i’m a 25 yo non-binary femme lesbian. sometimes i write fanfiction under the tag #my fic (this post is tagged that way for your convenience).
please don’t interact if you’re under 18, and please put your age in your bio before you interact or i will assume you’re underage and block you. this is not an idle threat; i have to block at least a third of the people who follow me, just put your age in bio PLS.
words: 1.5k
warnings: modern au, angst after a fight with a resolution, established relationship, grovelling, abby says mean things but then she makes it all better. reader is clearly a self-insert with rejection sensitivity oops!
in which abby finds you alone and devastated after a heartbreaking argument.
tags [lmk if you want to be added/removed]: @hakandnsjoqmsn @abbyily @mamas-evil-hag @cherrybomber3000 @chraw @abbysburr1t0 @mewl3tte @loonetteslooneybin @lilredbird101 @wontilly @klmr0 @emma13759364 @coffeestainedbookpages
She doesn’t know if there’s a way through it this time. You fight a lot, but never like this. She was venomous. So were you. She can’t even remember how it started — you accused her of never having time for you, she accused you of needing too much. She got defensive, because she never feels like enough. You got your heart broken, because you always feel like too much.
It goes around like this constantly, and maybe she’s tired. Tired of having to justify herself, tired of seeing you angry and sad, tired of pretending this is working.
Except then, when you leave and slam the door, it doesn’t take long for her to realise just how miserable and dark the apartment is without you in it. She doesn’t even know where you are, and in minutes, all she thinks about is what might happen to you in the state you’re in. Maybe you’re too teary eyed to safely cross the road, or maybe somebody sees you wandering alone, vulnerable, or maybe you get caught in the rain. She doesn’t remember you taking a jacket, and it’s freezing out.
Fuck.
The first time she calls you, she hears your phone vibrating upstairs.
Double fuck.
An hour later, she’s called all of your friends and family. None of them have seen or heard from you. She wants to give you your space, but it’s getting dark, and she’s terrified. She’d rather keep yelling than sit in this stifling silence, alone and trapped in worst-case imaginings.
She gives it another half an hour, just to be sure you don’t turn up, and then ends up taking off. She knows you enough to check a couple of local haunts: the dive bar down the road, the pizzeria opposite, even the damn library. Every empty space feels like another tear in her heart, until she’s cold and damp and lost. She wanders then. A lot. Up and down the street you live, around the block, in and out of the same stores she knows you love until they close up for the night. Neon lights reflect in puddles, cars leave splashes on her clothes as they pass by, and she’s replaying the fight over and over.
"You’re never here. You never treat me like the priority!"
"Because I have more important shit to do!"
She was so, so fucking cold. She doesn’t know why. She gets like that when she’s under attack; can never just sit and listen and say “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll do better.”
She is sorry now. She wants to do better.
She’s worried it’s a little too late.
You hate how sensitive you are. How easy it is for Abby to break you. You hate that, when everything crumbles, there’s nowhere you can go to really feel loved. Her arms are the safest place you know, and without them, you roam aimlessly. A ghost passing between streetlights.
When your feet get too numb to keep walking, you sit on the park bench, pressing your palms into your eyes and letting out the sob you’ve been fighting for hours. You don’t want this to be over, but it feels over. Worse, it feels like she wants it to be. You pushed her too far, asked for too much, and she’s done. If you go home now, you’re certain she’ll confirm it, and you’re just… not ready. You’d rather stay here in purgatory, icy and shuddering, then face the end.
People pass by you, most of them barely glancing, a few casting you sympathetic looks. The rain gets louder. Wind rustles through the trees surrounding you. The world keeps turning, and you watch and watch and watch. Dog walkers, kids out past their curfew, late commuters. They all have somewhere to be. They probably have somebody waiting for them to get home.
You don’t.
You pull your knees to your chest, gasping through tears at the thought that she probably doesn’t love you anymore. How could she?
"I can’t keep doing this with you. If you’re so unhappy, why not just end it?"
"Is that what you want?"
She’d paused, so stony, so unreadable, and it had been answer enough.
Footsteps approach. You expect them to belong to a heavy-footed runner until they stop right by your bench, heavy breaths following. A shiver crawls down your spine, because you know. You’d always know.
You turn, and there she stands, hands on her thighs as she catches her breath. She’s still in her workout clothes, only she at least had the good sense to put on a hoodie and raincoat, unlike you. She looks… relieved. You don’t know why.
“I fucking…” Her throat bobs, voice cracks, and she glances up at the black sky. When she speaks again, those sharp edges of her voice have been filed down to something softer. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You scared me to death.”
