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──𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍;

(college roommates!vi x reader): you've been doing a really good job and avoiding vi and the confrontation of your own feelings, but not for too long.

PART ONE HERE!

wc: 4.9k | cw: kinda mean!reader, fingering (r!receiving), orgasm denial, getting together, tonally the same as part one so, cocky!vi, lots of banter, MINORS DNI.

note: i have toiled for many hours to bring you the long-awaited part two (requested specifically by: @urbanshadow, @peskylez, @zriyyyy-blog, @bonemarrowstew & @meow4510) enjoy ur meal!

You and Vi did not, in fact, fuck upon returning to your dorm room.

In fact, you’ve spent the better part of a week doing your most convincing impression of a ghost. You’ve made yourself into a shadow. Quiet, barely there, and absolutely impossible to pin down. Because simply put: you can’t fuck Vi.

You live with her.

And if it goes wrong—and it will, because these things always do—you’ll be stuck in it. Stuck in the aftermath. The weird, quiet mornings. The awkward tension. The casual mentions of a new girl. There’s a level of vulnerability that comes with going all the way, and you don’t want to hand that over to Vi. Not her. Not when you’re still not even sure you like her.

You didn’t even like her before she fingered you in the back of her truck.

And now? Well…it’s still up in the air. Let’s go with that. That feels safer than the alternative.

Because you know about Vi’s habits whether you wanted to or not. Everyone does. She’s incredibly well-known around campus. Not because she tries to be, but because people talk. People always talk. She’s the captain of the soccer team, she’s loud, she's hot, and she leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake like it’s nothing.

Vi likes the game. She likes the flirting, the tension, the slow unravel. She likes making girls fall apart for her. She’s a professional at it.

And once she gets what she wants, she lets go. Just like that.

The difference between you and every other girl she’s tossed behind her? You still have to live with her. You still have to brush your teeth in the same tiny bathroom. You still have to see her half-naked in a towel when she gets back from a shower, hair wet and dripping, skin glowing under shitty dorm lighting.

There’s no version of this where you come out unscathed.

You’re painfully sure that Vi is good at sex. Probably great at it. The kind of great that ruins you for other people. And you honestly can’t think of anything worse than having the best sex of your life only to get booted from the starting lineup the next day. Still having to see her in your room. Still hearing her laugh through your headphones. Still watching her bring some new girl around, all smiles and easy charm, while you're sitting there remembering what could be yours.

So, no. You haven’t talked to her.

Avoiding her’s been surprisingly easy. Vi’s schedule is relentless—practice, classes, social shit you can’t keep track of. She’s not exactly glued to your side to begin with. She’s busy, and you’ve taken full advantage. You’ve created a little routine. A survival plan. Pack up your laptop, disappear to the farthest corner of the library, and stay there until long after the sun’s down. You don’t come back to the dorm until you’re sure she’s asleep. Some nights, you find her knocked out across her bed, one leg kicked over the edge, mouth open in nothing but her sports bra. Other nights, the room is blissfully empty.

You’ve passed each other a few times. In the kitchen. In the hallway. In the doorway, side-stepping each other like strangers in a tight space.

Like ships in the night.

Vi hasn’t pushed. She hasn’t tried to chase you down or demand an explanation. She hasn’t cornered you in the room or forced a confrontation. She just…lets you play whatever little game you’re playing. Or maybe she thinks she’s the one playing.

You’re half-asleep on your bed, laptop open, cursor blinking on a blank document that hasn’t changed in two hours, when your phone starts buzzing beside you. You blink down at the screen and see your friend’s name.

You consider ignoring it. You already know what they want.

Still, you sigh and swipe to answer. “Hey.”

“You’re coming tonight.”

There’s no preamble. No hello. Just a declaration.

You frown. “What?”

“The party at Kappa Sig. Everyone’s going. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

You shift, already shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m not really feeling it.”

There’s a dramatic groan on the other end. “You never feel it. All you do lately is ghost me and rot. I swear to god, if you keep hiding out like this you’re gonna forget how to speak to actual human beings.”

