“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”

“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”

“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”

Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.

Tara: where ARE u???

Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???

Tara: if u are in danger pls respond

Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this

You swipe the notifications away.

Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”

His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”

You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.

Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him.

“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.

“Sylus, I can walk—”

“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—

Oh god.

The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.

You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.

“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.

“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”

He pauses mid-step. “What?”

“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”

He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.

“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.

You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”

He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."

Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.

“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”

“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”

“Sylus!”

“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”

“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”

“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”

Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.

“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.

Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.

Your hands don’t get the message.

“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”

“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”

“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”

“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”

“How could that have possibly been worse?”

“I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”

Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”

“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”

—

The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time.

“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”

“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”

“Please. And whatever she wants.”

You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.

“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving.

“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”

“Are we really doing this?”

“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”

The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.

“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.

His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”

Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.

“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”

“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”

“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”

“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”

“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”

“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”

“Second?”

“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.

“Confident.”

“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”

The weight of that statement sits between you.

“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”

You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.

“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”

You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”

He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.

“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”

You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching.

“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.

“Sure. Thanks.”

She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”

“I just met him like, two hours ago.”

“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”

Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”

“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”

“Then why—”

“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”

You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.

Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”

“What?”

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”

Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”

“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”

She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.

You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.

Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”

He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.

His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.

“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.

“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”

“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”

“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”

He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t see a problem.”

“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”

You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.

“That depends on what I’m claiming.”

His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:

“Me.”

You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.

“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”

“And which are you choosing?”

“What do you think?”

Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent."

“Maybe I just like the style.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”

Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”

“And will you?”

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”

“I can handle it.”

His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”

The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“You’re very confident.”

“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”

You reply with a single shake of your head—no.

His smile is absolutely feral.

“We’re leaving.”

You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”

He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.

“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."

You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.

And you take it.

His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”

Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.

“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”

It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.

You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.

“I don’t want to be strangers.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—”

Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.

Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.

“—if I tried.”

—

Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll see.”

His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting.

You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.

“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.

He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”

“Just making an observation.”

“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”

Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.

“Or a certain level of stupidity.”

“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Patience.”

The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”

You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape.

“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”

“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”

“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”

“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”

Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”

“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”

The tension in the truck is suffocating.

“Get in the back,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”

“A head start for what—”

“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”

You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.

The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—

“Keep it moving, sweetie.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”

The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing.

“Consider it done."

“You just—”

“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”

Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.

“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you like it.”

You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.

“Are you coming back here or not?”

“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”

“Probably.”

“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.

The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.

He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.

“Come here.”

You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”

“You told me to keep it on.”

“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?”

“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”

You swallow. “And what did I start?”

“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”

You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”

The directness of it steals your breath.

“That's a lot of questions.”

“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”

You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.

Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”

His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”

"Yes."

Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.

The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.

“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.

“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”

“That was barely three hours ago—”

“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim.

He hisses through his teeth.

“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”

His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”

Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”

Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”

Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”

“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”

The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.

“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”

His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”

His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.

“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”

He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.

“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”

“Sylus, please—”

“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“More—I need more—”

“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”

“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”

You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.

“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”

“Yes—”

“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”

“Yes—god, yes—”

Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”

You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.

“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”

“Of course you do.”

“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”

He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.

“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.”

He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.

“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”

You can’t form words.

“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”

“All of it,” you manage.

“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Your ego—”

“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”

Your breath catches. “Twice?”

“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.”

“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”

“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”

His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.

“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.

“Sylus—I’m gonna—”

“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”

The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.

You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”

“Shh.”

His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.

“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”

You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.

“A...problem?”

“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”

You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”

“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”

Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.

He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?"

Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”

"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”

His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—

“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”

You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—

“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”

You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.

“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”

You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.

“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.

“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”

“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”

There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.

His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own.

You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline.

You look up at him. Then down. Then up again.

“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.

He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."

You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.

“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”

He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.

“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”

You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.

“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”

When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.

“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”

Understanding hits you through the haze.

“You’re counting,” you say.

“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.

“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”

You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.

“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.

When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.

“Three.”

You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.

“Four.”

“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”

“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.

“Six.”

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”

It’s torture. Exquisite torture.

You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.

“Christ—Seven—”

Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.

“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”

“I can’t hold it—”

“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.”

You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.

“Nine.”

You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.

“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"

“Sylus—please—I need—”

He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you.

“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”

You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"

"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."

"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"

"Finally."

It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.

Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.

"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"

"Yes—ah—yes—"

One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.

“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”

He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.

“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”

You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.

“Too much—”

“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”

You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—

“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”

You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.

For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.

You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.

His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.

“Holy shit," you finally manage.

“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”

He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.

“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”

You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.”

“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”

“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”

You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.

“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”

You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.

“These damn boots,” you mutter.

“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."

“When did that happen?”

“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”

“What look?”

“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Your ego is showing again.”

“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”

While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.

You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.

“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”

Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.

Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U

Tara: are u ALIVE

Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!

“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”

"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.

His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”

“Why—”

“Proof of life. Come here.”

He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.

He takes the photo and hands your phone back.

“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”

You send it.

The response is instantaneous.

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY

Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???

Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL

Then another message pops through. A photo.

It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.

You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”

Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.

“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”

“For what?”

“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”

“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.

He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.

Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.

Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.

His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.

"Tomorrow."

[syluses]

𝄞 bloodhound

𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader

(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.

✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,

✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂‍↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D

With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.

By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.

In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.

You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.

And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.

Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.

Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.

I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡

Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.

Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.

That outfit from yesterday.

With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-

Sure enough, the lid is open.

✦

“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”

The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.

The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.

The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.

You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.

What an awful place, you think to yourself.

…But coming here had a purpose.

Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.

Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.

To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.

A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.

“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”

Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.

Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.

It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:

Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—

Clack, clack… Clack.

You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.

“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“

When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.

“Ma’am?” He turns.

“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.

For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.

When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.

A sharp laugh.

“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“

As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.

He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.

…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.

Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.

If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.

In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.

Thoughtfully, you blink.

As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.

Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.

It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?

And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?

“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.

“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.

“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”

Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.

“He’s…”

“Yep. Like I said-“

“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.

The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”

“-How much?”

You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.

No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.

Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.

Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.

As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.

A word relieves you of worries for naught.

“Nothing.”

…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?

“E-Excuse me?”

He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”

Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.

“But, are you-“

“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”

And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—

“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”

A squeeze of your heart.

Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.

“When can we get him out of this cage?”

You ask without looking his way.

The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.

“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”

Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.

He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.

It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.

“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.

Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—

The ground beneath you all but gives way.

“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”

He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.

However, you do catch him shrugging.

“No clue.”

✦

A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.

You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he’s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.

This is your house.

This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.

Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?

What is he spotting in you?

Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.

Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.

But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.

But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.

You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.

He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.

Not quite.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.

The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

Your heart stirs.

Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.

He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.

Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.

Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.

And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.

Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“

A labored sigh.

Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.

Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.

There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:

One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)

He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.

Oh, and then three—

When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.

✦

He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.

To your surprise, he lets you.

Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.

With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.

Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.

Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.

None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.

He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.

If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.

Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.

Besides…

Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.

Ahem.

It’s late.

Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.

The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.

You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.

“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.

From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.

Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.

Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—

“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”

A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.

“Sylus.”

Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.

…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.

✦

You blink and autumn is in full throttle.

You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.

Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.

You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.

Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.

Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.

Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.

Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.

At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…

Potential witnesses if he does.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.

You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.

You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.

…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—

A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.

You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.

It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.

Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.

…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.

Then-

Tap tap tap.

Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—

You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.

By the sounds of it, he’s already close.

“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”

-Closer and gaining still.

Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.

You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.

“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”

No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.

You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.

You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.

As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.

Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.

“Sylus-“

You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.

Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.

Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’

You turn the corner and blanche.

Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.

And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.

The bottom falls through.

The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.

✦

“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”

With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.

The blade he’d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.

“Y-You’re not my dog.”

One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-

That can’t be Sylus.

For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.

“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”

With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”

That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”

D-Dragonfruit? How does he…

The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.

…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.

“Y-You’re not-“

Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”

…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.

Not in your tiny apartment.

“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”

Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.

Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?

He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”

You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.

But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!

You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.

“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.

Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.

The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…

And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.

Sylus, it all says.

But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.

He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.

Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.

“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.

“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”

He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”

And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?

Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”

You do believe it. But it’s crazy.

He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.

Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-

“So? Do we have a deal or not?”

And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?

Or several.

✦

A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.

It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.

Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.

…As do your bones.

Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.

Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.

You gasp. “Sylus-“

You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.

He snarls.

“Quiet. I’m eating.”

Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.

He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.

‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’

“Good girl,” he practically purrs.

He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.

Not as much as you do right now.

“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.

But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.

But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—

“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.

“Just take the day off.”

Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.

“O-Okay.”

As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.

So you glance down.

He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.

He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.

Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.

That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.

You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn’t you showed.

…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.

Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:

Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.

Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.

“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”

He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”

You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.

And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.

His cock is somehow bigger.

Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.

Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.

Point is- he’s insatiable.

You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.

In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.

…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.

Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.

“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“

A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.

Challenging.

He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.

It’s the least he can do.

“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”

Your eyes bulge from your skull.

His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.

From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.

When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.

Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.

He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.

You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.

“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”

You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.

He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”

You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.

Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.

Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”

And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.

So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.

The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.

Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.

He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.

Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.

For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.

He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.

Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—

Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.

He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….

“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.

With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”

Void of words, you nod.

The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.

Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.

The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.

He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.

You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.

He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”

One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.

With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—

His knot pops inside with a gasp.

Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.

He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.

When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.

The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.

You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.

You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.

Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.

Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.

Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.

“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.

“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”

“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.

Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”

He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.

“It’s too big,” you cry.

“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”

As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.

There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.

“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.

And you—

(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)

Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.

Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.

“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”

Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.

With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.

His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.

You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“

“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.

“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”

Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-

“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.

“So. Did you like it..?”

“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“

He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”

Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.

“I- I guess so. Yeah.”

“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.

“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.

In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.

“When I know it’s manageable.”

If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.

“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.

“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[landmineblogging]

october please be gentle to my online friends

[landmineblogging]

november please be kind

[landmineblogging]

december please be safe

[landmineblogging]

january please be patient

[leafy-yezi]

Making a Yautja OC

[kilgarraara]

"well look at you"

[grizzlyhugs]

18+ minors dni

summary ༺๑ˊ- you had one job— but you couldn't care enough. so robert sets you straight.

pairing(s) ༺๑ˊ- robert robertson x z-team!female!reader (gender-neutral)

cws ༺๑ˊ- unestablished relationship (boss and employee), semi-public sex, kinda dub-con (implied reader and robert mutually want each other Badly), brat tamer robert, Robert Is Mean, oral f!receiving, penetration f!receiving, one orgasm denial, overstimulation, one mention of vaping (prism's fault. love her)

requested? ༺๑ˊ- yes/no

a/n: condensed 4 different brat tamer robert requests together <3

it was infuriating.

you were capable, hell, you'd even argue you were one of the most capable on the z-team.

yet, robert keeps sending you on useless missions, putting you to waste, tossing you around uselessly.

you wanted him to know you were done with it. it was his fault for sending you to a middle school to do a motivational speech.

you didn’t show up. cold turkey'ed the event. poor kids. whatever.

"are you fucking serious?" robert's voice blared into your earpiece as he saw your location in downtown, walking aimlessly.

that pissed him off to no end.

"get back to the office. third floor west conference room. now." his voice let no room for argument.

“oooh, someone’s in trouble…” prism sang over the mic, snorting out a laugh.

aw, it was like being called to the principal's office once again.

you tossed your earpiece into your locker as you got back to torrence, lazily throwing a hoodie on before going upstairs.

you just had to hear another dumb lecture, then be on with your day.

right?

right…

"all you had to do was fucking talk for what? maybe five minutes?"

robert slammed his hands down on the glossed wooden conference table. his head hung down, his frustration palpable.

you plopped yourself down casually on one of the office chairs.

"okay, and i had nothing motivational for them." you shrugged, slipping a vape out of your pocket for a quick hit. "i guess my skills weren't up to your mission."

was that prism's fucking vape? oh, he was so fucking done with you.

robert scoffed as he ripped the dumb thing out of your hand, tossing it on the table. he towered over where you were lounged back against the chair. "so, what are you gonna do to make sure you can follow my orders?"

"maybe just don't send me on stupid-ass missions, i don't know." you sighed, blinking up at him.

robert bent to your eye level, hands planted on the arm rests of your chair.

"guess i will need to get into that thick skull after all."

───────

his hands were all over you. grabbing at your hips, pushing at your waist, wrapping over to your stomach.

your front was pressed up against the wall of the conference room, robert's frame right behind you to keep you pressed there.

"yeah, i bet you like taking advantage of your subordinate, fuck," you mocked, groaning as his hand snaked around to hold the front of your neck, forcing your head back.

robert rolled his eyes. you two both had a history with sexual tension with each other. many hr violations condoned. this wasn't new.

"keep it up. see what happens." he muttered next to your ear, his knee pressing up into your center. "bet you wanna see what happens though, huh?"

he chuckled as you bit back a moan, feeling you try to keep your hips still. you didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you so needy.

robert's hand let go of your neck, tracing down your chest, to your stomach.

"you're weird," you hissed, subconsciously arching into his touch.

"yeah, lets just ignore the fact you're humping my thigh like a little bitch in heat."

oh. you were. your pelvis was making small, desperate circles against the thigh pinning you to the wall.

well, that's embarrassing.

"sh- shut up!" you grumbled, squirming slightly under him. his hands slipped under the waistband of your pants, playing with the edge of your underwear.

"you just don't learn," robert shook his head, feeling your body still as his fingers inched under the cotton of your undergarment. "are you seriously this wet already?"

his middle finger traced your slit teasingly, like he was testing you.

fuck, you wanted more. no, needed it.

"do something already—!" you complained with a roll of your eyes, grinding down on his teasing finger.

robert chuckled. the pad of his finger circled your clit, shushing you.

you let out a small gasp, letting out a long breath as your eyes fluttered shut. your hips undulated with the stimulation, trying to focus on it.

"there you go," robert muttered. fuck, you could start feeling yourself getting closer. "can feel it throbbing."

low moans spilled out of you, the gentle yet consistent stimulation was causing warm tingles to start to build in your lower stomach.

but as quick as the pleasure built, it disappeared.

"fuck, why—why'd you stop?" you whined in frustration as he pulled his hand out of your underwear, sucking his finger clean. "fuck you, i—"

robert hauled you onto the cold surface of the table, interrupting your blubbering.

he impatiently tugged at your pants and underwear, peeling them down your legs.

"you're too sensitive to be talking all that shit," he hummed, tracing your inner thighs and watching you twitch, proving his point.

your thighs tried to press together. "no i'm fucking no-ahh, fuck," a groan teared from your throat as he thumbed at your clit again, shutting you up.

"that's better." robert murmured, hands hooking beneath your knees to push your thighs up against your abdomen.

his head leaned down, the flat of his tongue licking a stripe up your slit, testing the waters. you tasted so good.

robert moaned into your pussy as the tip of your tongue circled your entrance, teasing up to lap at your clit. "maybe this is why you're such a bitch. all your sweetness went down here," he teased.

you couldn't even speak as his lips sealed around the sensitive bud, back curling off the table.

you were already close. him leaving you on edge made you all pent up. robert smiled against your wetness knowingly.

your orgasm was sudden, one you couldn't feel the build up of. it happened like a twig being snapped, hips lurching up toward his face.

robert's tongue laved over your sweetness, not giving you a moment of respite.

one of his hands let go of your knee, pressing down on your lower stomach as he greedily slurped at you.

"you wanted to cum so bad, right? so fucking take it," he muttered into your folds, nose nudging at your clit as he lapped at you to get more of your essence.

"fuck— robert, what the hell—!" you yelped as he took the sensitive bundle of nerves back in his mouth, suckling as the tip of his tongue pressed against it.

you just came, you were too sensitive. but he wouldn't stop.

not until you gave him another one, at least.

his hands went to hold your hips instead as you tried to yank away, keeping you pressed against the wood of the table as his tongue ran over your clit in circles.

"fuck off— fuck you, fuck—!" you babbled, hands reaching down to grip his shaggy hair, not knowing if you were trying to pull him closer or push him away.

robert smiled against you, knowing your brain is finally starting to go dumb. perfect.

his brown eyes gazed up at you as he lapped at your sopping pussy, groaning into you at the sight.

you looked beautiful. the dim light of the conference room made you look like a work of art.

those warm tingles returned to your lower stomach, signaling your impeding release.

you wanted to run away from it, but robert had you pinned. he was going to make you cum even if it were the death of him.

with a cry, your body curled up as waves of pleasure wracked your nerves, the overstimulation making your legs quiver over his shoulders.

robert placed a kiss over your clit, looking up at you. your head was lulled back against the table, chest rising and falling with quick breaths. ethereal.

"you're prettier when you aren't talking all that shit," robert teased, watching your eyebrows furrow. it seems you still had a little fight left in you.

you whispered. "you're hotter when eating my pussy like a litte bitch—no, fuck!" a moan tore from you as he thumbed at your overstimulated clit, the poor thing puffy from how he was sucking at it.

"that's better." he murmured, pinching your clit, causing your body to go limp on the table.

robert pulled you by the hips, flipping you over so your bottom half was hanging off the table, stomach pressed on the surface.

you registered the noise of his belt dropping to the ground, before immediately feeling his cock pressed between your thighs.

you whimpered. robert chuckled.

his knee pushed your thigh apart, grinding the head of his cock up against the underside of your clit.

you mewled, hips jerking forward. "so fucking sensitive. almost makes me wanna feel bad for you," robert whispered next to your ear, his tip breeching past your entrance. "almost."

he felt you clamp down on him, like you were trying to drag him in.

robert held your waist, pushing his length further into you, smiling as your body curled and squirmed whenever he grazed against your sweet spot.

"feels good, doesn't it?" he muttered, his pelvis finding a steady rhythm, pressing into your g-spot with each roll.

his hand found purchase on the front of your neck, pulling you back into his chest, keeping steady pressure. he wasn't choking you, but simply grounding you. making sure you know who's in control.

"use your words. or are you already too fucked out? huh?" he cooed mockingly, pelvis undulating against yours to keep his head pushed up against the spongy spot deep inside of you.

"i— hngh..." you choked out a moan, head lulling back against his shoulder as your brain went all fuzzy.

"there we go," he whispered, his other hand wrapping around to prod at your clit.

he felt you tighten around his cock, moaning into your shoulder. "so goddamn tight, shit, baby."

robert could feel his nerves tingling at the base of his spine, being egged on by how you were pulsating around him.

