Summary: Rhea Ripley finally made your relationship public with a single, powerful post, but not everyone took it well.
The backstage hallways buzzed with high energy, wrestlers rushing past in full gear, production staff barking directions through headsets.
You didn’t belong here, not really.
You stood just beyond the chaos, leaning against the catering table with your lanyard around your neck and your phone in your hand, waiting for Rhea to finish her post-match cooldown.
Your chest fluttered as you scrolled past her post from earlier that day.
A grainy photo, clearly taken from bed, where your head was buried under her chin and her arm was draped over your bare waist.
The caption was simple: She’s mine.
Just two words, and yet it had blown up in less than an hour. Thousands of likes. Comments range from joyful to vile.
You didn’t regret letting her post it.
You loved her. You were proud of her. But a tickle of unease still filled your thoughts.
You turned a corner to get some air, near the less crowded loading bay. The sound of boots echoed behind you.
Then, voices, low and muttering.
You barely had time to look up.
Three women were suddenly around you. One wore a Judgement Day shirt, face flushed with fury. Another held her phone like she was recording.
“You think you’re good enough for her?” the leader spat. “Think she’d really want someone like you?”
You backed up, heart hammering, voice caught in your throat. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late,” one of them growled.
The first shove knocked you against a metal case. Hurting your shoulder. Another hand caught your wrist, nails digging into your skin.
You cried out, struggling but there were too many hands, too much anger. You didn’t even register the moment they stopped filming.
Didn’t see the moment someone finally turned the corner.
Only heard the voice.
“What the fuck is going on?!”
It was Josh, one of the lighting crew.
You didn’t even realise you’d collapsed until you saw his sneakers beside your head. The girls scattered before he could grab them, like cockroaches in a spotlight.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Josh said, already on his knees. “You’re alright now, I’ve got you.”
Your vision blurred as panic filled your body.
Somewhere in the mess, he called for security. Called for medical. Called for her.
It took less than five minutes before you heard the stomping. Then came the scream.
“Where the hell is she?”
Rhea’s boots pounded against the concrete as she skidded into view, black lipstick smudged, eyes wide and wild.
When she saw you, her face shattered.
She dropped to her knees beside you, not caring who was watching.
“Baby,” she breathed, touching your face with shaking fingers. “I’m here. I’m here, you’re safe.”
You whimpered and curled into her chest. You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but she cradled you like she was made to do nothing else.
“They got in because of me,” you managed to whisper. “They hurt me because of you.”
Her arms tightened around you like steel. “No. They hurt you because they’re sick in the head. Don’t you ever blame yourself for that.”
“But if you hadn’t-”
“If I hadn’t posted it?” Her voice cracked. “I wanted to show the world who I love. You. If they can’t take that, then I’ll show them what happens when they touch what’s mine.”
The raw possessiveness in her voice should’ve scared you. But instead, it made you feel safe. Like no one would ever get near you again.
Later, at the hotel, she bandaged your wrist herself. Sat you on the edge of the bed and wiped away the dried blood from your lip with the same fingers that had just punched a locker backstage in fury.
“I should’ve been here,” she whispered.
“You got here,” you said softly. “You always do.”
She kissed your forehead, lips lingering as if trying to breathe you back together.
From that night on, she never left you backstage alone again. Not once. She held your hand on the walk-in.
She watched every corner. She made damn sure the world knew, Rhea Ripley wasn’t just someone’s fantasy.
police ! abby . dom ! abby . sub ! reader . fingering (r) . mentions of oral . smut. public sex. outdoor sex. teasing . tension . weed usage (r) . sober sex . a pinch of spanking . mdni. word count: 2.5k
based off of this!
the late hours of the night surged in, casting a dim glow over the night sky. it was peaceful, comfortable, busying yourself by singing your heart out to some 90’s band on the radio. you took another hit from your rose-wrapped joint, an aroma of marijuana filling the car with each puff, every inhale sending a wave of simplicity over you. it was going great, you didn’t have much to worry about besides choosing what to cure your craving for food, and also the fact you were going a little over the speed limit with a broken tail light.