“I talk to people,” you say, weakly.

“Your laptop doesn’t count.”

You rub a hand over your face. “I just don’t know if I’m up for a whole thing.”

“Well, tough shit. You need to get out. I love you, but you are one bad day away from turning into a cryptid. Go shower, put on something slutty, and come drink with me.”

You open your mouth to argue again but you can’t. Because they’re right. You’re restless. Cooped up. You’ve been avoiding Vi so hard it’s turned your whole life into one long detour. Maybe going out, getting drunk, being around noise and people and anything else will shake something loose.

“…Fine,” you mutter.

“Yes! I’ll text you the address. Don’t bail. I swear to god.”

Forty-five minutes later, you’re in the back of an Uber, nervously tugging at the hem of your skirt. The house comes into view a block away—already loud, already packed. Bass vibrates through the ground as people swarm the front lawn, red cups in hand, someone sitting on the roof with a blunt and shouting down at the crowd like a prophet.

You thank the driver and step out, immediately hit with the smell of weed, beer, and something grilling. Surely, drunk people handling open flame can’t be a good idea. There are at least fifty people milling around outside, and the inside looks worse.

You pull your phone out and text:

where are you

Then you square your shoulders and head in.

It’s loud. Hot. Bodies everywhere, grinding in time to a beat you can’t even hear properly over the roar of voices. Someone offers you a jello shot in passing. Another guy bumps into your shoulder, mumbles a half-assed apology, then keeps moving. You duck through the crowd, trying not to trip over the discarded beer cans and crushed Solo cups.

You make a beeline for the kitchen. You’re not surviving this without at least one drink. Or, several.

There’s a half-stocked table with a plastic bottle of vodka, two mixers, and a tub of something suspiciously blue. You reach for the vodka, grab a clean-ish cup, and start pouring. Your focus is entirely on not thinking about how sticky the counters are and whether this juice is warm when you hear:

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The voice cuts through the noise, smooth and unmistakable.

You freeze mid-pour.

Then slowly, you turn your head.

Vi is leaning in the doorway, solo cup in hand, tank top clinging to her chest like it was painted on, smirk lazy and eyes very, very focused on you.

“If you close your eyes right now, it’ll be like you didn’t,” you answer with a shrug. Vi doesn’t move from the doorway, just leans her shoulder against the frame, her gaze sliding down your body and back up like she’s sizing you up…and clearly liking what she sees.

You don’t rise to it. Not right away.

Instead, you turn back to your drink and finish pouring. “And why are you here, Violet?”

“I pretty much live here on the weekends,” she says, mouth already lifting into a grin. “What’s your excuse?”

You take a sip before answering. “Got dragged. Against my will.”

Vi pushes off the doorframe and starts walking into the kitchen. Too casually. Like she’s not closing the space between you on purpose. “Don’t look so miserable. You clean up nice.”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

“Wasn’t flirting,” she says, stopping just close enough that her voice cuts clean through the noise around you. “Just stating facts.”

You glare at her, annoyed at how easily she can slide back into this. How much she’s making you want to slip right back into it with her.

“I thought you were letting me play my little game,” you say dryly.

Vi’s mouth quirks up. “I was. But now you’re here. Looking hot. Making eyes at me.”

“Making eyes at you?” You scoff. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.” She raises her cup like a toast. “What can I say? I’m a dreamer.”

You narrow your eyes at her, the way she’s standing just a little too close. It’s definitely so you can hear each other better over the party. Definitely that. But it doesn’t help that she smells like sweat and smoke and whatever cologne it is that she wears, and she’s standing there with her stupid arms out, tattoos peeking past the edge of her tank top, grinning at you like you’re already halfway in her bed.

You hate her. You hate how good she looks right now.

“You’re exhausting,” you mutter.

Vi leans in, voice low. “You missed me.”

You roll your eyes. “I missed not hearing your voice.”

“Aw,” she says, cocking her head. “So you were thinking about me.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Just take another sip and shoot her a look that should tell her to back off.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts even closer, the edge of her cup tapping yours.