There is nothing you can say, or at least, nothing you want to say. You hate how vulnerable you feel, how broken, and she made it clear that she doesn’t want to pick up the pieces this time. So you fold your arms over your chest in an effort to protect yourself, staring out at the grass.
Abby sighs, lids fluttering shut. She tugs off her raincoat and drapes it around your shoulders. It’s heavy and smells like her, like the soap you share and the detergent you chose and the dinner you ate: pine, vanilla, sweat, and spice. Home.
Your head bows, teeth sinking into your quivering lower lip. So fucking weak.
"Stop fucking crying. I can’t have this conversation with you when you’re crying like that."
“You’re drenched, baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair from your eyes. “Come home. Please. We’ll fix it.”
“Do you want to fix it?”
She blinks as though surprised you’d even have to ask. Like those barbed words earlier changed nothing.
Like she still loves you.
“Of course I want to fix it.”
“I don’t think you do. I think you want this to be over. And maybe it is.”
A vehement shake of her head. Her eyes are bloodshot, baby hairs pasted to her forehead. “No. No, baby. All I want is for you to come home.” She takes your hand desperately. “We both said shit we didn’t mean. It shouldn’t have gone that far. I shouldn’t have…” Her face contorts with something like regret. “Please. Please, let me take you home.”
There’s nothing you can say, mind tangled and incoherent. So when she coaxes you off the bench, you let her. She wraps her arm around your shoulder, keeping you protected and close like she always has, but it’s tainted now.
At home, she grabs you a towel. When you’re still unable to move, speak, she sits you on the couch, stripping off the damp clothes and drying you off before wrapping you in a thick blanket. You’re crying. You can’t stop. She probably fucking hates you for it.
Except she kneels in front of you, rubbing warmth into your arms, eyes stuck on you and filled with concern.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You were right. I’m not making enough time for us. I just… I get so focused on work, I just can’t see past it sometimes.”
You dip your chin to your chest, hiding yourself behind the blanket. She shuffles closer, waiting patiently as you try to fight more tears. “You make me feel like a burden for wanting you around. I don’t think… I don’t think it should be that way. I think maybe I make your life heavier instead of lighter.”
“No.” She searches for your hand beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. “No, baby. That’s not true. The heaviest I’ve ever felt was sitting on this couch after you left, wondering whether you’d come back. Wondering if I ruined everything. If I broke us. If I’m so fucking incapable of relationships that I don’t get to keep you. It terrified me.”
Again, you’re speechless, trying to comprehend this new reality where she doesn’t hate you, doesn’t want you gone. It’s so much easier to imagine it’s true, because you’ve always felt, deep down, like maybe you aren’t supposed to be loved — especially not by somebody as strong and capable and beautiful as Abby.
She tucks your hair behind your ears, cupping your jaw. “I love you. I’m gonna do better, yeah? We’re gonna be okay.”
She treats you like you’re something fragile, and you feel it — so you crumple, finally. “I’m sorry,” you say, for the tears and for the fight and for never quite giving her what she needs.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” she promises, tugging you into her chest. “Just please don’t ever leave me like that again. Even if I say something stupid, even if you think it’s what I want. If you need space, take it, but don’t… Don’t disappear on me.”
“Okay.” You sniffle into her shoulder. She cradles you like you’re something precious, tugging you so you straddle her on the ground, where she can hold you even tighter.
“Are you warming up? You want me to run you a bath?”
You shake your head. “Just wanna stay like this for a little while.”
“As long as you want,” she promises, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
summary: in an attempt to get over the vi-shaped crater in your life, you go out on a date with someone new. vi certainly has something to say about that. 18+ mdni! contains cheating (vi is married, r is single), marijuana use, oral sex, fingering, pet names. vi and reader are a bit toxic here, sooo this is your warning. technically this is a continuation of fool me once, but it can probably be read as a standalone as well.
you’re in the passenger seat of your date’s car, some kind of rich-prick sedan that reeks of brand new leather, when you look out the window and see vi for the first time in months.
she looks just as good as she did the night you’d slept together - perfectly disheveled in a black tank, jeans low enough on her hips that there’s a dizzying sliver of skin exposed. there’s a joint dangling from the corner of her lips, unlit, as she shuts the front door and settles into the chair on the porch. you watch, mesmerized, as she pulls a lighter from her pocket and sparks the joint to life.
that night, in the early days of the summer, still lingers at the forefront of your mind.
everything reminds you of vi - the boisterous laugh of a stranger on the street, the scent of smoke in the air, the sight of an all-too-familiar shade of pink.