"go on, cum. you know you can't stop it." he commanded in your ear, chuckling in satisfaction as you lurched against him, clenching around him as the assault of pleasure set fire to your body.

robert moaned at how you were practically milking him, his pace speeding up just slightly, feeling his own orgasm approach.

he pulled out, his seed spilling out on your lower back, dripping down to your ass.

you both panted. his chest pressed against your back, hands wrapping around to your front. you stayed like that for a while, in comfortable silence.

robert silently grabbed your hoodie, pulling it back over you, holding you to his chest. "you okay?" he whispered. you just nodded, a little sheepish smile pulling at your lips. "good."

his heart skipped a beat at that sweet smile.

this might make him greedy, but he wanted that smile all for himself. wanted you all for himself.

one day, maybe. first, he had to worry about cleaning you up and sneaking you both out without looking suspicious.

and maybe taking you back to his place and seeing more of that smile.

[barabaraoranges-deactivated2026]

hr violations pt 1 (robert edition)

pairing: robert x trans!m!reader

contains: public sex (sucking robert off underneath his desk), deepthroating (robert receiving), flambae pieces together what's going on and joins in a bit (unheard by reader, but hinted at), reader jokes about felching and suggesting that flambae join them for a threesome

leads to: top!trans!m!robert/bottom!trans!m!reader in pt 2

reader notes: this is fully for a moot, so the details and background are based off of his ideas for a SDN worker. reader is given no pronouns, but they are a trans man. robert is a trans man with a phalloplasty. if the head seems to be written differently than what you're used to, it's because the pleasure spots on phallos are different. it's usually at the base of the dick. i also didn't write robert getting harder since the pump is stored in the balls.

wc: 1.5k

ao3: link

"Are you seriously deepthroating that banana in the break room?" Flambae asked out loud, narrowing his eyes at you.

Well, yeah, you were. The banana was almost all the way down your throat when he walked in for a break, the only evidence of its existence the peel in your hand. Your phone was in your hand, recording you as you did it. Caught, you ended the recording and pulled the banana out of your throat, a string of spit following along with it.

Wiping the spit away, you shrugged half-heartedly. "Gotta get practice in somehow."

He snorted. "Must be used to small guys if that's what you're practicing with."

A judgmental look on your face, you eyed him up and down. "… Okay, size queen."

"I-" he sputtered out, throwing his hands in the air. "Whatever, have fun with your fucking banana. At least I know I've got someone's dick to suck."

Wiggling your eyebrows, you downed your mid-afternoon snack as the hero walked out of the break room. Was he walking with a limp? Nah, you must have been imagining things.

It was kind of funny. No one knew about your relationship, all of it hidden on locked down social media profiles. To everyone, you were just a new janitor and not Robert's long-term fiancé.

Oh, right, he should be on break now. It was good that your scheduled breaks were at different times. Who knew what you would get up to if you had the same break. Opening up your text messages app, you sent the video off to him, angled specifically where he could see the tip bulge in your throat. With that, you slipped your phone in your back pocket and wandered off to your next assignment.

The afternoon was insignificant. The Z-team getting into a fight with each other, requiring another food clean up. Another fruit bouquet to clean up from Phenomaman. At least it was found fast and you could throw it away quickly enough.

It wasn't until you walked by your fiance's desk that something interesting would happen. A quiet psst caught your attention, and you turned your attention to him.

"Hey, Chase." Robert snatched Beef, lifting him over the cubicle wall. "Watch Beef for a minute? Spilled something, and I don't want him getting into it."

He pushed himself back from the desk, gesturing to underneath it. Your eyes flicked towards the carpeting. No obvious spills, none that you could see. Raising an eyebrow, you locked eyes with Robert again.

Wordlessly, he placed his hand on his lap and raised his eyebrows, head tilted towards the desk. Oh. Right. That's a bold move. Something stirred in your stomach, your heart raced. The threat of getting caught was a hot one. A bold one, but certainly a hot one.

Tilting your head forward, you slowly looked down at the desk. "Oh yeah, sorry about that, I must have spilled something down there," you said out loud, getting down on your knees. "I'll get that cleaned up for you. I wouldn't want you to, ya know, miss any calls."

Damn, he wasn't lying when he said there was no space underneath his desk. How did his knees not hurt everyday? On your hands and knees, you crawled into the dark under spot, noting any spaces anyone could possibly see you.

Settled on the floor, you tapped Robert's calf, calling him forward. Squeaky wheels rolled towards you, his legs stretching out in front of you. Perfect, no gaps to see you down there. Narrowing your eyes, you thought about how you wanted to start. His thighs were sensitive. Teasing the edge of his phalloplasty scarring was enough to get him moaning. But those were too low down to possibly reach, if you wanted to be discrete. But…

Your hand reached out to that spot you knew so well, thumbing over the cloth. A heavy, exhaled sigh made a smile grow on your lips.

Perfect.

As you teased the line of the scarring, your free hand reached for his belt. Easy enough to get off, popping it off with your thumb. You reached under his shirt, untucking it, gently rubbing your thumb over his hip line, right above his dress pants. A heavier sigh, and Robert shifted in his seat, hunching over with his elbows on the desktop.

Humming, you settled your head closer to his crotch, resting on his thigh as your hands got to work getting his cock freed. Precum stained briefs, a pleased smile on your lips as you flicked your tongue out to tease the tip. A strained groan, and a hand found its way beneath your desk and to the back of your neck.

You stayed there for a moment, sucking on his dick through his briefs. But he was obviously impatient, pulling down his brief himself. Smiling, you kissed the side of his dick before wrapping your lips around his head.

"Flambae, you're o-oh-off-"

His cock hit the back of your throat, his words stammering out. A soft moan ran out your lips as you lapped at his balls, nose in his curly pubes. The hand on the back of your head tightened, encouraging you to stay there. Humming in acknowledgement, you hollowed out your cheeks, bobbing head to keep his dick in your throat as long as possible.

"You're off course, Flambae," Robert started in again, regaining his composure. "But I didn't need to tell you that…. No, I didn't choke on a banana, I just choked on spit."

Oh yeah, he definitely knew at this point. Oh well. Maybe you could get into some tag teaming.

Tapping his calf, he released his grip on your neck, resting it on your head. You pulled back, tongue trailing across the bottom of his cock. Wrapping your lips around his head, your hand came to his base, thumbing pressing down. A groan, swallowed down. Flicking your eyes up, you couldn't help but notice how ragged his breathing was. And how desperately he was trying to keep himself quiet.

Pulling your mouth of his dick completely, you leaned in closer, wrapping your mouth around the base of his cock. Focusing your tongue on the bottom, your hand slowly pumped him, pausing to tease the tip. His cock twitched in your mouth, throbbing with each tug. Close. Damn, if only you could pull his pants down completely. But this would have to do.

Thank god his pants were black. You didn't even want to know how much of your spit would show on khaki pants.

Another choked quiet groan, and you looked up to see his eyes screwed shut. Over the headset, you could hear Flambae lambast him, asking if he was enjoying that banana. But he continued guiding you with his hand, massaging the top of your head as you lapped at his base, pumping him slowly and patiently.

It wasn't long until cum was dripping out of his cock, twitching and throbbing as you kept sucking. A quiet groan escaped his chest, his grip tightening on the back of your head. Cum leaked out into your hand, all of which you happily licked up to avoid detection.

Quietly, you pushed yourself back deeper into the desk, letting Robert zip himself back up. Wiping your mouth, you waited for him to push himself back from the desk to let yourself up.

"Yeah, sorry about that." His voice wavered as he spoke. "I guess Beef got into something down there. Didn't mean for that mess to happen."

As you stood, your stumbled a bit, knees weak. Robert instinctively reached out, grabbing your waist with an unexpectedly strong grip. Teasingly, he pulled you towards him mouth, big brown eyes looking up at you as he pressed his mouth against hip.

"I owe you one. Seriously."

A knowing smile slipped on your face, ruffling his hair. "Hey, I've always got a storage room that could use some cleaning. Stop by on your break?"

"Of course, of course." He squeezed your ass. "See ya around."

All of the lunch shifts had ended, and you figured it was a good time to swing around to the break room again. Poking your head in, you noticed a donut box. Another appreciation gift for one of the superheroes. You peeked in the box, finding a cream filled donut.

Oh, you couldn't possibly say no.

You picked it up, biting directly into. Moaning softly, you dug your tongue into the cream filled treat. Soft, spongy. Your nose pressed deeper into it. God, it had been too long since you'd had one this good.

"Seriously?"

Flambae, once again, stood in the doorway. Staring at you, a deadpan look on his face as you tongue fucked the donut.

Curling your tongue in, you looked over at him, a glob of cream on your nose. "What? I'm always down for a cream-filled donut."

He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Bet you prefer it homemade."

Shrugging, you shoved the rest in your mouth. "I mean, if you filled it, I'd still eat it. I'm not really picky."

Smoke started rolling off his shoulders. Was that embarrassment, on his scrunched up face? "I do not do cream filling. It's messy and… Find someone else to fill your donuts."

With that, he was gone, grumbling something about something.

[nyraeafterdark]

2 A.M. Inside You

Prompt: He doesn’t want to wake you up for such an unnecessary thing, but his dick making it impossible for him to be able to sleep. He has work tomorrow for fucks sake.

Pairing: Robert Robertson (Mecha Man) x reader

Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, consensual somnophilia, dirty talk, praising, vaginal sex, creampie, this man just needed a good nut

A/N: first time writing for this munch, might be a bit ooc, this scenario has been swimming on my mind for the past couple of days, don’t judge me too hard 😭😭

He drags a palm over his chest, then back down his stomach, like he’s trying to manually reboot his entire reproductive system. Nothing. His dick is still there, still throbbing like it’s trying to send an SOS signal through the sheets. At this point he’s convinced the universe is laughing at him.

He tries the responsible adult thing: deep breaths, unclenching his jaw, thinking about taxes, spreadsheets, that one coworker who microwaves fish at lunch. Nothing helps. In fact, he somehow gets harder, which should be physically illegal.

Robert presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, willing his brain to shut up and his dick to give up. No dice. The damn thing twitches in his boxers like it’s mocking him.

He grits out a sigh that feels like it’s shaved five years off his life.

“For the love of—go. down.”

His cock remains in full rebellion mode.

He stares over at you again. Peaceful. Cozy. Curled into the blankets like some mythical sleep creature who doesn’t suffer from nighttime biohazards. You look so soft. So warm. So absolutely not something he should be waking up for this bullshit.

But the longer he looks, the worse the problem gets. His body is basically going, Oh, look, comfort and love and safety? Cool, let’s funnel all blood resources to the dick immediately. Idiot.

Robert drops back against the pillow with another pathetic groan. His eyes are half-lidded, exhausted, begging for mercy. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters to the ceiling, which does nothing but stare back like it’s judging him.

It doesn’t help that his hips keep trying to move. Little, desperate shifts like he’s subconsciously grinding for friction. It’s humiliating. He feels like he’s trapped in some low-budget late-night infomercial titled Man Fights God for Right to Sleep, Loses.

He grunts through his teeth, fed up but not beaten, and drags a shaky hand down his stomach. He’s so wrung out he can barely keep his eyes open, but he wraps his fingers around his cock anyway, desperate enough to try again even though he already knows how this ends.

He should’ve asked his therapist for those insomnia meds. Should’ve swallowed his pride and admitted he can’t sleep for shit. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t be lying here at two-something in the damn morning with a hard-on that refuses to clock out.

His grip tightens as he pumps his cock, slow at first, then faster when his hips start twitching up to meet his hand on their own. He groans low, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t wake you. Precum slicks his palm instantly, letting him stroke up and down without resistance. The wet slide only makes him shiver harder.

Please, he thinks, almost praying at this point. Please just work. I’m begging you.

His muscles tighten. Heat coils low in his stomach again, creeping up his spine like a fuse burning fast. He pants quietly, breath stuttering with every upward jerk of his hips. He can feel it—his high gathering, swelling, seconds from breaking.

It’s right there. Right there.

Why can’t he just fall over the edge?

His thighs tense. His balls pull tight. His back arches off the mattress.

Then his body seizes up.

The pleasure spikes—then stalls. Locks. Refuses.

He chokes on a groan, frustration tearing through him like fire.

“Fuck!” he snarls under his breath, voice raw, letting go of his twitching length because touching it hurts now. “Fuck…”

His dick jerks against his stomach, angry, swollen, and absolutely no closer to giving him the one thing he needs to sleep.

He’s exhausted. He’s furious. And he’s no closer to relief than when he started.

He closes his eyes, just for a second, letting exhaustion drag through him like static. When he turns toward you, it’s instinct, gravity, something primal pulling him in. His arm slips around your waist, and the moment his skin meets yours—warm, bare, soft in all the places he’s craving—his whole body prickles with goosebumps.

Your naked body molded against him is torture. Sweet, perfect torture.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and breathes in, shaking. The soft kiss he places there is barely a kiss at all, more like a plea disguised as affection. You shift in your sleep, barely conscious, instinctively pressing your body back into his like you’re made to fit there.

Your ass brushes his cock.

He hisses like he’s been burned, hips jerking forward before he can stop himself.

“Babe…” he whispers, voice cracking as he tries to keep it quiet. He’s out of options. Out of sanity. “Fuck, baby, I need you…”

You let out a soft, sleepy sound, something warm and unintelligible. His heart slams into his ribs.

“Baby,” he tries again, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck, can I fuck you?” The desperation bleeds through every word. He’s begging, actually begging.

You sigh, eyes barely fluttering, and give a slow, easy nod before melting right back into sleep, like he just asked you to pass the salt instead of ruin him.

“Shit…” The apology dies on his tongue as his hand moves on its own. He grips your thigh, warm and soft, and lifts it up, opening you for him. Your legs fall into place with the kind of trust that makes his chest ache.

And there you are.

Wet. Glowing in the low light. Ready for him without even waking up.

“Thank you…” he whispers against your shoulder, stunned, reverent, starving. You’re already drifting in dreamland again, completely unaware of how close he is to breaking apart.

He lines himself up, breath hitching as the head of his cock presses against your heat. Then slowly—so slowly it kills him—he pushes in.

Your warmth wraps around him like a blessing. Like salvation. Like every answer he’s been denied for the past hour.

He shudders, eyes rolling back.

Thanking every star in the sky for this. For you. For the relief hitting him like a wave as he finally—finally—sinks into you.

He doesn’t move at first. He can’t. Not when you’re wrapped around him like this—tight, warm, soft in a way that makes every nerve in his body light up. He holds himself there, buried deep, jaw locked as he forces his breathing to stay quiet so he doesn’t wake you.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid to lose the feeling of your heat around him. Then he pushes back in, just as slowly, letting his hips settle into a rhythm that gives him friction without disturbing your sleep.

It’s heaven. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he needed.

His mind starts to haze over, his thoughts dissolving into the steady pulse of your body clenching around him. Words start spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s saying them.

“Shit… so pretty…” he pants quietly, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet. “Taking me so pretty… so wet.”

Another slow, deep thrust. The kind that makes his thighs tremble.

“Just drooling all over me, yeah?” he whispers, breath hitching as your warmth sucks him in again.

His tip grazes your cervix. You tighten around him on instinct, a sleepy, unconscious reaction that nearly sends him collapsing.

“Ugh—fuck…” he chokes out, shivering. “You trynna break me apart, ain’t you, pretty?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, words slurring as they tumble out. He keeps thrusting into you with that same slow, needy rhythm, each push dragging more filth out of him.

“You feel unreal.”

“Fuck, baby, you’re hugging me so tight…”

“So warm… so wet… fuck…”

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind…”

“You’re perfect—god, you’re perfect…”

“Gonna make me fill you up if you keep squeezing me like that…”

He doesn’t even know if he’s talking to you or your pussy anymore. Probably both. Definitely both. The filth gets worse the longer he moves inside you, his voice soft and broken, like he’s confessing every dirty thought he’s ever had straight into your skin.

And you’re just sleeping through it, gripping him like you were built for him.

It’s driving him insane.

He grunts low in his throat when that familiar burn coils tight in his gut again, hotter this time, sharper, like his body finally decided to cooperate. He forces his eyes open. He needs to see it—his hips snapping gently against yours, the soft bounce of your ass meeting every thrust. It’s almost hypnotic, the way you take him without even waking up.

“So close…” he mumbles, voice ragged. “Gonna make a right mess outta you, girly… want you dripping…”

He bites back a moan as he picks up the pace—still quiet, still controlled, but deeper, more desperate. Each thrust sinks him a little harder into your warmth, each push dragging another pulse out of you. Your pussy keeps clenching around him, little fluttering squeezes that make his head spin… until one sudden, tight grip nearly knocks the breath out of him.

His hips stutter. His heartbeat jumps.

“Hah… fuck…” he pants, thrusting through it, barely holding on. “Made you feel good, yeah?” His voice breaks at the end. “Made you cum all over my dick?”

He can’t keep the rhythm anymore. His thrusts go sloppy, shaky, frantic—his whole body trembling as the pressure snaps inside him with a violent rush.

He stills, buried flush against you, and spills into you hard.

Hot. Deep. Endless.

“Fuck…” he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder as release rips through him. “Take it all, pretty… drink in my cum…”

More filth follows, unfiltered and breathless, tumbling out between shaky exhales.

“Shit… so thirsty for it…”

“That’s it… that’s my girl… milking me so good…”

“Fuck, you’re perfect… perfect…”

His cock twitches inside you, pushing the last few pulses of cum into your already-full cunt. When the high finally begins to ebb, he slumps against you, boneless and bliss-struck, panting quietly against your skin.

He buries himself deeper, like he wants to seal his cum inside you. Then he wraps his arm around your waist again, pulling you close, tucking himself against your back like you’re the world’s softest pillow.

His breathing evens out.

He’s out cold within minutes.

Finally—finally—ready for the best damn sleep of his life before he has to drag himself out of bed tomorrow and pretend he’s a fully functional adult.

[riotgurlll-deactivated20251214]

🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.

“M-Mmph!-“ 

He had been going at it for so long… mumbling about how he just wanted to make you feel good, how pretty you were.

His hips slammed into yours from behind, body pressed perfectly against the curve of your back— god,it’s like he was made for you.. made to fit your body. He was planted on one elbow and one palm, aiming his hips the best he could to get as deep as possible inside of you. Why? Well, because you asked. 

Typically you were on top, guiding and controlling him in the most pleasurable way he could imagine.. But all it took was one bad day. One stressful day at work, one word, and he was ready to do anything to please you— make you happy.

He was drilling into you at this point. Well, he had been, actually. His forehead was pressed into the crook of your neck as he cried into your skin, voice cracking. “Gh-god you are so- so pretty…!” He rambled, tip of his cock kissing the deepest part of you. As deep as he could possibly go. “N’you’re so sweet…— sweet, don’t deserve to have b-bad days…” he ranted on, whimpering on about how you deserved the world. 