“You know,” Vi says, grin slow and smug, “you can keep pretending you don’t want me, but that act’s wearing real thin.”

You force yourself to meet her gaze, even if your heart is punching through your ribs. “And what if I don’t have to pretend?”

She raises a brow, clearly enjoying the hell out of this. “Then why are you still standing here? In my space. Drinking my shitty vodka. Looking like you want me to push you against the fridge?”

You scowl, because the worst part is that she’s not entirely wrong. You swallow hard and tilt your chin up. “Maybe I just came for the punch.”

“Sure.” Vi smiles, wide and slow. “Though, I’d prefer you come for me.”

You deadpan, not missing a beat. “That just gave me chills.”

She laughs, clearly unbothered. “Hot ones?”

“You really gotta work on your lines, Vi.”

She shrugs, still grinning like she’s winning. And she is—she’s got you pressed up against the counter, the edge biting into your lower back as she takes another slow step forward. Her arms come up, bracketing you on either side, palms flat against the cabinet behind you. It’s not quite trapping you, but it’s close.

Way too close.

You can smell the beer on her breath, the smoke in her hair, the clean hint of her soap still clinging under the sweat and party haze. Your eyes flick up to hers and she's looking at you like you’re already undressed. Like she’s just waiting for you to fold.

She leans in, just slightly, and you freeze.

The noise of the party dims in your head, like it’s been pushed underwater. All you can hear is your own breathing. Hers. The way the air shifts between your mouths as she tilts her head and lowers it, the way her eyes drop to your lips for just a second too long.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re not sure if you want to close the distance or if you’re just waiting for her to do it for you. Her mouth brushes yours just barely. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just heat.

And you know you’re not going to pull away. You know you’re about to be making out with Vi in the middle of a party, entirely sober and of sound mind. So much for restraint.

But then, before anything else can happen, a fresh wave of people bursts into the kitchen. Loud, laughing, drunk and jostling. The door slams against the wall, someone yells something about shots, and then—

“Ayo!” someone shouts. “Vi, hell yeah, gettin’ some tonight!”

A chorus of cheers and whistles follows, all directed at the two of you.

Vi doesn’t react much. She just sighs, still too close, jaw tight like she’s annoyed but not surprised.

You, on the other hand, snap right back into reality.

Your body goes cold. Whatever haze you were in clears like a slap to the face. You duck under her arm without thinking, pushing past her hard enough that she takes a step back.

“Hey—” she starts, reaching after you.

But you’re already walking away, cup abandoned on the counter, heart hammering against your ribs. You pull out your phone with shaky hands and shoot off a text to your friend.

stomach’s fucked. heading out early. sorry

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re already pushing through the front door, the throb of the party behind you fading into the night air. Thankfully, most of the people milling about outside have retreated inside, probably to escape the chill. Cool, damp, quiet. You’re barely halfway down the front walk, your arms folded tight across your chest and your heart trying to punch through your ribs, when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Vi,” you groan, not stopping. “Seriously. What is your problem?”

“Problem?” she echoes, a little breathless as she catches up. “Jesus. You make it sound like I’m stalking you.”

“You are stalking me.”

“Correction,” she says, matching your pace like it’s no big deal. “I’m confronting my emotionally constipated roommate. Totally different thing.”

You stop walking.

Turn.

Cross your arms tighter, like it’ll protect you from the pull of her. “Why, Vi? What’s your deal?”

She raises a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

You gesture between you. “This. Me. Whatever this game is you’re playing. I’m not interested in a one-night stand that turns into six months of dodging you in my own dorm. So if that’s what you’re after, save us both the time.”

Vi doesn’t answer right away. Her grin fades. Her hands slip into the back pockets of her jeans and she shifts her weight like she’s thinking, or maybe just trying not to say the wrong thing. “I feel like you’re doing that right now and we haven’t even done the hooking up part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Hate to break it to you, Firecracker, but I know that you’ve been holding up in the library for hours on end just to avoid me. I’m not stupid which I’m sure is a surprise to you.” She’s looking incredibly amused now.