still, guilt wells in your chest when you remember her wife - an ugly feeling that turns your saliva sour in your mouth. when you see her collecting the mail or going for a jog or leaving for work in the morning, she waves at you and smiles, and pinpricks of shame dapple every inch of your body.
vi had made her decision, though. that much is clear. you searched for her in the days after that night, glanced at the porch every time you left the house. waited for her to appear like an apparition, pull you into her arms again and kiss away the guilt that turned your insides to tar.
but days had turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. soon, the blistering summer heat peters out, and fall is upon you. vi has become nothing but a sore spot; a bruise you poke at every now and then to remind yourself it’s real.
you’re torn away from your thoughts when you hear your name, and you realize once again where you are and what you’re doing. post expensive-dinner, your date’s hand lingering on your thigh beneath the hem of your dress, her mildly irritating voice grating in your ears.
“did you hear what i said? i asked if you wanted to invite me inside.”
you blink at her. “uh… for what?”
the girl, whose name you can’t remember (it starts with a B, you know that for sure), laughs like she’s surprised. “i thought we had a nice time tonight. didn’t we?”
“it was nice,” you agree. your lips press together in a firm line as you cast another spare glance out the window, eyes searching for vi.
“i know something that could make the night even better… if you know what i mean.” blair arches one perfectly-shaped brow at you. she flashes you a kind of self-satisfied smirk that lets you know she thinks she’s got you wrapped around her finger.
brianna’s hand inches further up your thigh. you decide to play along. “and what’s that?”
“take me inside and i’ll show you.”
quite frankly, you’d rather not. blake’s breath smells like the strong espresso she’d insisted on ordering after dessert, and it makes you nauseous every time she gets too close. but there’s a dull, sweet ache forming between your legs, making your stomach warm with arousal. and the last thing you want to do right now is go inside alone.
bella gets real smug when you finally let her kiss you over the center console. she’s not a great kisser, and she loses extra points for the espresso breath, but it’s decent enough. when you walk up the driveway to your front door, rummaging through your bag to keep from looking at vi as you pass, bianca presses herself against you from behind. you fumble with your keys but manage to get the door unlocked before she can push you into it with the force of her too-desperate hips, her wandering hands warm on your waist.
you let her in first. she stumbles into the dark and searches for the light switch while you close the door - but not before you cast one last look at vi, smoke billowing from her lips. there’s a wrinkle between her brows, a fire in her eyes. you stare at each other, wordless, for what feels like an eternity before there’s a hand on your hip again, urging you backwards through the doorway. you shut the door and lock it.
it turns out that kissing isn’t the only thing bridgette is subpar at. she yanks your panties down your thighs when you reach the bedroom, unceremonious about it when her fingers find your cunt, and she misses your clit like she’s trying to. but it’s clear that she isn’t - she smirks at you, smug, while you spread your legs over the mattress and let her play with you.
“you’re so quiet,” brooklyn comments, her index finger circling around a spot just beneath your clit. “you shy?”
“yeah,” you lie. she says something else but you’re not listening. you close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose and willing away every voice in your head that chants vi, vi, vi.
“i think you’re wet enough.” brittany pulls her hand back from your cunt, wiping your slick off her hands with the edge of your fitted sheet. you open your eyes and stare at her, stunned that she thinks this is wet enough, when there’s a loud knock at the door.
knock is probably a generous word. it’s more like pounding.
as if she hadn’t heard it, brenda pulls you in for another kiss, her tongue smashing up against your lips to try to part them. you wince and pull back, nose wrinkled. “i should get the door.”
“it’s probably not important,” she says.
“sounds important,” you snap, pushing her away and climbing off the bed. you pull your dress down to obscure your lack of underwear and saunter out to the living room as the knocking continues, heavy and persistent against the door.
you know what to expect on the other side, but when you push the door open and find vi standing there, tight fist raised, knuckles white, she still steals the breath from your lungs.
“there you are,” vi grumbles. she shoves her hand into one of her pockets, looking over your shoulder into the darkness of your house. “where’s that fucking meathead?”
“meathead? who says that?” your heart is pounding in your chest, but you can’t tell if it’s from excitement or anger. or both. “it’s none of your business.”
vi lets out a humorless laugh. “sure. she’s in your room, isn’t she? what, did i interrupt your moment, princess?”
every syllable leaves her lips covered in venom, her lip curling meanly. it only makes you angrier. and, regrettably, more aroused.
“why the fuck do you care?” you cross your arms over your chest, glowering at her as if you could take her down with a look alone. she opens her mouth to reply, but the words die on her lips when something behind you catches her gaze. you turn your head and find bailey sidling up to you, puffing out her chest unnaturally. she’s not great at the tough-guy act, despite having the build to pull it off. you’re almost embarrassed for her.