You could feel him twitching like crazy: his cock, his hips, his hand… he was shuttering, hands gripping the plastic cover over his bed like a vice. “Hah- oh.. s-shii..” he was a mess in your ear, but doing so, so good for you. You had asked him to fuck you stupid— anyway he wanted, just as long as you could forget about the shitstorm of a day you just had. Well, he definitely was doing it how he wanted: he was just dumber than you at this point. 

Still, he kept going. Despite having cum already once, he maintained his mind washing rhythm, filling you to the brim while whispering sweet nothings into your ear like you were some kind of goddess, some sort of sacred thing. Maybe you were to him. 

It’s not that you weren’t making noise— you were— but now you were so on the brink that all you could do was let your mouth hang open slightly as your eyes rolled back. It wasn’t often he fucked you like this— usually it was the other way around. Tonight though was different simply due to your request, and you weren’t complaining in the slightest. 

“M’I doing good—..good? Wanna be perfect—make you feel perfect..-“ he stammered, voice rather husky, whimpers falling from his lips like music to your fucking ears. A breath was sucked out of him, and he mumbled about how tight you were. Tonight, he was more vulgar than usual, in his own way. Everything about him was making you tighten around him. You went to go reply to him: to tell him he was such a good boy. 

However, your words were replaced by a rather shocked whine as the palm placed in front of your face left your field of vision, just for him to pull your hair back and lift you up ever so slightly. “Mmh- please..? Please tell m-me I—“ “Fuck-!”

That was the first time he had ever done anything like that. You weren’t exactly sure why or where it came from, but when he noticed how speechless you were (because you were too busy matching the sounds that he was making) he pressed his forehead against yours. “M’sorry.. so sorry I just.. need to see your face better..? Yeah?”

“Don’t apologize..” you say through gritted teeth, followed by a small squeak as you notice just how tight the knot in your lower stomach had grown at those actions and words alone. “You’ve been a fucking dream, Herman..— please don’t stop..” you whine. “Y’feel so good..—“

At your words of praise he only went harder, and all the sudden the reality of how close you were hit you like a freight train. “Anything f’you..—anything..” Herman whined into your shoulder. You could tell- you could feel it. You felt his hips twitch, thrusts stalling for just a second before a familiar warmth filled in your abdomen at the same time the pressure snapped.

You fluttered around his spent cock, Yur hips shaking in small short bursts as you fought to come back to your senses. “Mph…” Herman huffed, slowly adjusting and flopping onto his side, spooning you while he softened slowly inside of you. You were both panting— holding each other close.

[ka1t0-s]

"Yknow, I like that you never raise your voice." You murmur. Offhand.

You and Sylus weren't talking about anything before this. Just... sitting quietly in eachothers presence.

"...what do you mean exactly, sweetie?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing..." you trail off, shrugging. "I just... I dunno. I've never seen you get mad and yell at me, I suppose. I like it. I feel... safe, is all. Ah, wait, that sounds stupid saying it outloud--"

"Its fine, sweetie." Sylus murmurs. "I'm glad you feel safe with me. Considering we're in a relationship and all."

"But... Doesn't everyone get mad? I mean at some point you'll yell at me, right?"

"...what does yelling add to the argument, exactly?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, if it's to make you more upset, I could just make Mephisto take my side of the argument to tick you off," Sylus teases. "But I see no reason to restort to yelling with you, when we can talk it out just fine."

"..." you stare at him for a second. "I... but what if I don't listen to your point?"

"Then it's a dumb point. Sweetie, we can both be reasonable, you know that? Was there... someone you dealt with who wasn't?"

"...maybe." you shrug. "But... it's in the past now."

He nods. "...yes, it is. And if anyone. Anyone decides to yell at you again, they'll be apart of the past, too."

[tedturnerwascrazy]

Disney really didn't need to give Dana more reasons to hate them but by god they gave her some anyway

[starbittenapple]

Caleb who tries to avoid blowjobs early in your relationship — not because he doesn’t like them but because he knows he’ll cum in less than a minute. One glimpse at your glassy, pleading eyes, lips stretched around him, drool shining at the corners of your mouth, and it’s already game over.

“L–love, please…slow down” He rasps, gently pulling you back by your hair, fingers trembling. You’re barely a minute in and his thighs are already quivering.

You pull off with a wet pop, his slick length brushing your cheek. “Why? Am I doing it wrong?” you ask, voice filled with innocence, thumb stroking the vein pulsing beneath his skin.

Caleb’s breath hitches. The sight alone of your lips swollen and his cock resting heavy against your flushed face could make him spill untouched. 

“N–no. It’s just…too much.” He stammers, completely flushed in both embarrassment and pleasure. 

"Is that a bad thing?" You smirked as you dragged your tongue in a slow, deliberate circle around his leaking tip, watching his hips jerk involuntarily.

His head snaps back, a broken groan tearing from his throat. The hand in your hair tightens, never actually pushing you or hurting you, just clinging, knuckles white. “Fuck– baby–”

“You are so sensitive” You whispered, lips brushing the slit as you speak. Another flick of your tongue and his curses turn into whimpers. You haven’t even taken half of him and he’s already gone. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth slack, and his chest heaving like he’s drowning.

When you decided to take more of his length, your other hand helping where you couldn't reach, he sat up in surprise. “P–Pips” he whined, taking a look at your drooling mouth and beautiful eyes who looked back at him. His voice cracks as your throat flutters around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the stretch. You don’t stop, you can’t — not when he’s unraveling so beautifully.

You hollow your cheeks, bobbing faster as the lewd sounds of your mouth fill the room. His warnings turn frantic. “Baby– move, I’m gonna–”

But you only take him deeper, nails digging into his thigh as you feel him throb against your tongue. His whole body locks up, a choked sob escaping as he comes undone in your throat with hot, thick pulses filling you.  You swallow greedily, milking every rope until he’s left begging for you to stop at the overstimulation. 

[rcvcgers]

been thinking about professor caleb and…

this one's a little longer but i don't think anyone's complaining

also the panty sniffer agenda is still alive over here what who said that

18+! minors dni! it gets a lil spicy! i am not responsible for what you consume!

professor sylus | professor zayne | professor xavier | professor rafayel

acc. masterlist

also, i kind of want to turn these into more formal one shots or do a part two for them! let me know if you want to see that!

professor caleb . . . who is known around campus to be the fun and engaging professor who lets his students get away with a lot

professor caleb . . . who walks to his classroom with an apple in his mouth and his arms are full of papers and folders

professor caleb . . . who walks directly into you while not paying attention, his papers getting mixed in with yours

professor caleb . . . who immediately noticed how pretty you are and suddenly found himself intoxicated with your apple perfume

professor caleb . . . who listens to your blabbers of an apology while you hide back your tears, wiping them away as you gather his papers

professor caleb . . . who found himself reaching for your hands instead of the papers on the ground, walking you to his office

professor caleb . . . who knelt before you and asked what's wrong. turns out you failed an exam. you have a good excuse, though! nothing he hasn't heard before.

professor caleb . . . who walked with you to your professor's office where he explained to them why you should retake the test

professor caleb . . . who had his hand on your lower back the entire time, loving how you leaned into him with that doe look in your eyes

professor caleb . . . who keeps his office door open with the hope you'll walk by some day

professor caleb . . . who is just about to give up on grading papers when he hears your voice in the doorway

professor caleb . . . who contains his smile and leans back in his chair, watching as you close (and lock) the door behind you

professor caleb . . . who takes the paper you give him. it's the test you retook with a perfect score!

professor caleb . . . who tells you that he's proud of you and that you're a good girl who deserves good grades

professor caleb . . . who watches as you get down onto your knees, setting between his legs under his desk

professor caleb . . . whose cock twitches at the sight of your innocent eyes while you rest your chin on his thigh

professor caleb . . . who listens to how you want to thank him for helping you, so you're going to help him

professor caleb . . . who tells you that you look so pretty with his cock in your mouth

professor caleb . . . who kisses your mouth clean while buried deep inside of you

professor caleb . . . who keeps his office and classroom doors open so he can see you walk by, always smirking whenever he catches you

professor caleb . . . who notices a new student join his class. it's you.

professor caleb . . . who asks you to stay after class because you obviously need to catch up on the curriculum

professor caleb . . . who keeps your hands on the wall and legs spread apart, fingers buried deep in you, while he stands from behind, explaining the particularly hard concepts

professor caleb . . . who doesn't let you cum until you get every single question right

professor caleb . . . who drives you home after, hand in your hair while you lean over the center console

professor caleb . . . who kisses you goodnight while you press your soaked panties into his hands before getting out of the car and running towards the doors of your apartment

professor caleb . . . who can't focus on anything unless his nose is buried in your red panties that has an apple design sewn into it

professor caleb . . . who wants to get a taste of you the next time he sees you

as always ; likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! support your favorite writers on here!

[cherryscript]

RENT PAID IN P@NTIE$ caleb

SYNOPSIS★ When your sweet old landlady passes away, her grandson Caleb takes over the property. He’s goofy, charming, a golden retriever of a man—except behind that smile is a freak who can’t get enough of your scent. First it’s lost panties, then unwashed bras, and before you know it your landlord is moaning into your laundry and begging for “payment” straight from the source.

CW★ landlord!caleb, writer!reader, panty theft, gooning, scent kink, lingerie stealing, unwashed clothing kink, masturbation, cum everywhere, oral (fem receiving), leg humping, public indecency vibes, crack mixed with depravity, Caleb being a pervy golden retriever weirdo but hot about it, reader hairy + unshaved mentions, rent = panties arrangement, shameless dirty talk. . . wc : 4.3k

CHERRY’S NOTE★ caleb is a freak from heart. only face card is saving him. also, tysm for 4k+ followers—take this as a celebration gift.

You hadn’t exactly planned on being broke.

That was the funny thing about pursuing your dreams—it sounded noble until you were eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row and rationing your laundry detergent because it was either that or running out of coffee. You’d quit your steady nine-to-five to finally give writing a real chance, which meant no more safety net, no steady paycheck, just you and a Word doc full of half-finished drafts.

And rent. Always rent.

The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but in the middle of Linkon City, it was a miracle you’d managed to hang onto it this long. The only reason you’d survived was your landlady Josephine, a sweet old woman with a soft spot for starving artists and lonely tenants. She never raised the rent, always slipped you leftovers from whatever she’d cooked that week, and told you, in her gravelly smoker’s voice, that you reminded her of her younger self.

Then she passed away.

Just like that, you went from living in a cozy, rent-stable haven to dreading the letter that slid under your door with news of “new management.”

That was how you met him.

Caleb.

Josephine’s grandson.

The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.

When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”

You blinked at him. “That’s me.”

“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”

You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.

“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”

“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.

But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.

It started with one pair.

You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.

But then it kept happening.

Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.

It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.

What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.

He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.

Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.

Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.

“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”

He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.

Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.

Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.

And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.

He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.

Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.

“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.

His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.

And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.

If only you knew.

If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.

It was getting ridiculous.

First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.

And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.

“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.

Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.

The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.

By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.

You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.

“Fucking—”

Ding-dong.

The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.

And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.

“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”

Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.

Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.

“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.

Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.

When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.

“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”

Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.

He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.

You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.

And froze.

The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.

With Caleb.

You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.

“…oh. My. God.”

Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.

Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.

Stealing your underwear.

Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.

Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.

The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.

“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”

His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.

“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.

The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.

He was gone. Utterly gone.

So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.

You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.

Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.

And then—

He came. Hard.

“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.

Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.

Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.

Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.

“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.

You didn’t move. “….”

“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.

Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”

Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”

You blinked. “…what?”

He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.

“Pay me in these…”

You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”

“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.

Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.

You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.

Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”

And with that, you shut the door.

It got… normal.

Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”

You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.

The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.

You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.

The second month, though…

Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”

You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.

He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.

“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”

You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.

By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.

Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.

“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.

So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.

Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.

You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”

And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”

You smashed your keyboard once again.

Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.

“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”

“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”

The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”

“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.

His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”

The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.

Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”

His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.

Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.

Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.

Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”

He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”

His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.

“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.

Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”

You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.

And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.

Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.

“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.

“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.

He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.

If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.

Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.

“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.

And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.

When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.

He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”

You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.

And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him rent at all.

Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.

“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”

You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.

And god help you—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[nighttidee]

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍

Your boyfriends in a situation he doesn’t like so you figure out a way to get him out of it (Lads men x fem!mc!reader)

ft: Xavier, Sylus, Rafayel, Caleb, Zayne

wc: n/a (textfic)

rundown: people being idiots, mentions of murder, cannon nicknames, fluff.

notes: another textfic because these are fun and low effort. Also I wanna do a fic series for Halloween but I don’t have any ideas so please give me some 🙏

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Ask to be added to taglist if you want!

[cats-and-confusion]

Hey can anyone tell me what the FUCK this behavior means

[landmineblogging]

[silknspice]

BAD LIARS —

fake dating hockey! vi x reader | fluff, angst, fake dating trope, romcom-ish, smut (mdni 18+) wc 20.8k

synopsis: following the release of four outdated love letters, vi vanderson is more than willing to start fake dating the girl of her dreams as a way to get rid of your clingy ex (and her ex hookup): caitlyn kiramman. 

content: fake dating trope, some fake insta/snap stories/smau content!, language, betrayal, makeup smut (kissing, fingering, oral, mdni!), clingy ex!caitlyn, college au, lying, miscommunication

soundtrack: if you let me (alina baraz) | lowkey (niki) | lovers (anna of the north) | see through (amelia moore) | fetish (selena gomez) | kill bill (sza) | all of the girls you loved before (taylor swift) | two weeks (fka twigs) | everything happens for a reason (madison beer) | every summertime (niki)

Three-fourths of your favorite cereal is absolutely disgusting. 

The deep blue circles start off sweet, but leave a bitter aftertaste that stains your tongue. The auburn ones aren’t all that bad, but they get too soggy, disintegrating into grains that fade into the now colored milk. The chestnut brown discs are so scarce that their taste is completely forgettable; you swear there’s only three in each batch. 

Had these been the only flavors, you’d chuck the box in the trash and scold your best friend-roommate Mel for even bringing them into your shared apartment. But that one-fourth of strawberry pink circles make it worth it every time. They’re sweet on your tongue, sweet on your heart, swee—

“What’s with the look?” 

Mel’s concern-filled voice brings you back to the present, making you smile sheepishly like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. The girl slides her white puffer jacket on, keys jingling in her hand as she awaits an answer. 

“Nothin’, just ate a blue one.” Your mouth flattens, attempting to squeeze the bitter flavor from your tastebuds. 

The gold-eyed girl hums. She blinks as her arms cross and she takes two, then three cautious steps towards you. Her gaze flickers faster than light, attempting to read every inch of your body language. 

“You know,” she starts, sitting down to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “If you need to talk about it, I’m here. Don’t feel like you have to suffer in silence.” 

That makes you snort, soft reassuring laughter following as you shake your head with confidence.

“Suffer? Mel, I broke up with Caitlyn, not the other way around.” 

“Yeah, but transitioning from a relationship to a peace-abundant single life is hard nonetheless.. unless you’re ready to jump to the rebound stage?” Her full brows raise in persuasion as she finishes her sentence. In her mind, getting laid would solve any problems that the complex inner-workings of your mind could craft. 

The question catches you off guard once more. Not that it should. It’d be a big fat lie to claim the idea never crossed your mind. In fact, it planted itself inside your brain like a bug and dug all the way down to memories you’d attempted to forget. Down to highschool of all places (God forbid). Down to those four names that perfectly defined the word ‘desire’ for you. Ellie Williams, Caitlyn Kiramman, Sky Young, and Violet Vanderson. 

Ellie, a fellow camp counselor at Wildflower Haven your junior year, took hold of your heart on day one. Sneaking out of your cabins at night, skinny dipping in the camp lake, even making matching bracelets that you claimed you’d ‘wear forever’. Your crush blossomed at superluminal speed. But before you knew it, camp was coming to an end and you were saying goodbye forever. 

Caitlyn Kiramman. A classic senior-year-of-high-school crush that didn’t develop until the first semester of college sophomore year. Your now ex, who is the last person you want to think about. High five to your high school self for predicting that one, though. 

Sky Young, a skating instructor at your local ice rink: Polar Peaks. After you’d fallen on your face for the fourth time and were ready to give up, you saw chestnut brown curls above you, decorating one of the friendliest smiles you’d seen to date. She helped you rise to your feet and held your hand for a lap around the rink. Unfortunately, you were a sophomore when she was a senior, and a week later you returned to the rink to find out she’d officially left for college. Not that there was anything between you two. Still, you could dream. 

And last, but certainly not least, Violet Vanderson. The star athlete of your school’s hockey team then and now. Sculpted muscles, a singular tattoo that multiplied quickly after graduation, and a killer smile that could put a halt to the gears turning in any girl’s head.

It was a simple interaction. You were the first one to read your final poem in front of your literature class with clammy palms, a shaky voice, and a dream. As you finished, looking at attentive students like a deer in headlights, Vi was the first to clap. It was enthusiastic, loud, and genuine. And like always, other students followed suit. 

Vi didn’t know you. She knew of you, the bits and pieces she could gather. You were somewhat of a social butterfly, you smelled of strawberry and vanilla every time you passed her seat, you were mind-consumingly beautiful, and you could write. Unfortunately for the both of you, your paths didn’t seem to cross any further than that.

And so, you wrote a letter.

Four love letters, to be exact. Each one in the high point of your crushes, attempting to soothe the longing feeling in your gut that ached for you to do something. You wrapped them all the same, in either a dark blue, chestnut brown, auburn, or pink envelope with a bow on the seal, even going as far as addressing and stamping them. Of course, they were never meant to be sent, which led them to their hiding place in a rose-red cylindrical fabric box that was stashed away into the depths of your closet. 

“C’mon, you’re hot and single again. I have some good contestants–”

“I don’t know Mels,” you cut her off with a look too mixed to decipher. “But really, I’m good,” you reassure, taking another spoonful of cereal into your mouth. 

Yuck–  another blue one. 

“Sevika, what the fuck!”

Gert’s complaint was drowned out by skates shuffling against the abused ice. Players clad in blue and white practice jerseys messily fill the space, fighting to keep up with Sevika. The woman speeds past, guiding the puck along the ice and slamming it into the goal.

The sounds of hurried feet and grunts subside, leaving breathless panting and shared looks of confusion across the teammates’ faces. But one pair of skates never slows, coming up behind the buff figure and skidding to a stop.

“The hell are you doing?” Vi scolds the woman with a scrunched up face of judgement. This is the sixth time Sevika’s pissed her off this week and it’s starting to get on her last nerve. “You’re hogging the puck. You’re not the only person on this team, in a game this would’ve–” 

“Get the hell out of my face,” the burly woman throws back, shoulder checking Violet hard enough to make her break her cool, squaring her shoulders and raising her voice with a “Sevika,”. 