You sigh, running your hand across your forehead. “Because I didn’t want to have this conversation. Fun fact, this is deeply uncomfortable for me and maybe it would be easier if I was a hundred percent on saying no, but I’m not.”

“Then don’t say no.” she says. Like it’s simple.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself once more. Maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself to leave them free; you don’t trust yourself to not reach out for her when she’s this close. It’s sickening.

“Vi, as much as I would love to have irresponsible, casual sex—”

“You’re not casual to me. That’s the problem.”

You scoff, but it’s weak. “Vi…”

“I haven’t been able to come,” she cuts in, “without thinking about the sounds you made in my truck. Can’t get you out of my head, if I’m honest. I was trying to do the right thing, letting you have your space and shit but I see you’re the spiraling type. So, maybe that wasn’t the best idea.”

That shuts you up.

You narrow your eyes. “So that’s it? That’s the difference? I made hotter noises than the rest of your rotation?”

Vi groans and steps forward, hands lifting in defeat. Then they’re sliding low to wrap around your waist and pulling you close enough that your hips are pressed together. You’re so fucked.

“No,” she says, voice low now. Honest. “It’s the way you look at me like I’m an idiot and you’re a little bit into it. The way you study until your eyes are bloodshot and you look up at me with that dumb, sleepy look when I tell you to take a break. It’s the fact that you’re mean to me and I think it’s hot as fuck. You’re clever, and sharp, and so fucking pretty when you’re pissed off, and I think about you all the time.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

“And yeah,” Vi adds, a little breathless now, “I would really like to fuck you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and sweet and dangerous.

You arch a brow, trying not to let your pulse show. “Did you drive here?”

Vi’s lips curl up, sharp and smug. “Yup. No drinks for me. Got a game tomorrow.”

You hesitate just a beat longer, then sigh like it’s a huge inconvenience. “Then take me home.”

Vi grins, all teeth and hunger, and slides a hand up to the small of your back.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She leads you down the sidewalk, hand warm and steady against your spine, toward her truck.

—

Any reservations you had melt the second Vi kicks your door shut behind the two of you. The sound echoes through the room, heavy and final.

Then she’s on you, pressing forward like she’s been holding herself back for weeks, like she’s afraid you might vanish again if she doesn’t act fast. Her mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s rough and hungry, all teeth and breath and the kind of heat that catches in your throat..

It’s a heady, dizzying realization: that Vi wants you. Not just because she said so, but in the way her hands grip your waist like she’s grounding herself, in the way she kisses you like she's trying to memorize the taste of you.

You let her back you up until your spine bumps against the door. One of your hands slides up into her hair, fingers twisting in those short, soft strands to keep her close. You tug gently, and she groans against your mouth.

She pulls back just enough to say, breathless, “You ever gonna tell me you want me?”

You raise a brow, lips already swollen from the kiss. “And feed your ego? I think not.”

Vi grins, sharp and wolfish. “I’m sure I could get it out of you,” she murmurs, dropping her voice just enough to send a thrill down your spine.Then she presses her thigh between your legs—right up against the seam of your pants—and pushes.

You suck in a breath. Or try to.

Your hips move on instinct, grinding your cunt against the thick muscle of her leg before you can even think twice. The friction is blunt and perfect, not nearly enough, but more than enough to send a pathetic sound crawling up your throat.

You don’t let it out. Instead, you lurch forward, crashing your mouth against hers like you can drown the need with another kiss.

Vi makes a low, pleased noise into your mouth, her hand sliding up to cup the base of your throat.She angles your head with practiced ease, deepening the kiss until you’re melting against her, toes curling inside your shoes.

There’s no time for shame. No room for embarrassment over how quickly your body responds to hers because her hands are already sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms hot against your bare skin.

Vi’s breath catches.

“Oh,” she says, lips brushing your cheek now, a giddy little laugh following. “Nice.”

Her fingers find your breasts without hesitation, palms cupping them with the kind of eager, greedy affection that makes your knees go a little weak. She squeezes once, then again—slow and deliberate—and her grin returns, sloppier this time, more pleased with herself than ever.