“can i help you, dude?” becca asks, chin lifting.
“nah,” vi replies, unsmiling, “i just wanted to make sure this one’s okay. she’s been bringing a lotta girls home lately, you know?”
your blood runs cold. or hot. you can’t tell, just that it simultaneously burns and freezes in your veins, and you want to speak up, but all you can do is blink at vi as she smiles, all sharp teeth and thinly veiled threats, right at your date.
“oh,” buffy says. she turns to look at you; you can see her from the corner of your eye, like she’s waiting for you to say vi’s lying. and she is lying. but you don’t breathe a word, still as stone, anger broiling in your bones.
“yeah, she’s something else, isn’t she?” vi’s looking at you as she speaks, something dark and unreadable in her eyes. “takes ‘em home then finds someone else to buy her dinner the next night.”
she’s still smiling, and you want to punch that stupid, infuriating grin right off her face. make her feel at least half of the anger afflicting you, its flames licking at every inch of your skin from the inside out. silence settles heavy between the three of you; a cricket chirps somewhere in the grass, and a far-off motor revs up and slowly fades into the white noise. you hear bree clear her throat beside you.
“it’s getting late,” she says, checking her expensive-looking gold watch for good measure, “think i’m gonna head out.”
she steps forward and vi moves out of the way, letting her pass; her head turns while she watches your date amble out to her car, climb inside, and drive down the street, out of sight.
you’re watching a moth dance around the porch light. its wings flutter almost too quickly for you to see the motion; its tiny body smacks into the light over and over, like it’s expecting something different to happen with each point of contact. determined for an outcome that will never be.
“you’re welcome, by the way,” vi says, sounding much too casual about it.
“seriously?” you fume. “you think you just did me a fucking favor?”
“matter of fact, yeah. i do.” you recognize the same anger in her vitriolic tone that you feel in yourself - the same reckless, explosive rage threatening to boil over.
“fuck you, vi. fuck. you.”
“that’s what you need, isn’t it?” she’s smiling again, but this time, there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach flip. “just needed someone to fuck you right, huh? can’t believe you thought that fucking moron could do it for you.”
heat simmers in your belly at her words - a reaction you wish you weren’t so helpless to. but while your mind tells you this isn’t what you want, your body knows that it is.
“why are you here, vi?” you lift your chin and square your shoulders, arms still crossed over the low cut of your neckline.
she sizes you up, noticing the straightening of your posture. bright blue eyes rake over your frame like she’s committing you to memory.
“already told you, sweetheart,” she says as she steps forward, closing the gap between you. her hand reaches out to smooth over your hair, and she cups the base of your skull with her palm. “just had to stop you from doing something you’d regret.”
there’s a softness in her voice that makes you want to believe her.
“that’s… insane, coming from you,” you breathe. “i’ve already done something i regret.”
vi’s watching you while you speak, focused on you like you’re the only person in the world. a chilly breeze blows past, and you tighten your arms over your chest, goosebumps raising on your exposed flesh.
“hm,” vi hums. her hand moves to your cheek; her thumb strokes over the supple skin, delicate. “i don’t regret it.”
you bristle. tilt your head to the side to get her hand off you, though you feel colder when it’s gone.
“you’re such a fucking liar,” you hiss, “i haven’t seen you in months. you could’ve been dead, for all i knew. why don’t you go back to leaving me the fuck alone? why don’t you go back to your wife?”
“for fuck’s sake,” vi sighs; she rubs at her jawline like she’s trying to dispel her annoyance. “can you just, i don’t know, shut up?”
your mouth hangs open, your brain short-circuiting at her bluntness. your blood boils again, but all you can do is stare at her, silent.
“there we go,” vi purrs, “finally.”
she slips past you and through the doorway, her arm wrapping around your waist to urge you along with her. as if it’s moving on its own, your body submits to her; the door shuts and you can hardly process the feeling of the cold metal when your back smashes up against it.
vi’s closing in on you, her hands on your shoulders as she presses you to the door. long strands of pinkish-red hair brush over your cheeks and now she’s kissing you, those wandering hands moving to touch every inch of you in her reach. her tongue traces the seam of your lips and you part them for her, let her lick into your mouth, let her slide a knee between your legs and press her hips against yours. your body is a live wire, and every touch is a new spark, brighter than the last.
vi kisses you like a woman possessed, all tongue and teeth and mouthfuls of saliva. and you’re starting to slip again - starting to fall into her trap, expertly set.
“gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy again?” vi asks, voice gruff, her hand rubbing circles on your inner thigh. distantly, you remember that you’re not wearing panties - they’re on the floor in your room somewhere.