you kept telling yourself you were going to get it fixed, that you just had a lot on your plate and it’ll get done soon. but just as any other task, it ends up getting procrastinated and becoming a bigger problem much sooner than later. you figured it wouldn’t be an issue tonight. no one would be patrolling the streets this late, or so you thought.
a few moments pass until you hear the wail of sirens. undeniably, police sirens. you didn’t think much of it, assuming it was for some other reckless driver. but you realize, there’s nobody on this road, matter of fact, it’s a one-way narrow road, leading you to an inevitable outcome.
you slow down your car, and start mentally preparing yourself for the interrogation. you’ve always had a knack for sweet-talking and batting those lashes of yours to get anything you want, so you figured this wouldn’t be too painful. this also wasn’t your first encounter with the law, but you were always able to get let off the hook– thanks to those charismatic skills.
a small tap echoes from your window, prompting you to roll it down. you’re expected to meet some lousy, off-putting cop who reeks of grease and coffee breath, but you’re not. in fact she was quite the opposite.
“license and registration, ma’am.” there was a pause before she used the mannerism, tilting her shades down to get a good look at you. a small smirk stretches across her face, which doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
“of course, officer.” you drag out the last word, your voice having an undertone of something sultry, reaching over in your glovebox and pulling out the identification. you hand over the items, making sure to push your upper arm towards your chest, in hopes of distracting the police woman.
she glances at you, and walks back towards her car. unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a reaction on her face, she just kept the same look of furrowed brows and a sly smirk. a part of your mind scrambles for a bit, most people would’ve given into the seducing tone and the alluring eyes, but not her. she was willing to play the long game, and you happened to be the number one winner.
after some time, you hear the heavy footfalls again, signifying she’s returned. something’s different though, she seems more relaxed and calm, like that cold front she had was just a part of her uniform. “you were doing 50 in 40 zone.” she states calmly, resting her forearm on your window. it’s only then you get a really good look at her. “should’ve known better, darlin’.”
“i know, i’m sorry.” you pout, giving her those irresistible puppy-dog eyes. “it’s just so dark outside, i couldn’t see the signs that well.” lie. you could see those yellow ‘speed limit 40’ signs clearly, but she didn’t need to know that.
she hums in response, looking away before returning her gaze to you. “y’know, that tail light of yours is out too. lucky i ain’t givin’ you a ticket for it.” you hear her southern twang come out, and it brings a soft smile to your lips.
“yes, i’m so very grateful officer,” your words trail off, looking at her badge for a name. abigail. “officer abigail. is there any way i can repay you?”
abby huffs out a laugh, her tongue poking in her cheek. “you’re trouble, ain’t ya?”
“only the good kind.”
it’s silent for a couple of beats, and you think you got her. wrapped around your finger, and willing to let you go for making a simple mistake, and she might actually consider it. until she starts sniffing, and you remember just cause you sobered up, doesn’t mean your car did. her eyes flicker from you to the interior of the car to you again. you weren’t displaying symptoms of being intoxicated, but the smell was all she needed to know.
in an instant, you felt the world around you begin to crumble with just five words. “step out of the car.”
you obey her commands, steadily unbuckling your seatbelt and opening your car door. with one foot in front of the other, you step outside of the vehicle and face her. it’s only then you realize how much of the upper hand she has against you. her frame was well built and muscular, biceps nearly breaking through her black button up. her height was no different, your head barely passes her shoulder.
her feet take a few steps closer to you, your heartbeat speeding up at each step. the two of you are face to face, her blonde baby hairs slightly falling forward when she angles her head down. “i’m gonna need to pat you down, so put your hands on the car.” her head gestures to the vehicle, as if you didn’t know where your own car was. you would’ve scoffed at the act if it wasn’t for the innocent persona you’re putting on.
you comply, turning around with your hands rested on the roof of your vehicle. her hands fall onto your forearm, nearly engulfing the flesh. you watch her move from one arm to the other, her veins prominent with each movement. her hands move to the collar of your shirt, then up to your hair giving it gentle but firm pats.
you feel her hands move down to your back, changing from the patting pattern to an up and down brushing motion. it’s only when you feel her touch against your waist something in the air shifts.
“what were you thinking carrying ‘round that kind of stuff?” her voice is low and gruff, the gust of wind from her mouth brushing against your ear.