“Missed these guys,” she mutters, voice rough, tongue flicking against the corner of your mouth before she kisses you again.

“Missed you.”

“Of course you did,” you manage, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice is a little too breathy and your brain’s already starting to get soft around the edges. Vi just hums, clearly unbothered by your sarcasm. She tugs your shirt up, bunching it just below your collarbone, and then nudges it toward your mouth.

“Bite,” she says, voice low and commanding, like a challenge.

You don’t even hesitate. You take the fabric between your teeth and hold it there, your hands dropping to her shoulders for balance as Vi drops her head.

Then her mouth closes around your nipple, hot and wet and just a little bit teasing.

Vi hums against your nipple, mouth warm and lazy, tongue flicking just to the point of unbearable. Her hands stay fixed around your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin there like she’s savoring it, like she’s still deciding what to do with all of you. And just when you think you might actually lose it, just when your hips start moving against her thigh again with zero thought behind it—

She pulls away.

You whine, quiet and involuntary.

She leans back enough to take in the sight of you—your shirt still tugged between your teeth, flushed chest rising and falling quick, legs tense and shifting where they wrap around her.

“Well,” Vi says, voice rough but teasing, “we should probably take these off before one of us catches fire.”

You drop the fabric from your mouth, blinking down at her. “You first.” But you’re already pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it in the general direction of your hamper.

Vi grins. “Don’t tempt me.”

But she steps back, hands finding the waistband of your pants. “Gotta hold yourself up for a sec, baby,” she murmurs, and you do. Just long enough for her to tug your pants and underwear down your legs, dragging her fingers along your thighs like she’s memorizing every inch. She doesn’t even look away as she tosses the clothes to the floor.

She straightens, chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, “Yours or mine?”

You glance between the beds.

And then you lie down on hers.

If it has something to do with wanting to be the last thing she thinks about when she’s falling asleep? When she’s lying here alone? That’s your business.

Vi whistles low under her breath. “Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Vi. Get naked, now.”

She peels her shirt off without another word, revealing toned shoulders, strong arms, and a sports bra she makes quick work of. Her jeans follow in one fluid motion. She kicks everything to the floor with zero shame and climbs into the bed after you.

She’s on you again in an instant. Mouth back on yours, tongue slipping past your lips without hesitation. Her hands roam now, sliding down your sides, gripping your thigh, cupping your ass. You let yourself melt into her touch, arching up into her touch, matching her kiss with everything you’ve been holding back for far too long.

You shift, pushing her onto her back with a hand on her chest. She grunts, clearly loving the change in pace, and you swing your leg over to straddle her. Her hands immediately slide to your hips, holding you in place.

You lean down, kissing her harder now, hungrier.

She’s warm beneath you, all smooth skin and flexing muscle, and your hands roam greedily—chest, ribs, stomach, the curve of her waist. You press your forehead to hers for a breath, and her eyes search yours like she’s trying to read your mind.

Then you roll your hips down.

The drag of your wet cunt against hers makes you both gasp.

Vi groans, head tipping back into the pillow. “Oh fuck.”

The contact is sharp and blinding. Slick, hot, all pressure and friction and not nearly enough. You shift again, hips rocking, trying to find a rhythm. Her hands fly back to your waist, guiding you, grinding up into you like she needs it just as bad.

You’re both panting now, sweat slick on skin, muscles straining as your hips grind together. Every slow drag of your cunt against Vi’s has your nerves sparking, your legs starting to shake from the effort of holding back. She feels so good beneath you—warm, wet, the swell of her thighs flexing between yours as she meets every roll of your hips with a thrust of her own.

Vi’s got her head tipped back, throat exposed, mouth open like she’s about to start praying. One hand stays locked on your waist, but the other comes up to your breast, squeezing, teasing, the pad of her thumb flicking lazily over your nipple.

“You look perfect,” she groans, voice ragged. “Riding me so pretty. You needed this?”

“Fuck,” is your breathless reply.