“mm,” you moan, because now vi’s kissing down the column of your throat, teeth scraping against your skin. “i sh-shouldn’t.”
“but you want to,” she’s murmuring against your neck, breath hot, and you hate her.
“vi,” you whine, “don’t make me say it.”
“oh, but you have to say it,” she coos, the warm expanse of her hand creeping up towards your cunt. she goes to touch you, and when her hand meets the sparse hair between your legs, she pulls back to look at you, eyes heavy. “such a slut, baby - so wet. you really want this, huh?”
her finger traces the crease beside your cunt, so close to where you want her, and your legs shake.
“yes,” you pant out, too needy to feel defeated, “i want you, vi. want you to touch me.”
“good girl, baby,” vi sighs against your neck, having leaned forward to suck at the delicate skin. her fingers split through your folds, spread the wetness pooled at your entrance until your entire cunt is soaked, slippery, messy. her thumb nudges against your clit and you gasp, shocks of pleasure exploding behind your eyelids.
vi nearly growls at the feeling of your pussy, needy and drooling for her. she pulls back from your neck, blotches of bruised skin left behind as she hums, “god, i need to taste you.”
bleary-eyed, you watch her sink to her knees before you. denim on hardwood. eyes blown black with lust. rough hands sliding up your thighs, folding your dress up until your cunt is exposed, soaked and needy for her. she encourages one of your legs over her shoulder, holding you up against the cold metal of the front door; you feel just secure enough that, when her tongue swipes through your wetness, you go limp.
the first time you’d let her touch you like this, you’d both been tipsy. it had felt incredible - clearly, since you’ve been unable to stop thinking about it for months. but now? you’re stone-cold sober, and vi had only smoked that joint a while ago, and her tongue is slipping through your folds, and her arms are holding you steady while her fingers knead at the doughy flesh of your ass. lewd slurps ring out in your quiet home, vi’s moans muffled by your puffy cunt, and you’re overwhelmed with pleasure - it courses through your veins like a drug. you’re hooked, now, and you know it.
“fuck, sweetheart,” vi rasps, slurring against your pussy, “so fucking wet. all this for me?”
you moan in response, wanton and strangled. you will yourself to reply, to make some sultry comment in response, but her mouth between your legs feels so good, you can’t speak. and besides, you can feel yourself inching closer to an orgasm with every brush of her tongue against your clit - every careful circle she draws over the bundle of nerves. you clench around nothing, hands finding vi’s hair and forming fists through them.
“vi, please, feels so good - oh fuck, just like that - faster, faster—”
you cut yourself off with another pornographic moan, high and whiny in your throat as your back forms a pretty arch over the door. you’re not sure how you’re still upright, but you’re too fucked-out to worry about it. vi laps at you like she’s enjoying every minute of this; she grunts and sighs against the mess she’s made of your cunt, and her hands grip your ass so hard you’re sure she’ll leave bruises. it only makes you want her more.
“gonna come for me, sweet thing?” vi asks, tongue flicking against your clit. one hand moves away from your ass, warm and sore where she’d been squeezing you, and she brings her fingers to your sodden cunt once again. she slips one inside, then two, and the moment she curls them just right, you find yourself on the edge.
“hah—fuck, fuck, yes, gonna come for you, gonna come,” you stutter, hips rolling to grind yourself down on vi’s face. your cunt squelches with every thrust of her fingers, so wet you can feel the warm combination of your slick and vi’s saliva leaking down onto your thighs. you look down at her before your vision whites out, and she’s beautiful, scar-pierced lips curled into a smirk as she watches you fall apart. your orgasm rips through you suddenly and all at once, leaving you trembling, gasping, screaming. if it weren’t for vi’s arms holding you up, you’d be on the floor by now, crumpled in a pile of cum and sweat and breathy moans.
you don’t realize that you’re sweating until vi pushes your hair out of your face, having stood up and wiped her mouth clean. tendrils of hair cling to your damp forehead and temples, and vi brushes them all aside, that smirk still pulling at her lips as you come down from your orgasm.
“felt good, princess?” she asks, and you nod, head still spinning. you’re standing on your own now, despite your legs feeling like they’ll fold over any second.
“think you can make it to the bedroom?” vi kisses along your jawline, open-mouthed. you tilt your head in the opposite direction and let your eyes fall shut. your head is still floaty, but you find it in you to nod, humming in pleasure as vi’s lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear.