“i, i don’t know. it’s just been such a long night and i needed a pain reliever.” you whine. honestly, the real ‘pain’ was just the unrelenting ache in your core, but again, she didn’t need to know that.
“is that so? what’s ailing ya?”
it takes you a bit to answer, drinking in the feeling of her hands resting on your waist. even if they were there for a short period of time, you still needed a way to get yourself out of this predicament. you lean against the car, back arching ever so slightly. it’s a small movement, but the way your hips move closer to her front doesn’t go unnoticed by abby.
“it’s my back, it’s been so, so tense.” you purr, bringing back that sultry, seductive tone. it was a shit lie, but you gotta do what you gotta do. “you wouldn’t mind me stretching it out, would you?” you don’t wait for an answer, already expanding your arms out on the roof of your car. your ass presses firm against her crotch, letting out a small moan in hopes of reeling her further into your spell.
she doesn’t say anything, and you don’t know whether to be scared or proud of your teasing. her eyes take in your figure, all splayed out for her. she brings a hand to your spine and trails down the expanse of your back. feeling her calloused palm glide over your tailbone and lead down to your ass, landing a firm smack! a yelp leaves your lips at the sharp sensation, it’s unexpected but very much welcomed.
“i don’t think you know what you’re playin’ with, sweetheart.” abby’s voice remains low, but there’s a hidden layer of desire behind it, a craving. it sends a buzz through you, wanting to explore the depth of her words.
“then show me.”
her hands fly to your hips, gripping them tight enough to leave marks, but she’s not moving. before you could come up with some teasing comment, she huffs. “are.. are you sure you want this? because when i fuck, i fuck hard, and i don’t wanna hurt a sweet thing like you.”
those words are enough to make you swoon like some lovesick fool. even though you committed a felony, she’s still worried for your safety, what a lady. “i need you, officer.” your head cranes back to look at her, giving those sweet, lustful eyes.
she sucks in air through her teeth, mumbling something but you didn’t catch it. you couldn’t care anyway, not when her foot kicks open your legs, and her thigh hits your cunt, giving you a surface to grind on. her thigh fits perfectly between your legs, the cotton material paired with her muscled flesh elicits small whines from you. your hips rock back and forth against it, the pleasure feeling muffled from the layers of clothing, but it’ll have to do for now.
her eyes follow the rhythmic pattern of your hips, watching them glide up and down her. along with the wet stop slowly starting to form from it. “shit, you’re soaking my pants, hun.” she groans, gripping the soft flesh of your waist as you work against her. “so desperate for me already, and i hadn’t even fucked you properly.”
you look back at her with half lidded eyes, lips pink and pouty. “please, need more.” your hips pick up pace, nearly rocking the car with the amount of force you’re using.
a breathy laugh leaves her throat at your eagerness. her hand sits on your hips firmly, halting your movements. “easy girl, i’ll give you what you need.” and she does. in one swift movement, your shorts pool at your feet, the breeze of the wind hitting your cunt. her finger drags over your slit, coating it in your slick. “so wet, darling. all of this for me?”
you barely get a squeak out before her middle finger plunges into you. the thickness of her stretches you out completely, a mixture of pleasure and pain swirling within you. she lets you adjust to the new feeling, curling her finger but not moving it.
“you okay?” she asks, and you respond with a hum. “good, baby. already taking me so well.” her finger moves slightly, letting half of it glide in and out of you. her other hand moves up your back and presses you further against the car, creating a deeper arch.
abby finds the perfect tempo to make you shudder. it’s slow and deliberate, the tip of her finger curling so it hits that spot inside of you everytime. your legs shake, nails digging into the palm of your hand as she hovers over you. her breath fans over the shell of your ear, voice dripping with amusement and desire.
“oh, sweetheart, you like this way too much, don’t you?” she teases, pulling her fingers out just to plunge back in, knuckles deep. “something ‘bout getting your pretty pussy split open on my fingers excites you?”
you let out a loud, whiny moan at her words, pushing yourself back on her hand and chasing the pleasure she’s giving you. she hums at your desperation, but she’s not content with it. the same hand that was pressing against your spine glides down to the globes of your ass. massaging and kneading the supple skin before landing a firm smack on it.