“Vanderson! Grove!” Coach Talis’s voice echos throughout the rink, making the hockey players stop in their tracks. 

“Unless you two want to run extra drills: cut it out. Now.” 

“Is it just me, or is she being more of a fucking pain than usual?” Vi asks the woman across the locker room rhetorically, slipping on a clean compression shirt and plopping down on the bench to knot her laces. 

“I told you dude, she wants to be you, or at least take your spot.” the blonde sighs, pulling her braided hair from under the pullover she just slipped on. “As long as she’s taking her anger our on you and not me..” She continues, and the pinkette throws her a scoff before the blonde continues. 

“You know if you need stress relief, you could always go back to Kiramman. Heard the pretty girl called things off with her.”

And although her teammate only muttered the words, they set off blaring alarms within Vi’s mind. Because she can’t go back to hooking up with Caitlyn, she lied to her friends saying the two of them were ‘too busy’ when in reality Vi called things off because she couldn’t stop thinking about the one girl she knew nothing about. You. And suddenly, you and Cait were dating. Suddenly, she sure as hell couldn’t tell anybody the real reason she stopped seeing her. 

“Nah Abby, not happening,” she simply replies, attempting to sound as bored with the topic as possible.

“Fine, stay dry. I’m just throwing things out there,” the blonde puts her hands up in defense, shutting her locker as she walks towards the exit. “Later!” she waves before slipping out of the door. 

A beat passes. Then two. Then three. Finally, she takes a deep breath, leans down to unzip her practice bag, and reaches in. 

And out Vi pulls a pink envelope, decorated with a bow perfectly placed on the front and her name adorned with hearts on the back. 

The force of cool air coats your face as you walk throughout campus, ranting on the phone to Mel about your latest hell of a group project. “And it’s not even.. even.. sorry, I’m getting a call. Talk at home!” 

You smile at the friendly contact photo covering your screen, rounding some greenery as the parking lot comes into view. With a click of the ‘accept’ button, you're greeted with the gentlest of voices. “Hey!” 

A soft chuckle leaves your lips.

“Hey little man, look I’m about to drive home so I can’t talk for long,” you blinked a few times, realizing you went further from your car and spinning on your heels. 

“No worries,” he starts, “I just wanted to let you know that last week I was helping clean your old room and I found some letters, looks like you forgot to send them out? They were stamped and addressed and everything, so I just sent them for you.”

Ekko continues, giving some speech about God knows what.

But you can’t hear any of it, because the ringing in your ears is deafening.

No. 

It takes a few beats of your pure, shocked silence before your brain powers back on. And once it does, every inch of your mind is racing.

Okay, you thought to yourself. Ellie’s letter was addressed to camp, so there’s no chance of it getting to her anytime soon, if at all. Sky’s been gone for years, but you can’t remember the address you put down for her letter. Violet– shit. She definitely has hers. 

Oh. No. No, no, no. 

Your body feels oh so fragile and suddenly the idea of fleeing the country doesn’t sound entirely heinous, because only a few feet away stands Caitlyn.

Her blue hair is in a messy ponytail and her outfit is less perfected than usual, urgently thrown on. She’s searching, a determined expression plastered on her face as her gaze flickers through crowds of students.

For a moment, you pray it’s a misunderstanding. You pray she’s in a rush to find someone else, because there’s absolutely no way your ex was mailed a love letter you wrote in highschool. 

But your eyes trail down to her hand wrapped around that beautifully decorated navy envelope, and your knees are seconds away from buckling.  

“Yeah, yeah uh huh that’s great and all Ekko but I’ve really gotta go. Call me another time, okay?” you hit the ‘end call’ button with more force than needed and dash to your car. 

As you swing open the car door and drop inside with a slam shut, you can feel it. The way your heart pounds against your chest as if it’s trying to escape. That achy feeling that crawls its way up the back of your throat and transforms into tears that prickle at the corners of your worried eyes.

You shake your head, putting the key in the ignition and immediately shifting to reverse, not tending to your clouded vision. 

“Woah!” 

The somewhat-familiar yelp has your foot slamming on the breaks. Your face scrunches in confusion, the sleeve of your coat wiping your eyes just enough to make out the empty space behind your car as you look in your rearview camera. You’re confused, ready to switch the car back into ‘reverse’ before a tap tap at your window makes you gasp. 

Violet stands there, looking relaxed as an almost smug smile coats her lips. 

Your face distorts, torn between speeding off and giving in to her request, but before you make a decision, your manicured hands are rolling the window down. Cool air flows inside, but it loses to the subtle warmth that fills your body from the way the pinkette is eyeing you. 

“You know you’re supposed to check behind you before pulling out, right?” she teases.

The question itself is mocking, but the glint in her eye and how she leans down to relax a forearm on the car tells you to let it slide. 

“Right,” you agree. “Right, sorry about that. I just really need to leave so–” 

“Think y’ can explain this before you do?”

With no time to brace yourself, she holds up that stupid decorated pink envelope, and all you want to do is faint. 

“I don’t..” you whisper, accepting there’s nothing you can say to make this go away. But that blue hair is nearing, and you’re going to have a heart attack. 

“Can you get in?” you ask, voice a soft plea. 

Vi’s expression falters. That was the last thing she expected.

“Please?” you try again. “I can’t talk about this here.”

Your foot’s going to fall asleep if you sit like this any longer.

The two of you stay perfectly still, worried that any form of movement will penetrate the bubble of silence that formed as soon as Vi sat in the plush passenger seat.

Her mind is racing, because the beautiful girl she’s had her eyes on for months sent her the most heartfelt confession she’s ever gotten, and now she’s sitting in her car in a secluded area of a park. For a moment, she wonders if she’s dreaming. But the sound of your seat belt unbuckling and you shifting to face her, sweet and cautious eyes looking into her soul, has her heart skipping beats. She concludes she’s wide awake.

“Interesting spot for our first date,” she hums after clearing her throat. “You’re not gonna kill me, right?” 

That has your expression faltering. 

“You’re..” you stammer, “you think this is funny?” 

“Listen I’m just a little confused, sunshine,” she doesn’t miss the way your body stills at the nickname. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. But you and her majesty just broke up, and I think you should know that her and I—” 

“Just– let me see that.” you cut her off and reach out for the rosy packaging, but Vi’s quicker, pulling it back with a squint in her eyes.

“I’d like to know how mortified I should be,” you confess quietly after a beat of silence. “It’s been a while since I read yours.” 

Naturally, the athlete oozes confidence and cockiness, but the pure confusion that colonizes her expression makes all of that fade for the moment. Her guard is down, allowing you to reach over her lap and seize the envelope. 

“Wait wait wait,” she starts as you focus your attention on pulling the folded paper from the envelope. 

“What do you mean ‘yours’? Are you saying I’m not the only person who got one ‘f these?” she asks, voice laced with confusion and another emotion you can’t quite pinpoint. You ignore her, hands stilling as sour nostalgia hits you in the gut and knocks the wind out of you.

My dearest Violet,

Do you remember Ximena Talis’s creative writing class in junior year? You acted so uninterested in each lesson when your teammates were around, but when they were busy skipping class, you were sticking your nose in the next Shakespeare play or Edgar Allen Poe poem. You shared your own writings with the class, a bored look painting your face and an awkward laugh spilling from your throat (although, they really weren’t that bad). But when I stood in front of our peers and performed my spin on “Annabel Lee”, you rose to your feet in applause. I’ll always be grateful that it was you who gave me my first standing ovation. Because in that moment I knew, from my happily raised eyebrows down to the nervous shuffling of my feet, that I love you Violet Vanderson. I really, truly love you. 

You physically can’t read the rest of this.

The tense sensation in your stomach only tightens as you hastily fold the paper and toss it back to the athlete, who’s still examining you with a curious glint in her eye.

“Okay–  here’s the thing,” you begin after a deep breath. “I wrote four letters, and they’re all outdated, like– from sophomore through senior year. A family friend sent them out by accident.” 

The explanation has Violet blinking, because in one sentence you’ve managed to crush her plans that she confidently pranced over with. In one sentence, you’ve made her question what the hell she was thinking. In one sentence, you’ve washed away her suave persona and turned her to a questioning pile of mush, because– you’re not just trying to get into her pants?

“..Well who else got letters?” She cringes at her whiny tone, running a hand through her hair for comfort. 

“Uh,” you sigh and shift your position as you look anywhere but the girl, dread consuming your almost-annoyed face. “A girl from summer camp, some girl from the ice rink, and… Caitlyn.” The last word comes out as an embarrassed murmur that leaves Vi’s mouth agape in shock and pity. 

A few beats of silence pass before Vi’s eyes light up. 

It might be a crazy idea, and you might despise her after the suggestion leaves her lips, but she can’t pass up this opportunity.

“Things with Kiramman must be tense now, right?” she offers.

Your lips press together in silent agreement, gaze trailing to your shining phone screen.  35 new messages and 6 missed calls from Caitlyn, just in the past two hours. You’d texted Caitlyn an explanation as soon as you’d parked: that Ekko sent her an old letter and that was just that. But still, stubborn as always, the bluenette refuses to believe you. 

“You could say that,” you mumble reluctantly. “I just,” you whisper, “I don’t know what to do.”

Her gaze flickers up and down your frame once in final thought. Your bright eyes drooping with worry and once confident voice lacing with insecurity makes up her mind. She wants nothing more than to console you, to wrap her strong arms around your frame and make you beam. Vi’s not sure if it’s her or the seventeen year old in that creative writing class speaking, but words fall from her lips. 

“I could be your girlfriend.”

A wave of disbelief washes over you, leaving widened eyes and a pounding heart in its path. The panicked expression on your face is enough to have her next words sputtering out in consolation. 

“Fake girlfriend, of course.” The way your eyes soften in thought fuels her to continue. “Just for a little while y’know? To give Kiramman the hint.” Her words are spoken with more power as she sees the gears turning in your pretty little head.

The idea’s heinous, and the thought of your scheme being revealed makes your stomach turn in embarrassment for the both of you. It’s ridiculous, idiotic, and risky, but your phone lights up once again with a text from your navy-haired ex, and that’s enough to make you answer.

“Okay, let’s do it.” 

caitlyn: I know you didn’t mean what you said. Just come and talk to me, love.  caitlyn: Jesus, don’t be stubborn. 

The messages continue on like a flood, piling onto your guilty conscience until the notification ringing becomes all too much, making you flick the silence button on your phone. The quiet doesn’t last long as you near the doors of the practice rink. Five players burst through the doors, a cluster of chaos and yells surrounding them before one girl, hair tied back into a dark brown bun, notices you. 

“That her?” she whispers to her teammates, their backs facing you as they walk away, but they whip their heads around (noticeably at that) to get glances at you. 

“Damnn.” another draws out, earning a slap on her neck. 

“How’d Vi do that so fast?” you hear another quip before they take a turn down the hallway. 

You only smiled gently, rolling your eyes at the comments as your hand pushed open the door to the rink. At least you make a believable couple. 

“You know, my words were ‘you could always go back to Kiramman, the pretty girl dumped her’, not ‘you should go bag your ex-fling’s ex-girlfriend’. They’ve been broken up for, what, two weeks? Does she even know about you and Cait?” Abby’s raspy voice fills the ice, making Vi shush her in annoyance.

“Yes, of course she knows.” 

There’s a beat of silence, neither of the players move when the words of a lie fill the air.

“Fuck fine. No, she doesn’t know yet. I’m just waiting for a good time..” Vi confesses, aimlessly kicking the ice.

“You know this makes you messy, right?” the strong blonde grinned. 

“Oh fuck off. Messy is pounding half the swim team.” The pinkette sends an accusatory glance and Abby’s raising her hands up in innocence with a shrug and a smug smile. She rounds the ice and stops in her tracks when you enter the room, glistening skin and a patient waiting look on your face. 

She snickers, letting out a quick whistle as she skates towards the exit off the ice. “Violet,” she coos in a sing-songy voice, “look who’s here for you.” 

The blonde waves goodbye to her friend once and sends you a wink before exiting the room.

Your hands are clasped behind your back as you take your time walking up to where the carpet and ice of the rink are separated. Realizing your limit, you lean your side against the entrance, looking at the athlete whose eyes are grazing over your attire painfully slow.

“You want some skates?” she finally speaks, eyes meeting yours with a glint.

You laugh gently. “Hell no.” She snickers along with you, removing her helmet to run a hand through her hair. 

“So you’ve,” you slightly raise your hand to point your thumb in the direction Abby and the other players exited, “you’ve told people already?” 

Worry flickers over her face, because for some reason she just can’t read you right like she can read other girls and it drives her insane. 

“Yeah, something wrong with that?” she asks cooly, placing her helmet back on the pink fluff as she glides around.

You bite the inside of your cheek in thought, finally shaking your head. “No, no I mean that’s the whole point, for people to know.” you hum. 

“But I have to ask, why are you doing this?”

Vi stops in her tracks, body turning to face yours from feet away. 

She contemplates it, telling you the truth. That she’s infatuated with and intrigued by you. That you’ve completely ruined hookups and “crushes” for her because she can’t get you out of her head. And maybe she doesn’t know you too well just yet, but she’s going to. And yes, she used to fuck your ex girlfriend way before you were even girlfriends, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the bond she wants to have with you, and she prays it doesn’t affect deem her unreliable. 

Yet none of that can come out of her mouth. So, she settles on her practiced lie and prays whoever’s up there doesn’t look down on her for it.

“Coach doesn’t like my reputation for ‘getting around’. Says it just doesn’t look good. Being with you gives me some cover.” She talks smoothly, making sure there’s not a hint of guilt behind her voice, because it's a lie. Coach Talis couldn’t care less about what she’s doing in her free time as long as she shows out on the ice. 

You only hum and nod.

You don’t notice how close she’s gotten until she’s there, staring down at you. Her musk and amber scent is intoxicating, seeping into your nostrils while powder blue eyes catch yours through her helmet and– is it possible she looks better than you remember?

“The letter,” you sputter out, mentally cringing as the pinkette raises a brow. “Can I see the letter again?” 

She’s cheesing, reaching into the pocket of her pants to whip out the neatly folded paper and.. is she just keeping that on her? 

As if she can read your mind and wide eyes, she speaks. “Just knew you’d want it,” she explains, placing it between your waiting fingers. She watches as you unfold the paper and look up at her. Thick silence fills the air before the athlete gets the hint, blinking twice with a nod. “Right, sorry,” Vi apologizes simply before skating off. 

You take a deep breath, heart swelling the same way it did when you first wrote this sweet confession. 

My dearest Violet,

Do you remember Ximena Talis’s creative writing class in junior year? You acted so uninterested in each lesson when your teammates were around, but while they were busy skipping class, you were sticking your nose in the next Shakespeare play or Edgar Allen Poe poem. You shared your own writings with a bored look painting your face and an awkward laugh spilling from your throat (although, they really weren’t that bad). But when I stood in front of our peers and performed my spin on “Annabel Lee”, you rose to your feet in applause. I’ll always be grateful that it was you who gave me my first standing ovation. Because in that moment I knew, from my happily raised eyebrows down to the shuffling of my nervous feet, that I love you Violet Vanderson. I really, really love you. 

When I sat back down in my seat, you slipped a pink sticky note back onto my desk. Gentle handwriting and a sweet smiley face in the corner decorated the words “that was amazing, how do you write so well?”. I’d never had my heart pound harder, never felt my palms sweatier or my spirits higher. As each day passes, I hope you’ll look at me with the same rose colored glasses as you did that class. I dream each night with my lovestruck brain of you taking me by the hand and asking me to be forever yours. I’ll be waiting, no matter how long it takes.

- forever yours, ____

It doesn’t take long before you get that warm and fuzzy feeling, the same one that caressed your body while you wrote this very letter. It takes even less time for it to be replaced with soul eating shame that has you wanting to curl into a ball. 

“You’ve always been a good writer,” she calls out, nearing you. “I meant it when I said it.” 

“..I know,” you agree, a smile forming against your will. 

Vi’s grinning at your sass, and damn is the only word that fills her brain. “How are things with Kiramman?” she asks gently.

“She just doesn’t believe me. She’s texted a thousand times since yesterday and is totally convinced I want her back.” you roll your eyes in exhaustion.

“Do you?” 

You pause at her question, because underneath that carefree and playful persona hides a hint of worry behind Vi’s voice, and it’s fueling the curiosity within you. “Why are you asking?”

A beat passes. “Just wanna know how humiliated I’ll be after all of this,” the pinkette admits.

Her confession makes you laugh and shake your head. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” you hum. “I broke up with Caitlyn and that’s that. If it takes a fake relationship and a little pda for her to see that then so be it.” 

Vi nods, making sure not to let the smile she’s feeling creep onto her face. 

“So you like writing, you’re smart as hell, you dress real cute,” she points a finger up and down your outfit and you tilt your head. “Anything else I should know about you or our little.. ordeal?” 

You tongue your cheek in silent thought before replying. 

“You can’t kiss me.” 

That has Vi’s brain short circuiting, because the image you’ve set in her mind from those words alone is sparking a crimson glow across her face and– fuck she shouldn’t be thinking about this. But she had to admit (to herself, not out loud of course), she’d have no problem with running her lips across yours if you asked for it. 

“Did Kiramman not kiss you, angel?” ‘She’d have to be a fucking idiot not to’ is the next thing that wants to come out of her mouth, but she settles for a soft tease. “That’s a couples thing, if you didn’t know.” 

“We kissed, obviously.” You cross your arms as you speak. “You can– y’know, hold me, kiss my.. anywhere else.” Both you and Vi feel a shift. Damn, are ice rinks always this warm? “Just, no real kissing. It’s too personal.” 

Vi gently nods, slipping out a soft ‘alright’ because you have a good point. 

She moves forward to step off the ice, placing a firm hand on your waist to gently guide you out of the way as she passes. Your body tenses at the touch, whipping your head towards the girl in surprise.

The pinkette notices, and she knows she shouldn’t chuckle at it, but she does. “If it’s gonna take ‘a little pda’, you might wanna get rid of that before this weekend,” she’s speaking cockily as she nears her bag, her helmet coming off for good.

You clear your throat. “What’s this weekend?”

“Party ‘m takin’ you to. Think of it as our couples debut.” And Vi loves the surprised little look on your face as you ask her if that’s ‘really necessary’.

“You really think anyones gonna believe we’re together if I’m at a party all by myself? Who’s gonna fight off all the girls craving my attention, sunshine?” 