“doesn’t seem like it,” vi murmurs, and before you can process what she means, she’s scooping you up into her arms bridal-style. you hook an arm around her neck and let her carry you to the bedroom, cunt clenching when you think of what’s to come.
and it’s just as good as you remember.
vi’s clothes—and your dress—litter your bedroom floor, abandoned in the interest of fucking as quickly as possible. she’s got you pinned to the mattress in a matter of minutes, kissing you like she’s starving for the warm glide of your saliva in her mouth.
“such a pretty little thing,” vi coos at you when she breaks the kiss, watching with half-lidded eyes as you glide your fingers through her wet, pink cunt. a well of her slick juices drools from her entrance and you spread it around with nimble fingers, afterwards bringing the digits up to your mouth to suck off the excess, and vi fucking loses it, watching your perfect mouth purse around your finger as your eyes roll back at the taste of her.
she’s not sure why it took her so long to do this again.
your hand returns to her cunt to give it a few more languid touches before she’s grabbing your wrist and squeezing. “get on your stomach.”
and you obey without a word, rolling onto your front and spreading your legs for her, ass propped up beautifully. you hear her curse, all guttural and breathy, before her palm collides with your backside with a sharp smack!
“told you this pussy’s mine,” she grunts, two of her fingertips pressing against your soaked entrance. “thought you knew that.”
she drags her length through your folds, ruddy fingertips like heaven when they nudge against your clit.
“guess i just needed to remind you.”
the words have hardly left her lips before her fingers are splitting you open, your clenching hole fluttering as it accommodates her; you bury your face into your pillows and let out one long, tortured moan. but she’s not interested in letting you adjust—no, she wants to ruin you. she stuffs you full of her fingers and uses her other hand to swat your ass again, admiring the way your skin warms beneath her palm as she pulls her fingers out and shoves them right back inside of you.
“say it, baby,” she rasps. “tell me whose pussy this is.”
she fucks her fingers into you again, and again, and your mouth is watering, drool trickling from one corner of your mouth and soaking into the pillow. your brain is practically melting out of your ears with every thrust of her fingers, and she loves how stupid you get like this. she curls a fist into your hair and yanks hard. “say it.”
you gasp and whine, back arching. another moan tears from your throat. “it’s, mmm, it’s yours, vi,” you mewl. “it’s all yours.”
she rewards you with another harsh slap against your ass, her other hand busy between your legs as she finger-fucks you, carving out a place in your cunt just for her. it’s heaven, and you’re already lust-drunk by now, surprised that you’d been able to get out a coherent thought when she’s fucking you like this.
“all mine,” vi pants into your ear, every thrust of her fingers accompanied by the wet sounds of your cunt opening up around her.
“yours,” you echo. “yours—ah, vi, please…”
“whatcha begging for, angel?” vi asks, digs her fingertips into the plush flesh of your ass. “need to come again? need me to get you there?”
you nod, frantic with need. “yes, fuck, please.”
“come for me, hm?” her voice wavers a little, husky with lust, and as if you’d been waiting for her permission, you’re suddenly gasping, back arching further as your body catches fire. she talks you through it, telling you how pretty you are taking her fingers, how good you feel gripping her like this, how perfect your body is.
“that’s it, baby,” she rasps, mouth close enough to your ear for you to feel the warm puffs of her panting breaths. your body feels like it’s floating off into the stratosphere. you lie like that for a while, her body a welcome weight atop your own, your cheek pressed into the pillow still damp with your own drool. unbidden, the memory of the last time you’d had sex with vi creeps into the foreground of your mind. the way she’d made you come so hard you’d seen stars, then slipped out the room and back to her own home - back to her wife - before you could even process what had happened.
“vi,” you murmur, adjusting to roll onto your back. vi climbs off you, settles into the mattress by your side. you realize that she’s still in her boxers, the delicious trail of hair beneath her bellybutton disappearing under the hem.
she catches you looking and smirks. “need something?”
“mhm,” you hum, “i… don’t want you to leave this time.”
you try to ignore the stab of disappointment in your gut when the smirk disappears from vi’s lips, her expression neutralizing. the air conditioning kicks on, and the cold draft makes you shiver. feeling suddenly exposed, you grab a throw blanket from the edge of your bed and pull it over you.
vi bites her lower lip, thinks for a moment. then, she says, “okay. i’ll stay.”
she settles down further into the mattress beside you, a hand reaching for the blanket to pull it over herself, too. her arm curls around your waist and urges you closer. you bury your face into the crook of her neck and inhale her scent.
it’s not long before you fall asleep, the white noise of the AC lulling you into a peaceful darkness, vi drawing patterns into your skin with her fingertips. the last thing you process before you’re asleep is the press of vi’s lips against your cheek, her nose nudging your brow bone.
and when you wake up, stretching out and seeking her warmth, all you find is an empty bed.
content: vi x reader. 1.2k words. a part two to this fake dating au. you and vi are supposed to go on your first date, but not everything goes to plan. some fluff, followed by light angst with a happy resolution.