“don’t do that. you’re gonna take what i give you, yeah?” her voice stern and dripping with dominance. you nod weakly, a broken ‘yes’ leaving your lips as she thrusts into you. it’s ruthless, her fingers curl with precision like she’s done this a thousand times before. you whimper, your cheek pressing against the cool metal of your car, barely holding yourself up as abby fucks into you.
“that’s it, baby.” she coos, her voice low and syrupy. “look at you, makin’ a mess all over me.” the loud squelching sound of your cunt around her fingers makes her groan, relishing in the way your pussy greedily sucks her in. your walls clench down on her and it makes it harder for her to thrust into you, frustrated, her thumb finds your clit and rubs light circles on it.
“oh, fuck, abby–” the name leave your lips faster than you intended, resulting in a low growl from her.
“what was that?”
“officer, please, m’ sorry, officer.” you ramble, mind going blank as she eases another finger into you. the feeling of being stuffed full with her fingers is enough to send you over the edge. the dual sensation of her finger working into you and her thumb circling your clit makes your thighs shake. you can’t help it— the pleasure is overwhelming, consuming, building up so fast you don’t even have time to alert her.
your body jolts as your orgasm hits. a long, drawn out moan pouring into the squelches and groans between the two of you. your walls squeeze her fingers, and she groans at the feeling, her pace never faltering as she fucks you through it, making sure you feel every ounce of her. “such a good girl, cummin’ all over my fingers like that.”
the euphoric feeling washes over, replaced with overstimulation. her fingers never falter, keeping that same slow, deliberate pace. “t-too much,” you whimper, but she only smirks, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out and leaving you empty.
you barely get a second to recover before she flips you around, your back hitting the car. she sinks to the ground, her knees hitting the concrete as her hands wrap around the back of your thighs. her lips press against the flesh, nipping and licking at it. her eyes flicker up to your face, a smile creeping on her face at your fucked-out expression. “think you can give me one more, darlin’?”
your fingers tense at her shoulders, running through all of the worst-case scenarios in your mind, but there is none. your body still tingles from your last orgasm, legs barely able to work on their own. but when you see her muscles flex, those baby blue eyes peering up at you through her sunglasses, it’s impossible to say no. “yes, officer.” you whine, watching her lips hover over your core.
Erm… hey…. So uhhhhhh you should like totally do an Abby fic right right? BUT with like chubby reader sitting on her face BUT LIKE she’s insecure so Abby gotta convince her she’s hella fine and got nothing to worry about…. Anyways bye!
- Jay
for all of my chubby girls that are insecure, including me, abby absolutely loves bigger girls.
at first you believed it to be her just reassuring you due to your insecurities, but it became more and more prevalent that it was something more.
abby doesn’t care how you dress or what you wear; she just wants to see them off.
she wants to see your stretch marks that you seem to hate so much (she loves them, she thinks they look like tiger stripes).
she wants to see your stomach, and your thighs, that she can easily grab a hold of while she fucks you.
she loves all of your curves.
so, when she asked you— or practically begged you to sit on her face, of course you were a bit hesitant.
typically, your overthinking gets the best of you, and you end up saying a soft ‘maybe next time?’ while apologetically giving her a kiss.
but this time, she wasn’t taking a no for an answer.
she needed you on her face and she needed it now.
“baby, i know you’ve been nervous about it— and it seems super scary, but i really, really fucking need you to sit on my face.”
before you could protest, she continued,
“and— and i know you tell me know just because of your weight but i promise i can handle it. i want to handle it.”
hesitant at first, you decide to let her have this.
after some coaxing and praise, you were finally sat on the abby anderson’s face.
and fuck did it feel good.
her tongue immediately darts out to gently lick your clit, slowly, yet calculated. she already knew by the way your panties we’re clinging to your cunt that you were wet, but this? this is another level of wet.