You wonder if the notorious smirk on her face is permanent as she slings her practice bag on a sculpted shoulder as she moves to tower over you, the cool air of the rink becoming very present.

“So you’re coming, yeah?” 

Your eyes travel from hers to the empty space beside her in thought. 

“Of course.”

“You’re sure it’s not too boob-y?” 

You tug at your low cut top, half yelling over the chaos of other students to your roommate who’s eyeing you like your one head has turned into five. 

“Wait, you didn’t want it to be ‘boob-y’? Practically wearing a bra,” she yells back with a knowing smile, sipping from the red cup that quickly found her hands. At the sight of your worry, her smugness turns to playful comfort. “Come on, you’re at a frat not a damn funeral. You look sexy.”

“She’s right.”

The raspy voice behind you is unfamiliar, sending a soft chill down your spine that turns you on your heels. 

You’re met with a tall, muscular, brownskin woman. Half of her hair is pulled back, and loose strands fall to decorate her face that holds piercing eyes which are completely directed on you. You’ve seen her before for sure, but her name is the last thing on your mind as her eyes trail over every inch of your exposed skin. 

“Sevika,” she tells lowly, placing a red cup between your manicured fingers to which you scoff under your breath. 

You give her the benefit of the doubt. 

“___,” you offer your name, looking for any hint of recognition on her face, and you get it when she smirks and tilts her head. 

“I know who you are, beautiful,” she purrs.

“Then you also know I’m Vi’s girlfriend?” you throw back. The words feel completely foreign on your tongue, but come out so awfully right. 

The raven’s eyebrows raise right before she huffs out a laugh of disbelief, sipping from whatever mixture graced the cup in her hand. “Girlfriend?” she repeats. “Shit, with the way she was talking about you, I thought you were just a hookup.” 

The air’s suddenly much thicker, tenser, and you don’t have much time to process what Sevika just laid upon you before pink hair makes its way through the crowd.

“There’s my girl,” Vi calls out as she nears you, her sweet words cutting the tension like a knife. “Been looking all over for you,” she speaks as gently as she can in the atmosphere, completely ignoring the presence of her teammate.

“Hi,” you simply let out. Your knees feel weak and you think maybe you’re not cut out for this, because the pinkette slides a warm hand around your waist and places a chaste kiss down on your bare shoulder. 

She’s pulling back from your skin when her eyes land on the cup in your hand, a confused glint in her eye as she squints. “Thought you drove?” The calloused fingers tracing meaningless patterns on your skin and soft breathy words hitting your face from just inches away make you feel like Melting. What’d she ask again?

“No,” is all you manage to stammer out, shifting in the girl’s arms until the right words form in your head. “No this isn’t mine.” you’re mentally facepalming.

Vi’s eyes flicker from you, to the cup, to Sevika, finally piecing together her part in this. The athlete stands a bit taller, gently taking the drink from your hands and shoving it against Sevika’s chest. Some of the liquid splashes over the cup, leaving droplets of a stain on the angry woman’s shirt.

Sevika’s slowly taking the cup without breaking eye contact. Her gaze is sharper than daggers as Violet huffs out a scoff, her grip on your waist more present as she guides you away from the brute and through the crowd of partygoers. 

“I’m sorry about her. One asshole of a teammate.” Vi’s words kiss your ear to avoid yelling as she walks. “You okay?” she asks slightly softer, which earns her a nod and quick ‘yeah’. The pinkette’s hand snakes from around your waist down to grab one of yours, holding you tightly as you worm your ways through the horde. 

As you exit the crowd your left arm finds its way to wrap around her right, placing your free hand lazily on her bicep, because if you had to feel her fingertips on your skin anymore you’d faint. The pair of you walk through the spacious backyard, decorated with a pool, groups of your classmates, and a cluster of hockey players lounging on some couches that circle a fire pit. 

“You ready?” She whispers softly.

“Ready,” you reply with a smile that turns into an “o” shaped mouth, big worried eyes capturing VI’s. “They won’t ask me about hockey, right?” 

The girl lets out a sweet, genuine laugh, and so cute is what she’s mentally replying. 

“There you are!” Abby calls out as soon as the two of you are in her vision. The rest of the team follows, greeting both you and Vi, throwing her smirks or nods of approval when you have your focus elsewhere. Vi sits, sprawling out against the couch with her legs perfectly spread for you. As if it were natural, her hands find their way around your hips and she guides you down into her lap. 

And you hate it. 

Not the feeling of her firm chest against your back, not her warm legs encasing your bare and crossed ones, not even the way she wraps her muscular arms around your torso and places her head so close to yours. 

You hate how normal she’s making all of this feel, how your brain is being fried with each touch, but your faux girlfriend doesn’t seem to be bothered one bit. And you’re starting to wonder if it’s a problem. 

“How’d you two even meet? Didn’t you and the chick from the basketball team just break up?” one of her teammates questions you with a raised brow. 

Fuck is all your brain renders, and you hope the shock didn’t show on your face because—

“I’ve had the hots for her since high school, thought it was time to do something about it,” Vi replies. A proud feeling washes over her when your body relaxes in her arms.

You’re gently squeezing her arm twice, thankful that she’s such a great actor. She’s running her thumb against your skin, thankful that you can’t read minds. 

A few sweet nods and noises of approval are let out before Abby speaks up. “‘The hots’? What are you, fifty?” She jokes, earning a grinning ‘fuck off’ from Vi. 

The teammates’ conversation continues both with and without you, leaving moments for you to think of something ‘girlfriendish’ to say or a new place on Vi’s skin to touch. And then, it starts. Against Vi’s rolling eyes and Elora’s complaint that this is “so middle school”, a game of truth or dare ensues. Ever the fun one, the blonde convinces everyone that it’ll be fun, that it’s good to be childish every once in a while. 

So far, Gert’s been dared to send an ‘i miss you’ voice note to her ex and is utterly ashamed, Abby’s mouth tastes both bitter and spicy from the liquor concoction the teammates dared her to drink, another girl has been stripped down to her shorts and wife pleaser and shooed away from the fire to ‘endure the cold’ for ten more minutes. 

When it comes to the other teammates, you don’t know how many “___ and i banged” truths and “take this many shots” dares you hear before it’s finally your turn. 

“Truth or dare?” Vi coos in your ear.

“Truth–” 

“Dare?” she cuts you off with a mean grin. “Alright, I dare you to jump into the pool. Right here, right now.” 

Your head whips towards the girl fast enough to send chills down the pinkette’s spine. The hockey team is whooping and cheering you on as Violet comes to a stand with your mid area still locked by her arms. 

“No– no– I said truth Vi!” you sputter out. Your body and mind are moving at an astronomically slow speed because before you know it, Vi’s scooping you off the ground and throwing you over her shoulder effortlessly. As she begins to walk, the hollering of the team growing in intensity, one of her warm hands lays at the back of your thigh, holding down the bottom of your already short skirt. The other trails its way down your leg and to your feet, slipping off your shoes and letting them fall with a plop. 

“Violet Vanderson.” you warn firmly, squirming in anticipation as you neared the icy blue water. You’re feeling five emotions at once, and at the same time evaluating how much Caitlyn’s perception on things truly matters, because you’re this close to firing your ‘girlfriend’. 

When she suggested this entire ordeal you imagined it’d be standing together for an hour and dancing, going out for drinks once or twice, maybe even an instagram story or two. 

You didn’t expect pool shenanigans, shoulder kisses, and powerful arms wrapped around your sides every two seconds. You didn’t expect to be having fun, let alone like it. 

“Put me down!” you yelp through rising giggles.

“A dare’s a dare, angel.” she speaks lowly over her shoulder to you, who’s dangling helplessly in her grasp. “C’mon, it looks good for us as a couple,” she whispers.

“Wait wait wait!–” 

Your last threat is drowned out as Vi jumps into the glowing blue.

“Wonder how many people have had sex in here tonight,” you joke through chattering teeth. You’re holding your soaked hair together to the best of your ability as to not drench everything in your path, but truthfully, water is the cleanest thing to grace those frat floors. Vi trails right in behind you, snorting out a laugh as she leans against the closed door. 

The pinkett’s pool stunt only had you upset for so long, mostly out of shock of her actually going through with it. However, once you rose to the surface of the water, the only things that could spill from your mouth were hearty giggles. 

What made it ten times better was that people saw, Vi’s teammates whooped while others just snickered at the ‘new couple’s’ playfulness. 

What made it a hundred times better was Abby informing you of how pissed Caitlyn looked, staring at you and Vi before storming back the way she came from. 

“Enough to start a new std?” She flashes her pearly whites at her own joke.

“Violet!” you cringe, making her chuckle. 

As cold as your water-soaked clothing, skin, and drenched hair makes you, the athlete’s soft gaze is a lighter igniting a blaze in the pit of your stomach. For the first time in a long time, protected by the walls of someone’s room, you’re able to explore her face. 

Perfect, full brows are intercepted by a slit with one to match down on the the left of her rosy lips. Sweet freckles dance on and around her nose, and gosh she’s pretty. It’s the same face you’d admired years ago, but you still look at her as if you’ve discovered her beauty all over again. You stand there attempting to pinpoint what shade of blue her eyes are when she finally speaks up. 

“Here,” the athlete steps closer, taking off her thick black coat and handing it over sheepishly. “Can’t do anything about your skirt, but I thought these would help.” A hint of blue and white fabric peeks out from underneath, and you unravel it to reveal a jersey. One of her jerseys. 

There’s a glint of suspicion in your eye, and Violet’s in fear. 

“You just.. keep this in your car? All the time?” You question with a perfectly raised eyebrow. 

Vi clears her throat. Because no, no she doesn’t. She just had to do something to get you in her clothes. 

A beat passes with no response, and finally the pinkette’s eyes are flickering around the room before she turns. “I’ll let you get changed.” 

The door’s opening and closing before you can protest, and it’s finally safe for that suppressed smile to grace your lips without shame.  

It doesn’t take long for you to strip out of your sopping clothes and into the oversized comfiness of Vi’s. You examine yourself in the full length mirror, fixing your wet hair to the best of your ability and running your hands over the warmth of the new clothing. It sMells just like Violet, and you convince yourself that you don’t care, but underneath that protective mask is the lovestruck teenage girl you once were.

Turning on your heels, you gather the wet bundles of fabric and head for the door when someone on the other side beats you to it. 

Correction, the last person you want to see beats you to it. 

Caitlyn’s quick to step inside the room, closing the door with an indecipherable expression plastered on her face. Her brows furrow with more distaste than usual, and her once perfect navy blue locks now have strands messily shaken out of place. Your tongue is strangled by the bite of your teeth. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes to the back of your head. 

“Violet Vanderson?” She wastes no time, chary eyes examining your face with crossed arms. “Really?”

You’re done holding back, so you scoff.

“Yes, really. What, are you jealous?” you quip. “Y’know what, don’t answer that. I already know.” 

She ignores the sassy remark. “I’m surprised you chose her, considering everything.” 

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Considering, what exactly?” 

Caitlyn’s poker face had been drilled into her since she was a kid, but the bluenette physically had to suppress the amusement from taking over her face when she realized: you had no clue. 

“I just didn’t think she was your type, and that was awfully fast,” she saves. 

“I didn’t cheat on you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” You spit the words like they burn on your tongue as impatient hands come up to rest on your hips. 

“I’m insinuating that I don’t believe whatever this is.” 

That has you pausing. Your face, demeanor, and attitude all stay the same, but you both notice the shift in the air. 

“I think you realize you messed up when you broke things off, and now you’re playing hard to get.” She continues, stepping forward as her toned arms fall to her sides. 

“There’s no need to play games with me, you know.” 

Cait’s look is condescending, and it only pisses you off more when her hand reaches out to caress yours. The perfect persuasion, an easy fix to all of her problems when the utter of her surname isn’t quite enough. But you’re not easy, and you didn’t mess anything up. So you quickly swat it away, sneering as you step around the tower of a girl and towards the door. 

“Get over yourself, Caitlyn.” 

You exit the room with blood red vision, a fury which follows you on your journey to find Mel in the drunken crowd and pull her to the front while Vi offers to walk both of you to your car. 

And in your red haze, you miss the eye contact Caitlyn and Sevika make from across the crowded room. 

Sweat is dripping from the athletes’ foreheads down to the stretch of their neck as Talis blows his whistle, allowing the players to catch their breaths.  

Normally, Vi would be more than willing to stay longer than the scheduled practice time. Running fun drills with Abby, racing Gert, whatever the matter may be. Hockey is her thing. 

But, at the moment, you’re also ‘her thing’. And right now you were patiently waiting in your apartment for Vi to make an appearance. A friendly one, of course. Away from watching eyes and overwhelming questions, where you could discuss your next moves in peace–as peaceful as you could get with the muscular tease looking at you as if you were a star to wish on at night. 

So she keeps her mouth shut and her eyes trained on Coach Talis (who’s giving some end-of-practice spiel) as Sevika glides up next to her.

She keeps her mouth shut as the brute lets out a soft scoff at how hard Vi’s trying to ignore her. 

She has to bite hard on her tongue when the woman mutters something about the pink-haired athlete needing to ‘give up while she’s still ahead’. 

And her mouth opens immediately when your name falls from Sevika’s lips. “___, she really is somethin’ huh–?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Sevika,” she threatens, a tad louder than expected. Their stubborn gazes stay locked on one another, and Sevika’s letting out a scoff while squaring her firm shoulders.

“Or what?” the raven throws back, intimidation oozing from her presence.

“Hey! What did I say?” The bubble of their rivalry is popped as Coach Talis raises his voice. 

“That’s it. Bag skates.” 

[REDACTED]: you sure this’ll work? 

When Vi finally shows up at your sun-glistening apartment, her hair is wet from the quick shower she took, she’s a total blubbering mess about how she’s crazy sorry and feels terrible for making you wait an extra hour, and she’s holding one cup of coffee that looks exactly like the one you always order.

“Vi, seriously it’s okay,” you chuckle, and the girl deflates in soft relief. A smile sweet as honey graces your face and Vi finally figures it out: you’re just an angel in disguise.

You reach over from your seat on the couch to take the cup of coffee from her hand. It’s your order to a T, and the sip you take sends a cold trail of liquid down your throat and into the warmth of your stomach. 

“Mmm,” you hum, making Vi malfunction when you lick the remnants from your lips. “Did you chug yours on the way?” you ask.

Perfect blue eyes blink twice while Violet calculates the odds that you’ll say yes if she were to suggest you drop the whole act and venture off on a real date right now. 

“Oh– hell no. I can’t stand coffee. I just went to get you one,” she hums without thought. Fifty-five percent chance, not good enough. 

“Again, I’m sorry. Sevika’s been more of an asshole than usual. Made us run back and forth on the ice until we practically collapsed. Don’t know what the hell she was thinking though, almost missed her shift at that rink..” Violet continues on with conflicted brows furrowing and a hardened gaze. But just like waves washing away at imperfections in grainy sand, the awestruck glimmer in your eyes wipes the fury from her blood. 

“You went just for me?” the question comes out almost as a whisper.

Violet swears she can feel her heart Melting from your actions, and the feeling bubbles its way up as words in her throat. “Of course.”

It’s left at that. Of course, a declaration that it was common sense she’d be of service to you even behind the scenes. Neither of you dare to ask or explain why. For a moment, there’s no words. Just the soft sensation of little breaths, beating hearts, and wandering gazes, but only for a moment.

“Cait doesn’t believe us,” you spill.

Vi can only huff gently, shifting in her seat as her spread legs move a bit wider. 

“She’s smart, I’ll give her that.” Vi hums in thought. The cogs in her brain get distracted and come to a halt when she sees the glistening worry in your orbs, and without thought, her hand is coming up to hold your chin, guiding it to connect your gazes.

“Hey, we’ll fix it, alright?” She reassures, and a thumb glides over your cheek. The moment is tender, something deep and sweet, but it doesn’t take long for the both of you to pull back as your eyes flicker anywhere else. 

“We just need to… to up our game.” At the sight of your confused eyes, she continues. “Give me your phone,” Vi instructs softly, holding her hand out.

You simply obey, placing the device in her hand with a slight squint in your eyes. 

All uncertainty is replaced with giggles and content when Vi holds up the camera. Her left hand holds the phone while her right arm lifts into frame next to her face and flexes, revealing the entirety of her sculpted muscles. 

Jesus, your mind betrays you.

After the snap of the camera, the pinkette hands the device back to you. 

“Make it your lock screen,” she speaks so casually, like the idea behind these actions have no effect on her whatsoever. A black cased phone is then slid into your hands, and big powder-blue eyes are staring at you expectantly. 

“Oh, you want..” you internally cringe at the stammer. 

“Of course, needa see your face too.” she states with a grin.

You’re nodding at that, as if a swarm of what you think are butterflies aren’t rummaging around in your gut. Raising the camera in your manicured fingers, you snap a photo mocking Vi’s. More kissy face, less muscles. The athlete has the biggest grin as she takes the device back, and with a ‘there’, your face is  blessing her lockscreen. 

“So, should I book our room at Mt. Sky, or do you want to?” Her eyes are trained on your face as she drapes both swole arms across the back of the couch. 

You do nothing to hide the surprise on your face. With crisp frosty air, a winter wonderland of snow, and more unplanned pregnancies and sexual noise complaints than any of the campus’s frat parties, Mt. Sky was the unofficial University of Piltover ski trip of the year. Athletes, hookups of athletes, curious freshmen, and anyone who concerned themselves with campus drama banded together for a few days of thrillingly-messy paradise. 

“You wanna share a room?” you ask with raised brows, because ‘wait, we’re going?’ seems out of the question.

The pinkette’s lips curl into a smile, one that flashes the white of her teeth as blue orbs flicker down and up your frame once.

“Yeah, I do.” 

The short silence that follows is smothering, and you swear the room just got a hundred degrees hotter—because there’s the same tease you remember fantasizing over as your pink glitter pen graced the paper of her letter. 

“It’d be weird if we didn’t,” she explains. “Wouldn’t just be Cait questioning us, it’d be everybody,” she tilts her head, and you’re snapped back to the reality of your situation. Fake. 

You’re not looking at the freckled girl as you hum with a nod. 

That has the athlete’s suave persona faltering. A rough hand snakes up to gingerly move a piece of hair from your face. She’s barely touching you, as though you’re more fragile than glass in her grasp. 

“We don’t have to, if you wanna room with Mel that badly–” 

“–No, no I think we should,” you reassure with a smile, because you do want to, more than you probably should, but your brain’s having a very hard time deciphering fantasy from reality. 

It’s her turn to hum, and that tender hand doesn’t leave your face, it only stills as you turn your head completely towards her. 