You feel sick to your stomach.
Not from nerves – actually, medically sick. Which is a problem, because in about thirty minutes Vi, your fake-girlfriend-turned-actual-date, is coming to pick you up.
You tried Tylenol, a warm compress, a cold shower. Nothing. You feel hot and sticky and sick. Definitely sick.
You could cancel. You should cancel. That would be fine. Vi would understand. But that doesn’t stop the churning in your stomach. You wanted to get tonight over with. Not because you didn’t like Vi, the opposite. You were dangerously infatuated with her. Who wouldn’t be?
But you have this gnawing pit in your stomach.
If Vi really has liked you for as long as she said, there’s nothing to worry about. But nervous thoughts rattle around in your head regardless.
The throbbing in the back of your skull sharpens.
You groan and flop back onto your bed, head falling dangerously close to your pillow. Maybe you could close your eyes, just for a moment.
Then, there’s a knock at the door. You check your phone – there are still twenty minutes before Vi was supposed to show up.
Another knock, more tentative this time.
You open the door, and standing on your welcome mat is Vi, holding a bouquet of roses. A full dozen. If it’s possible, your face goes hotter.
Before you can get anything out, ask her what she’s doing here, she interrupts you. “Sorry, I know I’m early, I just–” Vi stops mid-sentence. “Are you okay?”
Great to have confirmation you look as bad as you feel.
You swallow, and it hurts. “I’m sorry, I was about to text you. I think I’m sick.”
She takes you in, from your fuzzy slippers to your unwashed hair. “Yeah, I can see that.”
You expect her to hand over the flowers, wish you well, and head down the stairs. Instead, she shrugs off her jacket and steps inside. You move aside for her without thinking. It’s not until she’s toeing off her boots that you realize what she’s doing.
You protest immediately. “You should go, I’m gonna get you sick.” Your voice is cheese-grater rough, and getting fainter with each use. You waste another few precious words to warn her, “You don’t want to catch this. It’s really bad.”
She wanders into your kitchen. “If it’s so bad I can’t just leave you here. You got tea?”
She opens a cabinet at random, and you should be more concerned by this flagrant invasion of privacy, but instead you have to fight very hard not to swoon.
“I can make some myself,” you insist. You’re undermined by the coughing fit your words trigger. Vi’s gaze softens and she takes a step closer.
You step back instinctively, a hand held up in warning.
She takes another step, hands resting on your shoulders. “I have a strong immune system, I promise. Just point to the right cabinet and then go lie down.”
Not the way you had hoped she’d be getting you into bed. What an inauspicious start to your relationship. Not that you were even in a relationship yet, not officially.
You waddle to your bedroom and flop down onto the sheets, not even bothering to get under the covers. That’s how Vi finds you. She coaxes you, like a stray dog she’s found, under the duvet. Then she leaves again, turning off the lights on her way out.
She re-enters your cool, dark room, with a cup of tea and your largest mixing bowl. “In case you hurl,” she says. It’s thoughtful, and a little gross.
She hesitates by the doorway. “I’ll hang out here for a minute, okay?”
You don’t answer her question. Instead, you ask, “Does this count as our first date?”.
She pauses for a moment, hand smoothing some imagined crease in her shirt. “I think we can do a little better than this.” Her grin is crooked, and, if your feverish mind isn’t deceiving you, she looks a little nervous.
Your head feels too heavy now to raise it off the pillow. “Oh, okay.” You don’t say anything else.
She inches a little closer at that. “Why, you don’t think so?”
You shrug a shoulder, unsure if she can make the motion out from under the covers. “I just don’t want to jinx things.”
Vi winces.
You run the sentence over again in your mind. “Sorry, did I say something?”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re good. I should let you rest. I’ll be in the living room, okay?” She winks, closes the door behind her, and you let yourself fall, finally, into sleep.
You wake up to Vi’s fingers smoothing your brow. When your eyes flicker open, you see her staring from where she’s hovering over you, the concern plain on her face.
“Hey, there you are.” The corner of her lip tugs. “Sorry for waking you, you seemed like you were having a bad dream.”
You were, now that she’s mentioned it. A dream you’ve had a thousand times. It always goes a little like this: you come home from work, exhausted. You drop your keys in the dish by the door, leave your coat in the closet. You patter over to the bedroom door and open it to see your girlfriend tangled up with a leggy blond she promised a thousand times was just a friend.