Every grind sends heat coiling lower in your gut, building pressure with every slick, perfect stroke of skin against skin. The contact is raw, messy, exactly what you didn’t know you needed. You gasp as your clits slide against one another in a perfect glide, adding just enough pressure to tip you over.

“Vi—” The sound is punched out and whiny.

She hears the edge in your voice. Smirks. “Yeah, baby? You close?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as your movements grow erratic. “Fuck—fuck, I—”

“Go ahead,” she breathes, clearly on edge herself. “Come for me, baby.”

The orgasm rips through you fast and hot, spine arching, hands bracing against her chest as you cry out. Your thighs tremble around her hips, and you collapse forward with a choked moan, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

Vi holds you through it, grinding up into you a couple more times, groaning and panting into the shell of your ear. It’s enough to have your sensitive clit throbbing against hers. She comes, squeezing you closer, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, Vi pepping small, wet kisses into the curve of your neck. Then, she’s shifting, sitting up.

With surprising gentleness, she lifts you just enough to slide her body down and reposition you over her lap. You blink down at her, confused, still high from release. Your legs end up on either side of her waist, your cunt spread open against the soft line of her abs and your back still lying on the bed.

“Relax,” she says, grinning down at you like the devil she is. “Keep these open for me?” She asks, tapping your thigh until you fully let your legs fall open. Her hands slide between your legs, thumbs teasing at your folds. It’s soft at first, slow, just gliding over your overstimulated skin. You whimper, twitching.

“You’re alright,” she soothes, fingers spreading your cunt wider so she can really look. “You don’t have to be quiet here. Let me hear those noises. It’s cute.”

She circles your clit once, deliberately light, and you jolt. “Still sensitive,” she muses, and then without warning, sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp, loud and raw, hips bucking forward as your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets below you. Vi moves slowly at first, just enough to keep you hovering on the edge. Her fingers curl slightly, seeking, probing, and when she finds that sweet spot inside you, you swear you see stars.

“Fuck! Vi.”

Her pace picks up. Still steady, but firmer now. Focused. She knows exactly what she’s doing, every thrust angled perfectly to make your whole body sing. Your breath quickens again, pleasure winding you tighter with every stroke.

But just when it starts to crest, she pulls back. Just a little. Not enough to let you fall, not enough to let you come.

You groan, half in frustration. “What the fuck?” You try to fuck yourself on her fingers only to feel her pull further back, forcing you to take exactly what she chooses to give you. “You know what I wanna hear,” she murmurs, fingers still moving, just barely. “Say it.”

Your head tips back. You’re too close, too wrung out to play her games. “What are you talking about?” You whine, trying to clench your legs together to chase some form of relief. Vi makes a disapproving noise and holds your leg open with her free hand.

“Tell me you want this,” she says, voice low and teasing, her other hand sliding up to cup your breast again. “Tell me it feels good.”

You clench around her fingers involuntarily, body betraying your pride.

“Tell me you want me.”

Your breath hitches, chest heaving.

You’re already so close. You can feel it building again, that second wave, just out of reach.

“I—” you pant. “I want this. I want you. It feels…fuck you, it feels so good.”

Vi grins. It’s slow. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“That’s my girl.”

When she starts up again this time, she quickly builds speed. She fucks her fingers into you until your back is arching from the bed. Then, she’s sliding her hand from your thigh to slide her thumb across your clit. You don’t last long after that.

This orgasm hits you even harder. Your whole body locks, thighs trembling, mouth open on a soundless cry as your cunt clamps down around her fingers. She fucks you through it, lips brushing your jaw, murmuring praise until you slump forward, boneless and gasping.

Vi leans down to plant a kiss above your clit before pulling you up and against her side.The two of you remain cuddled together in her bed until the following morning. When Vi wakes up, she takes one look at you, smiles like an idiot and spends enough time kissing you that she’s late for her first class.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when you get a text from her, insisting that you come to her game later. Naturally, you tell her that you’ll be there.

#𓆩♡𓆪 ─ blue is typing... .ᐟ #vi x reader #lesbian #arcane smut #arcane fanfic #vi x you #vi arcane #college vi #vi smut #IM FREE #do not ask me about no part 3