“You don’t have to do that when we’re in private,” you refer to her wandering hands with a gentle tone. Vi’s eyes soften into something raw and real as she lulls out a response.

“Doesn’t hurt to get comfortable with each other. Right, sunshine?”

Wrong. 

Because it could hurt. It could wound the both of you and cause an ache like never before. Because—admittedly—you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. But more importantly, you don’t know what Violet’s feeling. You had her all figured out at seventeen, but now, you’re unsure of how gentle or reckless she’d be with your heart.

And still, against all the skepticism your brain concocts, you agree. 

“Right.” 

[REDACTED]: Of course I’m sure. Just do what I ask and we’ll both get what we want.

“Late again?” Finn coos, a teasing expression on the raven’s face. 

“Another run in with pinkie,” Sevika smirks, almost seeming proud. 

The man shakes his head with a smile before placing a handful of mail on the counter in front of the pair. “You mind?”

A groan falls from Sevika’s lips as her gaze flickers between him and the letters. “But I have—”

“Please?” the man asks, already inching away from the space. “I just have to deal with something.”

Before she can argue further, Finn thanks her and rushes off towards the rink. The woman’s left muttering swears and rolling her eyes as she rummages through the envelopes filling her space. 

To: Polar Peaks, To: Polar Peaks, To: Sky Young, To: Pola—

She blinks once and her firm hands come to a pause before her fingers are backtracking to a chestnut brown envelope, covered in hearts and kiss marks. 

Sevika’s huffing out a laugh of disbelief. Her eyes trail over every inch of the sickeningly sweet decor. The recipient address is the ice rink, just like the rest of the pile, and the woman’s intrigue only grows as her eyes trail to the top left corner. To the sender. To you. 

“My favorite energy drink?” Vi throws out.

“Berrybulls, specifically the yellow and amber ones.” you quip with confidence, smiling when Vi nods in content. 

A lightbulb flickers across the pink haired girl’s face, and she stops in her tracks, unintentionally pulling you back. You’re standing still now, and as the frigid air threatens to consume your body, the reminder that your hands are intertwined with one another spreads warmth throughout your core. You let yourself forget that it’s for show, and enjoy it. 

“Vi?” you question, stepping a bit closer. 

“This one’s important,” her tone is more serious, and her eyes meet yours as she takes a deep breath.

“What’s… my coffee order?” 

“Oh my gosh–” a joking scoff falls from your lips, and you’re gently shoving the laughing girl as you pull her to continue walking. The warmth of hand holding can only do so much to combat standing still in the chill of winter air. 

“C’mon sunshine, we’ve learned all there is to know. Besides, you really think anyone’s gonna come up and start quizzing us?” 

“No,” you admit as Vi holds you closer with a hand around your waist while more pedestrians enter and exit the sidewalks. “But I think it’s good to know just in case. Besides, I like learning about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” she coos. You hear a phone buzz once. 

“Yeah,” you let out with a giggle. Another buzz, and you’re reaching into your back pocket and tapping on the screen to reveal… nothing. 

kiramman: You have until the end of the trip. kiramman: If you don’t tell her, I will.

Is it possible to feel complete peace and soul-shredding anxiety simultaneously? 

On one hand, you’re having the most fun you’ve had in a long time. The drive to the resort with Mel—and her newfound friend Elora— was filled with guttural laughter. The three of you screamed songs at such a volume you’re surprised the windows didn’t burst. 

When you arrive, you’re trapped by the strong arms of Abby who’s lifting you into the air with her hug. Vi has to be the one to mutter “That’s enough, Abs..”, earning a laugh from the surrounding teammates, who are quick to tug you and your friends into conversation. 

There’s arms around your waist and a bulky body encasing yours while you sit around a fireplace, quiet giggles to each other when you’re bored of the group conversation, and a sweet goodbye kiss to your forehead when Vi and her peers leave to ski. The day progresses perfectly. 

On the other hand, you can feel as Caitlyn’s eyes follow you. A predator stalking its prey. And even though you’re not afraid of the girl, you wonder what it’s going to take for her to throw in the towel. 

“Was the sex that good?” Mel’s golden eyes are both teasing and genuinely questioning you. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you throw back with a laugh. 

“I’m serious, why is she so persistent? Does your tongue have a built in vibrator?—”

“Mel!” 

She’s giggling with you now, face falling into the plush of the king sized bed you’re both sprawled out on. 

“By the way, watch out. Your girlfriend’s biggest fan decided to show up this year,” she flips over onto her back, head tilted to look at you with a pitying–but still undeniably smug–expression.

“Sevika?” you whine and she nods. “She never comes to Mt. Sky. She’s just... anti-fun.” 

Mel hums. “A refined Kiramman has turned into a borderline stalker, Sevika Grove is coming on ski trips, what’s next? Aliens?”

“Surprised the aliens weren't first.” 

Your giggles are cut short as Elora knocks at your already open door, and Mel’s swiftly coming to a stand. 

“Talk to you later?” she offers, and you smile with a nod. 

The tranquility of an empty room only lasts so long, because within seconds, Vi is bursting into the space and hastily shutting the door. You hear the click of the lock and jolt up with confusion written across your face. 

“Vi? What’s—” 

“Cait’s on her way up here,” she speaks with haste.

“I could talk to her, if you want. Just say the word,” Vi offers, and there’s no time to overanalyze the tightness in your chest at the idea of the pinkette protecting you. 

Thousands of possibilities fly throughout your racing brain. Talking went in her ear and out the other (or, rather, around her head entirely), and going radio silent only amplified her stubbornness. The way you see it, the only thing left to do is play Caitlyn’s petty game, to make it clear that the two of you were done. 

Your brain is completely heated and fuzzy at the idea, but you have no time to waste as you hop off of the bed and over to the butch. 

“We’re gonna have sex,” you state. 

Vi’s completely stopped working. That’s it—she’s died. She’s died and gone to heaven. That’s the only plausible explanation for—

“Fake! Fake sex, I mean.”

Well that makes more sense. 

“Fake–what? You’ve gotta explain a little better than that,” she’s trying to suppress the color from showing in her cheeks, and a hand comes up to run through her hair. 

“Just—” you stammer, moving the girl by the arm so that you’re both a few feet away from the door, leaned up against the wall with Vi hovering over you. Your hand stays on her arm, which is gently placed on the side of your waist. The room’s air grows thicker by the second, and tension oozes from every movement made. 

“This doesn't feel very fake, sweetheart.” Her voice is lower, more sultry, and it sends a shiver straight up your spine. 

“We’re gonna…” gonna faint. The sound of footsteps power walking down the hallway throws your brain back into action. “Just follow my lead,” you breathe.

The athlete’s in a state of utter confusion. She’s squinting harder than ever as you bite your lip, seemingly in thought, before you send a wave of pure shock throughout her core. 

You moan. 

Not a whine, not a whimper, not even a wince, a raw moan that compels something in her to twitch. 

“Violet,” you’re singing, eyes closed, and your head thrown to the side. Out of embarrassment or getting into character, she’s not sure. She’s not sure of anything, quite frankly, because how on earth is she expected to think when you’re squealing her name like she owns you?

“Oh yes—please please,” you coo. As if someone flipped a switch, you’re opening your eyes to look up at the athlete. 

“Say something,” you snap in a whisper. 

There’s no wasted time, because Violet’s thoughts spill at your approval. 

“So fuckin’ pretty. Who knew your moans sounded so good, baby?” 

You’re about to lose it. All sense of good judgment—or what’s left—is flying out of the window and being replaced by the dirty haze of your mind. You can’t help the way your hand is gently trailing up Vi’s arm and sliding down to rest against her abs. You don’t miss the way her grip around you tightens.  

You expect her to be done, but Vi’s kept these thoughts tucked away for way too long. If they’d be of any service to you, she might as well let them out. 

“Bet she couldn’t fuck you like this, huh? No angel, she couldn’t.”  

A symphony of grunts, whimpers, and moans of passion decorate not only the room, but the ears of Caitlyn. Your navy haired ex lingers outside the door, seeing nothing but blood red as she listens to the noises you used to make for her. The noises Vi never made for her. The newfound passion that the pinkette pulled out of you, one that Cait never could. 

With clenched, clammy fists and gritted teeth, Caitlyn reluctantly drags herself away from the door and down the hallway. 

Like coming down from a high, shallow breaths fill yours and Vi’s ears before all sounds subside. Neither of you dare to move as the clack of Caitlyn’s feet storm down the hall and out of earshot. Colorful orbs stare down at the floor or up at the white ceiling, because they’re suddenly oh so intriguing. 

And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment you realize not everything is as imaginary as you thought. 

Meanwhile, Vi’s imagining what the hell she’d say in this situation if her brain were computing. Because the sight of you throwing your head back in fake pleasure and spilling noises straight from your core was entirely soul-shifting. 

And it’s different, to be seeing you this close. Granted, she’s been closer. Graced the skin of your forehead or cheeks with her soft and scar-decorated lips more than once. But here, hovering over your softened body, her hand connecting to your waist with the gentlest of touches, and her eyes firmly memorizing every angle of your face, it’s different. Everything’s softer, and Violet’s able to relish in your raw loving aura, rather than put on a performance for the skeptical eyes of others. 

And then you laugh. 

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh. So hard that you don’t notice the way Vi smiles, one that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

And definitely, oh definitely, this is the moment she realizes she’s undeniably smitten. 

“Think we’ll get the first noise complaint?” You joke while coming down from your fit of laughter. 

That pulls a laugh from Vi’s throat, one that has her leaning forward with a deep breath after it bubbles out. The soft of her forehead tenderly meets yours, and the room’s heart rate rises exponentially, but neither of you squirm out of your positions. Because this is exactly where you want to be.

You can’t see it as your eyelids flutter shut, but Vi’s left hand wraps around your waist to meet her right, cradling you in a way that’s so natural, so sweet, so real. A cradle that protects and shields you from forces you can’t handle alone. A shelter for disasters from tsunamis to the cold chill of winter. From pretending to be your girlfriend to replacing your wet party clothes, all the way back to being your first standing ovation. Vi is your refuge. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, worried you’ll crack the faultless atmosphere. “Can’t believe you’re putting up with this– with me.” 

Her grip lightly tightens. “I’d do it over and over again.” 

She would, and she will, if you let her. 

You feel the truth in her words, and your eyes flutter open to pull back, just enough to look into those perfect blue specks. 

The pair of you stay there for what feels like forever, examining the watercolor paintings that you call your eyes. And–although she could stare at you for the rest of her life–Vi physically can’t wait any longer. Like magnets, your lips are tugging her forward. Centimeter by centimeter. Inch by inch. Heads tilting, eyes half lidded, and breaths hitching. Vi can practically taste the plush of your feature when—

“Yo! You guys in there?”

Abby’s fist thumps on the door three times. And as fast as you connected, you’re drifting apart.

you don’t care whether she knows or not. you just want her crawling back to you. not happening.  kiramman: I’ll tell her.

“Would you rather go a month without sex, or a month without candy?” 

“What kind of stupid ass question is that?” Vi throws at Abby, who’s snobbishly leaning back in the heated water as if she’d given the ultimatum of the century. 

Her newest middle school party game is would you rather, and while Vi couldn’t care less about the event itself, she’s secretly over the moon at the effort her teammates and close friends are making to connect with you. 

“A month without candy,” you cooly state as you look down at the water. Making the relationship more believable. That’s all you were doing.

That enables a chain of raised eyebrows and looks to Vi, whereas others let out sly whistles and snickers, throwing out little quips like “you hear that, superstar?”. 

“Alright, alright,” she’s calming them with a tug at the corners of her lips and a roll of her eyes. You only snicker to yourself at the odds, as if you didn’t have sex— fake sex with the girl minutes prior.

Leaning closer against Vi’s skin, plush bodies warming each other in the bubbly heat of the hot tub, you’re almost completely relaxed. The outdoors is the perfect flaky winter wonderland you expected, cabins further out from the resort look like the coziest of all shelters, and the milky mountains in the distance tie the atmosphere together. 

And while you’re focused on the landscape, Violet’s eyes are completely trained on you. 

She examines the way you sit so properly in her lap, the way your legs squirmed as she slid her hands away from your thigh and around the small of your waist (so others could see your contact.. of course), how you get so comical and chattery once you’re finally comfortable in a group, and the angelic resting look on your face when you’re finally at ease. 

And neither of you know it, but when the conversation is one that allows you to listen instead of talk, you’re both daydreaming about the endless possibilities of this night. The potential of this moment, as well as that of the countless others you’ve had since this entire ordeal began. 

Neither of you know it, but you’re both considering the idea that life could be like this all the time. The two of you snuggled up, surrounded by those cherished, laughing until you just can’t breathe. 

A chin comes to rest gently on your right shoulder, and Vi’s breath sends a shiver throughout your body faster than the crisp winter air ever could. 

“Do you always sit with your legs crossed in pools?” she teases, voice low, like she’s sharing a secret with you. Only you. 

“No,” you simply hum. Your tongue is prodding the inside of your cheek in thought, and you go through with the lightbulb in your head. 

“It’s a great reminder of how dangerously close your hands are to my bikini though, isn’t it?” 

The pads of her fingers that were once tracing meaningless patterns on your waist come to a stop, and you can hear the smirk in Vi’s voice. 

“You want me to move them?” she breathes.

Your response is almost automatic.

“No.” 

The conversation of what would’ve happened if Abby hadn’t knocked on your door was yet to come, but the newfound tension and playfulness that spilled from both of your lips was undeniable. 

Vi grins at your confidence, but underneath the suave persona, she knows you’ll be the death of her. 

“Bold girl,” she hums.

You’re so trapped in your playful banter that you don’t notice the way the rest of your peers are leaving, running off towards a different attraction of the resort, only god knows what. 

“You were pretty convincing up there,” your sly lips are curivng up at the corners. “You have fake sex often?”

“Nothing fake about my sex.” 

You’re snickering at her confidence, relishing in the way her arm hardens around you as she chuckles. 

“Don’t get cocky. I’m sure someone’s had to fake-orgasm with you once.” Maybe the lying’s getting to you, because you know in your heart of hearts that’s the furthest thing from the truth. 

“You really believe that?” she speaks in a lower tone, head snaking around to make eye contact with you. 

Like a clock rewinding, you’re seventeen again. 

Not physically, nor mentally, but your full heart is pounding the same rhythm as when you first fell for the tough, pink haired beauty in your writing class. Your breaths are shallow, gazes locked, and the warmth between you is incomparable to any sensation you’ve ever experienced prior. 

“Thought so,” she brazenly states after your lack of words, and you’re smiling in thought before gently splashing water towards the smug girl, Melting her charming essence that has you by the throat. 

Vi gasps through a laugh. Soon, she’s threatening to splash you back while you laugh and squeal through your begs for mercy. 

And although your vision isn’t flawless through the squinted happiness of your eyes, you can recognize that swinging navy blue hair approaching you.

Fuck. 

“She doesn’t give up,” you think out loud, and Vi doesn’t need to waste energy on turning her head to register who you’re talking about. 

You don’t see it through your irritated gaze, but Vi feels a jolt of worry crawl up her spine. While you worried about Cait smothering you for the rest of eternity, Vi’s skin shivers at the idea of her place in your heart being twisted from one of love and trust to hatred.

She wants to tell you, wants you to make the conscious decision to love her despite any past affairs.

But she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it now, while you’re warming up on her water-covered body. And she sure as hell couldn’t let Caitlyn poison your mind with it.

So there she sits, staring into your soul with those loyal eyes that silently swear they’d do anything for you. And, understandably, Vi makes all sense of good judgement Melt from your brain until it’s a useless pile of mush. 

So when Cait nears, practically striding her way to your uneasy soul, you make a decision. 

You kiss Violet. 

It’s a quick shift in atmosphere. One moment, your heart is beating out of fear, and the next it’s being thrashed around your chest by the ascended butterflies from your stomach. You turn in her lap to have easier access to her mouth, and the connection of your plush mouths is anything but fragile. It’s messy, hungry, starved even. Your lips dance in unison, and Vi’s sculpted arm wraps around you and gently holds the back of your neck. The way she’s handling you coupled with the burning water is giving your body a fever. 

You don’t know when Caitlyn sees you, how long she glares at your wet mouths and pressed bodies in pure anger, or how long it takes for her to storm off in defeat, because every inch of your mind is focused on the pinkette holding you as if you’re all she has. 

And it’s this moment that you finally accept the truth that’s kept itself hidden in your gut, you want her. And those sparkly powder-blue eyes are telling you that she wants—needs you too. 

But when you slide your hand down to hers and shyly move her calloused fingers to what little fabric’s covering your chest, she’s pulling back. There’s resistance in the movement, but she forces herself to disconnect from your wanting lips nonetheless. 

“Can’t,” she whispers, breathless.

You freeze, big dazed eyes blinking in confusion and embarrassment. ”But..” is all you can muster before Vi opens her mouth.

“Angel–it’s not that I don’t want this, I’m just—” 

The athlete’s rubbing her temples. Her mind, body, and heart must be at war inside of her, because each is telling her a different path to take, and she looks so conflicted as she speaks. 

“You don’t want this,” she finally decides.

“What?” is all you manage to choke out. 

“You don’t want this.” she repeats, less convinced than the first time it left her lips. 

You can only scoff, attempting to hide the bullet to your heart and ego. 

“You don’t know what I want,” you counter, and the ache in your voice sends a crack through Vi’s heart. “Why are you denying this?” 

Because this is fake, a scheme to get your ex girlfriend off your back. Because I haven’t been completely honest with you, and for that I don’t deserve a sweet love like this. Not yet. 

But instead of that, or even coming clean to you altogether, Vi sighs. And for the first time, her eyes are disloyal, looking anywhere but yours. 

You’re huffing, shoving stiff arms off of you. You pull yourself from the hot tub into the freezing air of the night, a replica of your once blazing heart turning ice cold. 

“Whatever, Violet.” you spit out, and just like that, you’re gone. 

The debate over soul-shredding anxiety and complete peace has come to a halt, because the ache of a pummeled ego and a confused heart that’s afraid to beat outweighs both. 

You didn’t sleep in yours and Vi’s shared room that night. Instead, you grabbed a pillow and stormed over to Mel and Elora’s, who were happy to have you. Making up a lie about dying for a girls’ night, you gossiped and giggled, arguably with a stronger poker face than the Kirammans, before a yawn finally slipped from Mel’s mouth and exhaustion spread throughout the air. 

At last, in the silence of night, salt ridden tears noiselessly slide down the bridge of your nose and pile onto the cool fluff of your pillow. 

As if your lack of adequate sleep and racing mind didn’t have you at your wits end, the next day was twice as cruel on you. Ignoring one athlete was a walk in the park, but avoiding two, while trying not to raise suspicion, is just as hard as it sounds. 