“abs— don’t tease, ‘need it so fucking badly.”
and who was she to deny you? you were her girl, and whatever you wanted, she was there to deliver.
the quickening pace of her tongue across your cunt made it agonizingly easy to get you close. your hips moving on their own, grinding down on abby’s face, with a force that can only be described as desire.
you came with a soft gasp, moans spilling from your mouth. quickly coming to reality, you get off of her face to lay next to her.
you were too worried to even tell her how good you felt.
“was that’s okay? i didn’t hurt you did i?”
and of course— abby was there to soothe your anxieties.
Erm… hey…. So uhhhhhh you should like totally do an Abby fic right right? BUT with like chubby reader sitting on her face BUT LIKE she’s insecure so Abby gotta convince her she’s hella fine and got nothing to worry about…. Anyways bye!
- Jay
for all of my chubby girls that are insecure, including me, abby absolutely loves bigger girls.
at first you believed it to be her just reassuring you due to your insecurities, but it became more and more prevalent that it was something more.
abby doesn’t care how you dress or what you wear; she just wants to see them off.
she wants to see your stretch marks that you seem to hate so much (she loves them, she thinks they look like tiger stripes).
she wants to see your stomach, and your thighs, that she can easily grab a hold of while she fucks you.
she loves all of your curves.
so, when she asked you— or practically begged you to sit on her face, of course you were a bit hesitant.
typically, your overthinking gets the best of you, and you end up saying a soft ‘maybe next time?’ while apologetically giving her a kiss.
but this time, she wasn’t taking a no for an answer.
she needed you on her face and she needed it now.
“baby, i know you’ve been nervous about it— and it seems super scary, but i really, really fucking need you to sit on my face.”
before you could protest, she continued,
“and— and i know you tell me know just because of your weight but i promise i can handle it. i want to handle it.”
hesitant at first, you decide to let her have this.
after some coaxing and praise, you were finally sat on the abby anderson’s face.
and fuck did it feel good.
her tongue immediately darts out to gently lick your clit, slowly, yet calculated. she already knew by the way your panties we’re clinging to your cunt that you were wet, but this? this is another level of wet.
“abs— don’t tease, ‘need it so fucking badly.”
and who was she to deny you? you were her girl, and whatever you wanted, she was there to deliver.
the quickening pace of her tongue across your cunt made it agonizingly easy to get you close. your hips moving on their own, grinding down on abby’s face, with a force that can only be described as desire.
you came with a soft gasp, moans spilling from your mouth. quickly coming to reality, you get off of her face to lay next to her.
you were too worried to even tell her how good you felt.
“was that’s okay? i didn’t hurt you did i?”
and of course— abby was there to soothe your anxieties.
Erm… hey…. So uhhhhhh you should like totally do an Abby fic right right? BUT with like chubby reader sitting on her face BUT LIKE she’s insecure so Abby gotta convince her she’s hella fine and got nothing to worry about…. Anyways bye!
- Jay
for all of my chubby girls that are insecure, including me, abby absolutely loves bigger girls.
at first you believed it to be her just reassuring you due to your insecurities, but it became more and more prevalent that it was something more.
abby doesn’t care how you dress or what you wear; she just wants to see them off.
she wants to see your stretch marks that you seem to hate so much (she loves them, she thinks they look like tiger stripes).
she wants to see your stomach, and your thighs, that she can easily grab a hold of while she fucks you.
she loves all of your curves.
so, when she asked you— or practically begged you to sit on her face, of course you were a bit hesitant.
typically, your overthinking gets the best of you, and you end up saying a soft ‘maybe next time?’ while apologetically giving her a kiss.
but this time, she wasn’t taking a no for an answer.
she needed you on her face and she needed it now.
“baby, i know you’ve been nervous about it— and it seems super scary, but i really, really fucking need you to sit on my face.”
before you could protest, she continued,
“and— and i know you tell me know just because of your weight but i promise i can handle it. i want to handle it.”
hesitant at first, you decide to let her have this.
after some coaxing and praise, you were finally sat on the abby anderson’s face.
and fuck did it feel good.
her tongue immediately darts out to gently lick your clit, slowly, yet calculated. she already knew by the way your panties we’re clinging to your cunt that you were wet, but this? this is another level of wet.