But this time it wasn’t Bianca you caught. It was Vi.
And you don’t know how to explain this to her. So instead, you just shrug when she asks you what the dream was about.
Soon after you wake up, she has to leave – she has “a thing”. Part of you wonders exactly what kind of thing it is, who it’s with. You try to beat that part of you into submission. You’re not a couple, not yet, and you never will be if you smother her or get jealous of phantoms. You manage not to ask until you see her in person next, at your shift at The Last Drop.
“Yeah, a friend of mine asked me to come to this rally.” The answer comes easily, while she’s polishing a glass.
You choke down the burning question – what kind of friend, exactly? – and instead change the subject to your next date, which Vi insisted wait until you were feeling a hundred percent better, which was an admirable show of concern for you – or was it an attempt to put the date off as long as possible?
Something in your expression must have given itself away, because Vi catches you by the wrist.
“Is everything okay with you?” Her brows furrow when she asks, and she seems so earnest. But so did Bianca, up until the end. Maybe Vi is fooling you just as easily.
You shake the thought away. That’s not fair to Vi. And it’s not fair to yourself. There were signs, in retrospect. Everything is clearer through the rearview mirror. But you wanted to believe Bianca because you loved her. And wanting to see the best in someone doesn’t make you stupid. At least, you hope not.
Vi calls your name out, and you realize you never answered her question.
“Yeah, everything’s great.” You smile at her. It is, isn’t it? You have a good job, good friends, a girl you like – one who likes you back.
Vi seems unconvinced. “Because if you’re having second thoughts–”
You don’t get to know exactly what Vi was planning to say next, because you kiss her. It just feels right. And with her lips against yours, all you can think about is Vi. Not the ways this could go wrong, not the secrets she might be keeping from you. Just her.
i tagged everyone who asked to be tagged on the original, lmk if you want off this list! alternatively, lmk if you want to be tagged in future chapters
I genuinely think I’ve read every single one of your vi fics I can’t get enough I need MORE
This might be a weird request but can you maybe write an experienced!vi x virgin!reader who never learned how to properly touch themself and vi teaches them how 🫣 this is my first ever request starting off a little strong lmao
the great inbox cleanout of 2k26
+18, mdni; vi-shaped and all that jazz
"just like that..."
"mm -- ngh -- ah --"
"shh... you're doing so good for me, hm?" vi's voice is ground low in her chest, her breath shallow; she feels slightly insane like this, perched on the edge of your bed, watching as you run your fingers through your dripping cunt, her voice guiding you through it all like --
"v-vi -- please --"
what she would've done to hear you begging like this a month ago, when she was daydreaming about fucking you into the mattress, only to find out (via one drunken night) that you're a virgin and hadn't even really ever learned to touch yourself it.
she'd offered before she could stop herself, the scorching prickle of shame and arousal inching up her spine even as she held her breath, waiting for you to respond.
she didn't think there could be anything hotter than watching you flush then, your breath catching before you give her a tiny, nervous nod.
but now, seeing you like this, twitching and whining (and she hasn't even touched you yet -- but that was kind of the point, wasn't it?), she thinks that this is probably the hottest thing she's ever seen.
she's not gonna survive fucking you. really. if you let her.
and really. she can't see why you wouldn't. not when it looks like she could get you to agree to anything like this --
"please vi -- i -- i can't --"
"you're doing so good, pretty girl..." she murmurs, leaning down despite herself, her lip twitching up as she whispers against the lobe of your hear, the scent of you making her head spin, "gonna show me how much prettier you are when you cum for me?"
"mmngh -- !!!"
and that's it -- she pulls back just far enough to watch you tip over the edge, watch as the spasms work through your body, a wave of tiny electric pulses, the rise of gooseflesh along your skin, the way your head tilts back into the plush of your pillow.
"fuck --" she breathes, watching, watching, her eyes so dark in the waning light, the pale ice of her irises nearly eclipsed by the black of her pupils. she hasn't been this turned on in... ever, she thinks.
"s-sorry..." you blink, lashes fluttering. vi groans, letting her head drop into the sheets next to your shoulder.
"don't," she says, helpless.
"don't... what?"
vi sighs, "don't... say it like that --"
"like... what?"
you let out the tiniest whimper as you tug your sticky fingers from between your legs, pursing your lips. vi looks up before reaching out with slow hands to take your wrists.
"like you haven't had enough," she says, leaning in to suck a finger into her mouth, groaning as she does, "like," she moves to another finger, "you want me," and another, "to do that to you," another, "all over again."
Dogs serve as a kind of virtue eater for Americans to pour all of their kindness into without the risk of improving society or being nice to someone with any agency