Caitlyn’s in the hallway, so you rush to your room. Violet’s in the room, so you venture off to the spa with Mel and Elora. Caitlyn’s entering the spa right before you finish up, so you’re suggesting a lap of skiing to the girls, but Vi’s exiting the room in her snow gear when you near the door. 

You just couldn’t win. 

So when you hear the soft voice coming from the doorway, you don’t even bother to lift your body from the plush of your blanket. 

“Don’t go,” Vi pleads, gently shutting the wooden door and ridding herself of her puffy jacket. 

The pinkette’s still, waiting for you to move, to do or say something—anything, but you do nothing of the sort. When she concludes it’s safe she takes small, soft steps towards the edge of your bed and you feel the mattress dip under pure muscle. 

With still hands and a timid heart, Vi speaks the first words into the air. 

“Well, we broke our little rule set.”

Her playful smile is uneasy, one made when she examines your weary face too hard. And when she notices the lack of expression on your face, it flattens out into worried brows and soft lips. 

“I’m sorry,” slips from her lips, prompting you to turn your head towards the pinkette. 

“Stop. You don’t have to apologize for your feelings… or lack thereof,” you whisper the last part as if it’s shameful. 

With a sigh, you hoist yourself up to sit straight and lean against the decorative headboard. With fidgeting hands laid in your lap and eyes that travel anywhere but the anxious girl before you, you speak.

“I just thought that there was— something,” you start. “And.. and maybe it’s stupid, but I thought that maybe all of this means something. Maybe my letters getting out wasn’t the worst thing, because maybe things between us could be exactly how I wanted when I was writing them.” 

Vi feels terrible for giving you emotional whiplash, but she can’t stand to see you beating yourself up over something you want— something the both of you crave: eachother. 

Tender fingers snake their way up to your face and hook on your chin, tilting your head towards her alluring orbs. 

“You really believe that?” she asks, eyes squinted.

“Believe.. what?” 

“That I don’t feel things for you?” she asks like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.

“I couldn’t tell you all the things you do to me. All the ways you make me feel,” she slides the hand that’s cupping your face to gently tap the side of your pretty little head. 

“Here, and.. here,” her finger grazes your skin as it skims down to tap once against your encaptured heart. “And….”

She cuts the sentence short, dropping her hand down to intertwine with one of yours, because you’re supposed to be having a serious conversation, so she needs to focus. 

“You do terribly good things to me, sweetheart.” 

“Then why did you push me away?” you whisper to combat the rapid speed of your heart as adrenaline rushes through your veins from Vi’s simple and sensual touches. 

She contemplates it, ripping the bandage off and telling you the truth, she really does. Would it be that big of a deal? Would you take it with ease and laugh at her anxiety, caressing her like she dreams and letting her finally place a guilt-free kiss upon your soft lips? Or would you crumble at the news, and let the trust you’ve built up shatter with it? 

“I didn’t know whether it was real or not,” she decides: a lie. “I know that the way my heart races for you is real, the realest thing there is. But I know it’s easy to get caught up in a fake high, and when you were kissing me I just—” she sighs at the ramble, but the gentle squeeze you give her hand guides her through it. 

“I just wanted to let you decide if this is really what you want. Not because of Cait or anyone else. Just you.”

She’ll tell you. Eventually. She silently swears it to herself. 

But right now, Vi’s looking at you the same way she did that day, and it’s suffocating. 

Big pretty eyes examine every inch of you with that awestruck gaze, a child watching a shooting star pass by. Except this time, she wouldn’t let you leave. 

This time, you, that creative girl with clammy palms and shy eyes, watching her bubblegum haired love give her a standing ovation— that shooting star would come crashing down and right into the warm arms in which she belongs. 

“The love I have for you.. it never went away, it just transformed,” you confess.

Violet’s once worried expression morphs. She’s still soft, still trapped in the beautiful moment, but there’s a newfound confidence behind her demeanor. 

“The love I have for you has stayed the same. Ever since that stupid writing class—” you giggle at her words, and she does the same, “I think I’ve loved you for years. It’s left such an ache in my heart, baby.” 

There’s a glitch somewhere in your brain, because the athlete’s words mixed with your newest nickname is causing a system overload. 

You’re suddenly very aware of the amber musk filling your nostrils, and Vi’s proximity has you squirming, soft hand gently squeezing at hers which carresses you so gingerly. You’re trapped between the headboard and her oh-so-close body, and it’d be a lie to say any part of you is complaining. 

“I can.. I can make that ache go away,” you whisper, shy head tilting as you wait for her approval. 

The suave, player-like girl is back in full force. With a notorious smirk in place, she’s leaning closer, tilting her head opposite of yours and lining up her plush lips with yours. 

“Yeah, you can.” 

That’s all it takes for your lips to come crashing together at full force. It’s messy, loving, and infuriatingly sexy all at once, and you don’t have any brain power left to think about it. All of your energy, every bit of your soul is being put into showing this girl how you really feel. 

The atmosphere feels heavier and lighter simultaneously in the best way possible. Vi’s kissing you like you’re the air she needs to breathe, and drinking you in like your mouth is water and the torturous years leading up to this have taken place in the desert. 

For the first time, the pair of you silently agree that this is real. Real touches, real passion, real tongues gliding against one another, and real desire for more. 

You hum into Vi’s mouth as she ravishes you, and your hands find their way to tangle in her fluffy scalp as she effortlessly switches places with you and lifts you into her lap while she relaxes back against the headboard. You can’t help but chuckle as her hands move to cup the fat of your ass, causing her to grin through kisses until you finally stop, because your lips are practically peppering her teeth. 

“What’s so funny?” you ask through a snicker. Vi shakes her head, sneaking kisses down your jaw and the stretch of your neck. 

“Nothin’, I just don’t want this to end,” she confesses, ending with a tender kiss to your collarbone. 

An uncontrollable smile fights its way onto your face. 

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” you assure.

She nods, wrapping strong arms around your torso to pull your body as close to hers as possible. 

“Neither am I, sunshine.” 

Violet’s learned three new things since you fell asleep in her arms. 

One, you’re a cuddler. Every inch of you has touched, skimmed, or wrapped around the butch since you laid upon the soft matter of the bed. Her favorite position is when you curl yourself up against her chest and slide a leg inbetween hers to let them intertwine.

Two, every inch of you still smells like that perfect mixture of cotton candy and strawberry she remembers from years ago. 

And three, she’s completely whipped for you. For your brain, your voice, the giggles you make between kisses, the way you give your all to her, and don’t get her started on your body. She’s got it bad. 

So, the struggle she faced when she had to snake out of your grasp was ultimately the hardest thing she’s done in her entire life. 

The love-hazed girl didn’t bother to do anything but slip on some shoes and run a hand through her hair, because within minutes she’d be right back next to you where she belongs. 

At least, that was the plan. 

She doesn’t know why the loud cacophony of cackles catches her attention, because she knows how obnoxious her teammates can be, but it does. She lazily turns her head once, letting it lull back before the alarm of confusion goes off in her brain, and she’s turning towards the sound once again. 

Sevika, a few members of the basketball team, and some others she doesn’t recognize, all sit against the couches and chairs in the lounging area. But there’s no relaxation in the way they rest against the furniture. Each is laced with anticipation, and their eyes all lay on the buff brownskin girl who’s smirks as if she’s discovered a pot of gold. 

“Your voice of honey soothes my soul, and the picture of delicate curls falling to frame your face as you lift me onto my feet will stay forever plastered in my mind,” the woman spits.

The words are so sensual, so raw, so genuine, filled with nothing but passion, but Sevika’s interpretation does it no justice. 

And Violet knows exactly who wrote those words of desire. 

Her feet move quicker than she’s ever felt the need to before. 

When she nears the group, a face of pure determination, she spots it. A brown envelope, decorated with a bow and pretty hearts accompanied by a single kiss mark. So similar to the one you made for Vi all those years ago. 

“There’s the woman of the hour,” Sevika taunts loudly, leaning back in her seat. Her fingers tap the letter in her hands against her own thigh, a reminder that your past words of hope and love still lie with her. “Or, would you be the second? No… no, that’d be this uh, Skye, huh?” 

Sevika’s smile is poisonous, infecting Violet with a rage she’s never experienced before. 

“What are you doing with that?” Vi’s practically seething, eyes trained on the brown paper between Sevika’s fingers.

“Found it on the ground, guess it slipped away from your girl before she could mail it off to her secret lover,” she lies, throwing her hands up in faux innocence. 

“I swear to God— fucking give it to me, and I’ll forget this happened.”

“And you’ll forget that she’s dreaming of someone else’s mouth?” The burly woman scoffs, coming to a stand directly infront of Violet. The space between them is thinning, disintegrated by rageful tension.

“Seriously, I don’t see why you’re going through all this trouble for a whore, pinkie.” 

Faster than anyone in the room can register, Vi’s fist comes up to smash into Sevika’s jaw. The slam is loud, echoing throughout the room until it creates a stunned silence.

Sevika’s hand comes up to hold her jaw, craning it as the metallic taste of blood sets itself on her tongue. 

Within seconds, she’s lunging right at Vi. Their fists look like skin colored blobs in the air from how fast they land punches to one another’s guts. They’re thrashing around in anger, threatening the space they reside in, before four onlookers break them apart.

Some whoop and holler, others laugh and speculate exactly who ‘won’, but neither of the girls care. Through their heavy panting and darkened gazes, they’re only focused on one thing: the brown envelope that now lies between Vi’s fingers. 

With a cocky, bruised grin and the satisfying drug of adrenaline, Violet turns on her heels and stumbles out of sight. 

[REDACTED]: listen, toots. i have a better plan.  … [REDACTED]: I’m listening. 

With the way neither of you dare to move, any third party would think the two of you are paralyzed; and you are, by love.

It’s been five minutes since you’ve woken up, and Vi’s sweet gaze keeps you in a warm, butterfly inducing trance. Neither of you move from your position in the bed, savouring deep synced breaths, snuggling under the blankets, and wrapping around one another. You’re sticking together like your feelings are superglue. 

Finally, one of the pinkette’s hands rubs at the small of your back, drawing sweet nothings on your dimples and the line that trails up your perfect torso. 

“I haven’t slept that long in ages,” you hum, making Violet pull you just a bit closer. 

“Maybe you should sleep with me every night,” she concludes, sending you a smile that has you giggling with a little ‘oh sure’. 

She sees your sweet bubble of happiness wobble when your eyes squint at the sight of her chin, now decorated with a blossomed bruise. A soft hand comes up to graze the purple mark as you ask, “When did that happen?” 

As fast as the pinkette opens her mouth to speak, it shuts. Because she definitely can’t tell you that Sevika’s tried to embarrass you by reading one of your old love letters to a group of your classmates. Why has she become more of a pain now than ever? Vi hasn’t figured that out yet. But she has come to one conclusion: worrying you wouldn’t do any good. What you didn’t have to know, you wouldn’t. 

She quickly takes your wandering hand in hers, intertwining fingers and giving them a little squeeze. 

“I’m fine, sunshine. Got up all hazy last night to turn the light off since we forgot. Completely ran into the wall, that’s all.” Although Vi isn’t a klutz, it seems like a perfectly plausible story, so you don’t push. 

You only chuckle, shaking your head. “Be more careful. I have to get you home in one piece.” 

A soft smile spreads across her face, and she’s kissing your knuckles while responding. “Of course, angel.” 

While you scolded Vi about her bruises, you were set up to get some of your own. 

“Vi I’m not sure if this is a great idea,” you worry, looking down at the girl who gets on her knees to lace up your skates. 

The freezing temperature kissed your nose a subtle hint of red, but the beautiful sunlight gently coating the flurry white wonderland that surrounded the city made up for it. All around you, classmates and city locals of all ages glide around the ice rink with glee. Sounds of love, joy, and the squeals or laughter of tripping inexperienced-skaters fill your ears. 

“Why not?” she asks, eyes flickering up to yours for just a second before moving on to the other foot. The picture of her is just all too much, and you have to look away to regather your thoughts. 

“I know that you’re a hockey player so this may come as a shock to you, but not everyone is good at ice skating,” she grins, rolling her eyes at your sarcasm. “I’m just gonna fall on my ass a bunch,” you whine.

“And I’ll be right there to pick you back up.” Vi’s confidence melts away your worries. Finally, as she finishes with your skates, you playfully roll your eyes and come to a stand (with the help of her strong hands). 

The thinning space between you two and your starry eyes which look up at Vi keep her in a trance as her arms mindlessly wrap around your waist, hands dangerously close to your ass. 

“Promise not to let me go?” you whisper through a grin.

“Shit. I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And she doesn’t. Through your first steps and little slips on the ice, Vi stands right beside you, holding your hand with tender care. 

“This is pretty romantic, right?” she hums in your ear as you attempt to push your feet against the ice like she taught you. 

“As long as I don’t completely eat it.” you warn, eyes trained to the ice.

She snickers.

“Well, you look sexy when you’re focused, I’ll give you that.”

Butterflies erupt throughout your stomach, and a warmth is travelling up your body as you look at Violet with a faux sternness. 

“Quiet. You’re distracting me,” you tease.

Vi’s tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek in thought before she’s letting go of your hand and coming to stand right infront of you. Sculpted arms snake around your waist, and the lack of space between you two as Vi stares with a hungry gaze is making your body feel weak. 

“I’m distracting you, sweetheart?” 

You quietly suck in a breath of icy cold air, searching for a response in her pretty powder-blue eyes before she snickers once more, stepping back. At last, you feel like you can breathe.

She takes you around the ice, helping you reach a good foundation to feel comfortable skating on your own, and the ‘good job, baby’ she praises you with sends a sweet sensation throughout your body. As you’re gliding away from her, giggling in surprise as she pretends to chase you with her intimidating hockey stance, a group of her teammates call for her attention.

She pauses, breath kissing your ear as she lets go of your body. “I’ll just be a second, yeah?” 

You nod, sending her off to the group with a smile. 

And for a moment, everything’s perfect. Until it isn’t. 

The call of your name from her mouth freezes your body faster than the chill of the ice ever could. Effortlessly, Caitlyn’s gliding up to you with a calculated and calm expression. She knows you can’t get far in those skates. 

First, you’re praying that Vi will look over at you and race back just in time to save you. Then, anger’s bubbling in the pit of your stomach, and you whip around to make eye contact with the navy-haired girl. Finally—

“What, Caitlyn?” you snap without hesitation. 

The girl’s expression refuses to waver, and toned arms are crossing with the notorious sly smirk of a Kiramman. “Never thought I’d see you with blades on your feet.” 

“Never thought I’d see you begging for attention, but here we are,” you quip, placing your hands on your hips, completely distracted from the ice below you. 

Her arms uncross with an amused hum, and for a moment you think that maybe she’s getting off on the negative energy you throw her way. But then she begins to push her skates against the ice, slowly circling you. 

“I just thought I’d check in on you, sweetheart. You’ve forgotten to answer my calls and texts–”

“You know damn well I haven’t forgotten, Cait—”

“—And I wanted to applaud you in person for being so understanding about what happened with Violet and I.”

She comes to a stop, and so does your heart. The little red organ skips a beat before continuing, pace matching your weariness. 

“What are you talking about?” you question, brows furrowed so innocently that Caitlyn has to stop herself from laughing.

“She hasn’t told you?” The bluenette makes no attempt to act shocked. Your eyes lock, and her skates scrape against the ice until she’s hovering right over you. 

“Weren’t you wondering where she slept after you left her at the jacuzzi?” The visible air that blows from her mouth is just as harsh as her words, stabbing your heart with its icicles.  

“What are you..” you mutter, but the words die in your throat.

“Vi and I had a… rekindling.” Her head tilts with a cocky smile. “It was bound to happen I suppose. Once a hookup, always a—”

“I don’t believe you.” Your stern words contradict the uncertainty tainting your voice. 

Caitlyn doesn’t speak. She simply reaches into her back pocket, pulls out her phone, and scrolls to open her messages with Vi, gently placing the device into your quivering fingers.

Really? My ex girlfriend? You’re a class act. i’ll love her better than you ever could, caitlyn Is this to get back at me? You’re the one who ended our little affair. stop texting my number. Come to think of it, I never told her about us.  Does she even know?  fucking drop it cait You have until the end of the trip.  If you don’t tell her, I will. you don’t care whether she knows or not. you just want her crawling back to you. not happening.  I’ll tell her.

“You see it now? How easy it was for her to lie to you? She doesn’t love you, not like I do.” 

“Angel?” Vi’s voice calls out. The once sweet melody to your ears now erupts a symphony of confusion and anger inside of you. Did she plan out those nicknames?

Before you know it, Vi’s coming up behind you and placing an arm around your waist. Instead of feeling comfort, you’re suffocated. How can she fake it so easily?

“Can I help you?” the pink haired girl spits to the Kiramman with a voice of pure disgust. How could you have known?

“I was just leaving,” Caitlyn hums. With the fulfilling sight of your aghast eyes and Violet’s hidden panic, she skates off. 

The two of you are uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Your body’s still, save for the racing thoughts in your mind, but when Vi’s hand on you tightens you’re breaking from her grasp.

And then she sees it.

The broken gaze in your sorrowful eyes, the one look she desperately wanted to avoid. Her worst nightmare has become her reality. 

And you see it.

The way her gaze goes from calm and collected to a deer in headlights. It’s like a switch was flipped in her brain, and Violet’s mask comes off as she speaks. 

“I can explain—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your heartbroken voice drowns her out. 

“You don’t understand,” she pleas, but you’re pushing your weight into one foot in an attempt to turn yourself around on the ice.

“I understand perfectly fine you backstabbing–”

Your knees come slamming into the icy ground with a thud, and the newly proclaimed backstabber is at your side, attempting to lift you onto your feet. You shove her off with a huff, using one knee to come to a wobbly stand. 

“Just..” you start, ignoring the tears of frustration that bubble in the corners of your eyes, accompanied by the prickly curse in your throat. “Just stay away from me, Vi.” 

And you’re gone.

Vi obeys your wishes and leaves you alone like you asked.

But only for the next two hours, while she figures out what the hell she’s going to say to make up for the pain she’s caused you. Because she did hook up with Cait, but the last time was was months ago, before either of them had anything with you. Because she knows Cait did something to fuck with your head, and now her baby’s fretting and scared to trust anyone. Because she’s in love with you and only you, and she’s never going to forgive herself if she doesn’t get you back. 

So when she slips into your shared room and finds you packing your things, she braces herself for the yelling and cussing she expects to come.

But, it never happens. Instead, you look at her with a woeful expression, and turn back to your open luggage with a scoff. 

“I knew Caitlyn was fucked up, but I never imagined you’d have as many screws loose. You’ll be perfect for each other,” you spit, the words acid to Violet. Manicured hands move at a fast pace, roughly tossing in clothes and skin products like they mean nothing to you. “And I know we’re not actually dating, but to fuck the one person we’re trying to lie to? Then come to me the next day acting like you…” you trail off, discarding the sentence like trash, but she knows what you were trying to say: like you love me. 

Wait, what?

“Hold on, hold on. I haven’t fucked Kiramman.”

“..So you weren’t with her the night I slept in Mel’s room?” you squint.

“Fuck no. It’s been months since we’ve hooked up, angel. Like, before you and her were even a thing–”

“So you did fuck! Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?” you raise your voice in question, whipping around to face the girl with exhausted body language. When Vi’s mouth hangs open with no clue of a better response than ‘I was scared’, you shake your head, coming to conclusions yourself.

“That’s why you did this, right? I should’ve asked more about why you proposed this whole scheme,” you start, walking towards the nightstand. “Make me look like an idiot? Get back at Cait? Get with Cait? What was it?” 

“No– no. I was going to tell you angel, God I swear, I just didn’t know how to tell you without making it hurt. I don’t want anything with Caitlyn, cross my heart, her and I are history. Everything I said about you– everything I felt with you is real.” She’s speaking so tenderly, inching closer to your frame.

And you would’ve turned, would’ve calmed down enough to finish this conversation civilly, maybe believe her. 

But instead, you’re staring at the opened drawer of the bedside table, right at the chesnut brown envelope decorated with hearts. The same one you wrote for Skye all those years ago. 

You’re completely over this.

Violet’s close enough to see everything now. The envelope and letter, the way your face is morphing through thousands of different expressions, and the tears that finally begin to slide down your cheeks as you lift the paper into the air and choke out words.

“Why the hell do you have this? How much did you plan to humiliate me, huh?” you ask through sweet sobs.

Violet sighs, because everything she’s kept from you is hitting her. All of her mistakes are crashing down upon her at once. All she wants is to fix it for you. 

“That’s not– fuck this looks bad.” She’s cursing herself for everything she didn’t tell you, all the chances she had to come clean and never did out of fear. 

“Sevika had it and I took it from her. We fought over it and I hid it here because I didn’t want you to be embarrassed. That’s all. I swear.” 

She watches your glossy eyes flicker to her bruised jaw that you touched so lovingly that morning, to her eyes that beg you to forgive her, and to your bag as you walk towards it.

“Well you don’t have to worry about me anymore, Violet. This– us, whatever we are is done. ” You knuckle away your tears, sniffing and pulling at the handle of your suitcase.

The pinkette takes no action to hide the dread that fills her face, quickly following your motion around the room. 

“So we’re just breaking–” she stops. Her heart is racing at an ungodly speed, and the next words come out as a horrified mumble, “We’re just over? Like that?” 

There’s a pregnant pause, and for the last time, you look back at Vi, voice clear. 

“We were never together, Violet.” 

There’s nothing she can say to rebuttal, or stop you from walking out of that room, because despite both of your desires, it was true. 

For the next two days, your bed becomes your safe haven. You put your phone on ‘do not disturb’, wrap yourself in the thickest blanket your apartment has, and hide from the rest of the world. It’s only thanks to Mel, who’s worried to death, that you remember to eat every once in a while.

Safe to say, you’re a wreck. 

Three soft knocks on your bedroom door prompt you to roll over, and you’re pulling your head from the covers as the aforementioned beauty enters the room with a plated sandwich in hand. 

“I have something for that headache of yours,” she offers, setting the platter on your bedside table and sitting at the edge of the soft mattress. 

From your blanket-clad vision, you see her lips press together in thought before she finally decides on her carefully sculpted words. 

“I talked to Abby,” she starts. You groan, pulling yourself back under the blankets.

“Listen,” she scolds, and you bite your tongue. Hard. “I talked to Abby and she says Violet slept in her room that night. She was moping about you the entire time.” 

“She didn’t tell me about her and Caitlyn,” you seethe.  

“No, but she said she was going to, right?” She offers, tilting her head. “In the end, does it really change anything about how you two feel towards each other?” 

When you don’t respond, she sighs, patting your blanket and coming to a stand. 

“It’s your decision what you do, but I can tell Violet really cares about you. And I think you feel the same.”

With that, she’s stepping out of the room and gently closing your door with a click.  

Almost immediately, your head pokes out of the blanket, and your gaze travels to your now black lockscreen lighting up.

One message from Caitlyn.

caitlyn: Are you ready to apologize to me? I’ll still take you back. 

You block her number. Something you should’ve done a long time ago. 

Then, you check the three messages from Vi. 

superstar <3: i know you want me to leave you alone, and i’m trying my hardest to please let me talk to you angel whenever you’re ready to hear me out

You can only sigh. 

“I don’t know how else to get this through to both of you.”

Coach Talis’s sharp tongue scolds the winded athletes. Sweat is dripping down every inch of their skin under their heavy gear. While their teammates ended practice an hour ago, they were here running drills for the ‘stunt’ they pulled back at Mt. Sky. If it weren’t for the exhaustion capturing their bodies, they’d be pummeling each other this very second.

“I’m this close to benching both of you, and you know I don’t want to do that.” Both girls rapidly shake their heads.

“This better be the last time I hear of an incident regarding the both of you, do you understand?” The tanned man snaps, and both athletes are throwing out soft “yes coach”’s before he waves them off to the locker room. 

Throughout her entire shower, Violet’s brain is focused on two things. One, how much she loathes Sevika (fuck her), and two, how much she fucking misses you. 

Throughout her time spent drying herself off, getting redressed, and packing her backpack, she prays for a text, call, something from you. When she hears the buzz of a phone, she’s whipping her head around to face her lockscreen (with her favorite picture of you looking effortlessly beautiful and silly simultaneously). 

It’s not until the second buzz goes off that she realizes it’s not her phone that’s being blown up, but Sevika’s. 

Despite better judgement, she curiously walks over to the device, reaching down to pick it up with careless hands.

And it almost drops from her calloused fingers in shock. 

There’s three notifications from ‘C. Kiramman’.

c. kiramman: That worked better than I thought. You’re not as dumb as you look.  c. kiramman: I think our work together is done. C. Kiramman sent you $300!

You’re at war with yourself.

Your brain is clawing at you to block Violet, get yourself together, and move on with your life as if she was never a part of it.

Your heart and every inch of hope that fills you is begging for you to pick up your phone and give her a chance to prove that it was all a case of bad timing, misunderstandings, and that you truly mean something to her. Because you want her, you can finally admit it, but you’re deathly afraid of being made a fool of.

You’d skipped classes for the day, pulled yourself from your sheets, showered, and now sit on your black couch with a little sigh, sinking into the fluffy matter. The silence of the apartment is contrasting the swarm of loud thoughts inside your mind, and before it can drive you utterly insane, the doorbell rings. 

“Angel?” That sweet voice calls out.

You rise to your feet embarrassingly fast. Your brain waves a white flag and your heart dances in success. 

When you swing the door open, it takes everything in you to keep yourself from jumping into Violet’s arms. She’s worried out of her mind, but the surprise that you even opened the door is giving her a jolt of hope and encouragement. You take in her presence, musk amber scent, oversized jacket that once protected your arms, and all. 

“I’m so sorry,” spills from her lips, and you scan her expression before stepping to the side. 

“Come in.” 

You and Vi sit on opposite ends of your couch. You’re trying to show off your self control, but she’s just glad you’ll sit next to her at all. 

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you about my past with Caitlyn. I was scared that you’d hate me, and shit it all just caught up with me before I could grow some balls and rip the bandaid off.” 

You’ve never seen her look so worried, so vulnerable. 

You take one scoot closer. 

“But I promise, I ended things with her a long time ago and that was the last time we ever did anything.”

She’s pulling out her phone, opening the photos app, and setting her phone down face up on the cushions for you to take. You do, picking it up with weary fingers, ones that still when you see the material she’s revealing.

“Caitlyn hired Sevika to fuck with us. That time at the party, all those times she got me in shit at practice, taking your letter, even giving Caitlyn the idea of lying that I did something with her. They’ve been trying to get inbetween us for a long time.” 

Your mouth is slightly agape as you scroll through monetary payments and texts from your ex. Ones about her getting you back (fuck that), and others about Sevika getting the spotlight once Vi’s burnt out and screwing up at hockey (again, fuck that). 

“I get why you’re pissed at me, and I understand if you want me out of your life forever.” It shakes her to even utter those words. “But I…” 

She’s biting her lip, and you watch as she pulls a neatly folded piece of loose leaf paper from her pocket. With embarrassment flushing her face, she sets it on the couch for you to take.

“What’s this?” you ask softly, taking it in your hands and gently unfolding.

“Please don’t read it out loud.” 

Your heart quickens at the suspense, and your fingers come to a stop as Violet’s handwriting fills your vision. 

Dear _____, 

Oh my god.

The words fill your mind and apparently show through your eyes, because when you look at Violet once more, she’s looking more sheepish than ever.

With a deep breath, you read. 

I’ve been in love with you for so long, longer than I ever realized, and I never knew how much it warmed my heart and brightened my days until I lost you. The way your eyes light up when you laugh, the loud laugh that takes over your body when we’re alone, the quiet moments we shared, where we didn’t need words, just the way our hands fit together so perfectly. How being near you made everything feel like it was right, even when nothing else made sense. All of the little things that make you, you, have become the moments I crave most. 

I know I’ve messed up. Been too wrapped up inside my head and covered in fear to tell you the entire truth, but I miss us. I miss your laugh, your smile, the way we would talk about everything and nothing all at once. I wrapping my arm around your waist or kissing your neck cheek nose forehead and feeling like everything was right in the world when we were together. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. I’m not asking for everything to go back to normal right away, because I know things take time. But I want to try again, if you’ll let me.

You’re worth every second, every inch of love that exists throughout my blood, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to show you just how much you mean to me.

-With all my love, yours truly, Violet

In the eleventh grade, you thought you loved Violet more than humanely possible.

Now, you wonder how shocked your younger self would be to hear that amount has grown exponentially. 

"I know it's bad. I'm not a genius like you bu-"

Lips smashing into hers silence any worries that the letter didn’t do its job. Your plush mouthes press against one another’s with a passion so deep, so genuine, that it speaks louder than any words you’ve spoken; louder than any love letter either of you have written. 

You faintly pull back, giggling breathily as Vi chases your lips with a look sweet enough to give you a heart attack. With touching foreheads and closed, relaxed eyes, you use the same words as when you first fell in love with her. Except this time– you say them out loud. 

“From my happily raised eyebrows to my.. gosh however I worded it. Y’know that was so corny now that I think about it,” you begin to whisper, and giggles erupt from both of your mouthes. You hum, placing another chaste kiss on her swollen lips. “I love you, Violet Vanderson. I really, really love you.” 

The warmth radiating from your soul and the heat of your intertwined bodies is all too much. It does anything but help when Violet places soft kisses on your cheek, ones that trail down to your jaw and the base of your neck as she gently pulls you into her lap. 

“Do you–” she places a kiss, “forgive me?” The suck and lick she gives to your neck sends a shudder down your spine. Wait, what’d she ask again? 

“I don’t know,” you hum teasingly, feeling her smirk against your wet skin. “I think you should work for it.” 

“Whatever you want. Tell me what you want, baby.” 

Fuck. How can words make your eyes roll into the back of your head? 

“Want you to—” 

You gasp as she slides her tongue down your neck, coming to kiss at your collarbones.

“Use your words, sweet girl,” she whispers sensually. 

“Fuck. I want you.” 

That’s all she needs, and Violet’s sliding a cold hand up your shirt, inching it up slowly over your bra and refusing to break eye contact. The action has you whimpering into submission, and you huff.

“You’re such a tease.” You complain.

“You’ll take it,” she hums, finally pulling the shirt over your head and going straight for the clasp of your bra. 

You take the time to trail a hand under her own shirt, letting your finger tips trail over her abs, and you gasp as your already hard nipples twitch from the newfound cold air when Vi tosses your bra to the side. 

“God you’re beautiful,” is the last thing she says before diving head first into your chest. The room is filled with soft kissing sounds, wet licks and pop’s from Vi’s mouth on your nubs, and your moans of pleasure when she twists at whatever nipple isn’t getting her mouth’s attention.

“Vi– babe please. Need you now.” 

She groans against your sensitive skin, releasing you from her mouth. 

“Need me now, baby?” The girl mocks your neediness with a smirk.

“Yeah, yes please,” you whimper out, and she snickers at how you’re already too dazed to focus. 

She decides she’s played with your tits enough (for now), and pulls you right back into a messy, tongue infested kiss as she flips your position. You lean against the couch as she reluctantly separates your lips, sliding kisses down the middle of your torso as her strong hands work at pulling down your pants terribly slowly. 

Once they’re off, and you think you’re free as she runs a finger along the middle of your panties, right over your clothed heat. She hums at the way you buck forward. Her just graze along the seam as you speak. 

“I’m not– mmm, feeling very forgiving right now…” you scold, eyes so gone that Violet has to stop herself from apologizing. 

“Do you want my mouth or fingers to change that?” she asks, and she can’t hold back the laugh any longer when your eyes unknowingly light up. 

“Mouth– both– Vi anything, just give me it now.” 

She laughs, finally pulling your underwear down at a reasonable pace and scolding you gently.

“We’ll work on fixing your tone another time.” 

She leaves the tiny fabric hanging off one of your delicate ankles, mumbling something about how fuckable you look sprawled out for her like this. The girl’s quick to effortlessly spread your legs, and she gulps at how slick and glistening your cunt is all for her. 

“Fuck me, baby,” she mutters in awe.

“I’m trying to,” you whine, taking her back to the present where you and your body are completely at her mercy.

Finally, your prayers are answered, and she’s licking a clean line straight up your pussy, taking a river of juices with her pleasure-inducing tongue. 

As if the taste enchants her, Vi’s dropping her head down to your needy heat. Her tongue lulls out, swirling against your clit, your hole, anywhere she can make you feel good. It’s not long before two thick fingers plunge into you, and you’re throwing your head back. 

“Oh my god, please please– yes.”

“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” she mocks once more. Your moans motivate the muscle-flexing girl to go deeper, go faster, and she has to hold you still when you arch from how sweet her digits hit your g-spot. 

The way she’s drinking your cunt sucks away your thoughts as well, and it’s not until she hands a harsh slap to your ass that you’re blinking, babbling something about needing to cum. 

“You can do it baby, yeah good girl. Fuck.” 

Sweet praises decorated with the perfect mixture of her fingers, tongue, and the lust-laced eye contact send you over the edge, and your loud moans carry throughout the entire space as you finish. 

Vi’s tools don’t stop, not until you’ve completely come down from the best high of your life, not until your shaky hand is gently placing itself over hers in silent appreciation. 

When your heavy pants are all that’s left to be heard, she kisses your cunt goodbye and says hello to your lips. A strong hand on the back of your head keeps your mouth pressed against hers, and you love it. Because you’re sure you could twist lips with this girl until you pass out from forgetting to breathe. 

“Taste yourself?” she whispers once her tongue’s slid out of your mouth. You can only nod, relishing in the way her arms wrap around your body, a silent insinuation that you’re hers to protect.

With a hum, you’re kissing both of her cheeks, then her nose and forehead in thanks as her chin rests against your chest.

“I guess that was a good enough apology.” You fake dissatisfaction, completely ignoring the way your body presses even further into hers while you smooth a hand through her hair. 

She snickers in disbelief.

“Think you need another? Just to see how sorry I am, of course.” 

You hum, finally shrugging with an inconcealable smile.

“I guess that’d work.” 

Vi makes no complaint, because why on earth would she, and she’s kissing a line right back where she started.

“Is this too over the top? The number six was fine but the hand prints? Do I look like a high schooler? Be honest—” 

Mel cuts off your babbling with a laugh. “You didn’t want to look like a high schooler?” 

You’re whining from your position in the stands, and Mel’s apologizing for her joke as she confirms you look amazing. “Vi’s already seen you, and she seemed to love it,” she coos in your ear, bumping her hip against yours as you laugh. 

And the girl’s right. Throughout the game, Vi’s taken glances at you every second she gets. She’s grinning at the pink body paint handprints that travel up your legs, winking when you blow her kisses everytime your gazes lock, chuckling at how loud you get when you cheer ‘go Vi!’, and don’t get her started on how you’re body is clad in her big jersey. 

Yeah, she’s completely whipped. 

There’s only two minutes left in the game, and the Piltover Knights are winning 2-4. But you’re not entirely focused on the screaming atmosphere or Vi’s upcoming victory, because all you can think about is how hot and aggressive your girlfriend looks in her element.

There’s a jolt of joy that zips up your body, because: yeah, that’s your girlfriend. 

The horn chugs to signal the end of the match and the crowd’s roaring with glee, especially you and Mel, who jump up and down while screaming out for your respective players. 

Vi throws you a toothy smile from the ice, one that you see again after she exits the locker room and comes to find ‘her girl’ in the loitering crowd. 

She embraces and lifts you into the air, spinning you around as if you’re a feather in her grasp. Each giggle that spills from your lips is more joyous than the last, just like every moment you spend together. 

“You were so cool out there! Never seen you look so mad and focused,” you praise your pink-haired girl as she sets you down, placing a warm kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s because you bring out the good in me. I’m usually all rude and scary and—”

“With that hair?” you tease, ruffling your hand through her fluff. “You’re not fooling anybody, pinkie.” 

Vi’s jaw drops in shock. 

“Pinkie?” she repeats with a squinted gaze. 

A beat passes, and you’re turning to run away, but it’s too late. The athlete lunges forward, wrapping her arms around your core to trap you as you fake complain in protest, but giggles are soon falling from your mouth and breaking your character. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” her playful words kiss your ear.

“Oh whatever, you love me.” you grin through the claim, turning your head to have her beautiful face in your vision. 

Vi’s smile softens into something genuine as she scans over your pretty face. Your astonishing, stunning– fuck there are so many things she could say about your face, about your heart, about your brain, about you. 

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Sparkled blue eyes connect with yours, and they’re sending you into a trance as you’re lured into a tender kiss. 

With every kiss, the world around you is drowned out until it’s just you and Violet. Your minds, bodies, and hearts intertwine, and with each connection of your lips, you taste everything she feels.

It’s perfect, even better than you could’ve imagined from that creative writing class, and it gets better everyday that you live the reality.

From the grasp of your passionate kiss, as colors of blue, auburn, chestnut brown and more pass by you, you smile knowing that safe in your arms lies your perfect pink. 

©silknspice