“abs— don’t tease, ‘need it so fucking badly.”
and who was she to deny you? you were her girl, and whatever you wanted, she was there to deliver.
the quickening pace of her tongue across your cunt made it agonizingly easy to get you close. your hips moving on their own, grinding down on abby’s face, with a force that can only be described as desire.
you came with a soft gasp, moans spilling from your mouth. quickly coming to reality, you get off of her face to lay next to her.
you were too worried to even tell her how good you felt.
“was that’s okay? i didn’t hurt you did i?”
and of course— abby was there to soothe your anxieties.
farmhand!sevika x farmer’s daughter!reader. men & minors dni.
synopsis: you find a woman in your barn who looks suspiciously like the fugitive who remains wanted on your town's bulletin board. but you've always a soft spot for the strong ones.
cw: age difference, older woman/younger woman, outlaw!sevika, farmhand!sevika, farmer's daughter!reader, reader has curly hair, reader is in her twenties, reader is feral for sevika but tries to keep it cute, soft!masc!reader (i'm not sure if she counts as masc in this but that was the intention! i said soft bc there are times where she dresses overtly femme in the beginning), muscular!reader, strong!reader and sevika is insane about it, touch starved!sevika, soft!sevika, sevi getting praised and spoiled as deserved, petnames, non-sexual intimacy, seduction, dirty talk, praise kink, strength kink, you manhandle sevi like a mf, begging, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, tribbing, face riding, nipple play, reader waxing poetic about sevi and pretty she is, dom!reader, pleasure domming, sub!sevika, bdsm elemetns, dom/sub, power play, subspace, implied switch!sevi, mommy kink (specifically mama!).
notes: guys i'm so fucking PISSED because tumblr deleted the fucking ask that made this even happen. but nonnie please know this is for you and i hope you love it, mama. also this got a little crazy. did not intend to write sub!sevi but then i was possessed and saw the light.
The morning mist hasn't burned off yet when you find her. In the barn's half-light, dust motes swim like sparks around the stranger's sleeping silhouette, her broad shoulders rising and falling against the hay. There's dried blood on her knuckles, you notice, but her hands are curled gentle as a child's against her chest.
Your daddy's shotgun rests steady in your hands, barrel aimed low but ready. The wild dogs haven't raised any alarm; they're curled near the woman like she belongs there. You watch her breath, take in the way her mouth hangs a little open like she’s aching to feed. Moths flutter against the high windows, their wings catching dawn's grey light.
"Daddy's gonna want to know why I didn't shoot you," you say softly, your voice carrying in the hollow space.
Your short hair tickles your jaw as you tilt your head, studying. You’ve chopped it for the summer and the heat you applied to it is lifting. You can feel the curls right bursting around your cheeks.
There's something about the woman's face - even in sleep, it holds a story you've seen somewhere before, maybe on that board in town square you've trained yourself not to look at too closely.
The stranger's eyes open - dark and steady as well water. She doesn't startle, despite the gun trained on her. Just watches you like she's reading something written in the air between you both, her gaze catching on the way your corset top pulls tight across your chest, the intricate lace trim exposing your shoulders to the morning air and accentuating the swell of your breasts.
"Would you have?" the woman asks, voice rough with sleep and something else. Her accent isn't local - has too many edges.
Your lips curl.
"Ain't shot a thing yet that didn't deserve it."
You shift your weight, dark jeans whispering against your boots. The corset suddenly feels more revealing under the stranger's gaze, dawn light playing across the ropy back. "You got a name?"
"Sevika." A pause, heavy as August air. "You always dress up to do barn chores?"
"Only when I've got a feeling about something." You step closer, morning light catching in your hair like a halo, shotgun lowering just slightly. You can smell gunpowder and road dust on her, underneath the hay. "Kitchen's got coffee on. Might even have some bacon, if you can convince me you're worth feeding."
Sevika sits up slow, careful, like she's trying not to spook a wild thing. Her shirt is rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms mapped with scars and something that might be tattoo ink. "That an invitation or an interrogation?"
"Guess that depends on what kind of answers you give."
You rest the shotgun against your shoulder, turning toward the barn door, letting morning spill across your exposed skin. You don't look back - don't need to. You can feel Sevika's eyes on you like a physical touch, can hear the soft grunt as she stands.
The horses shuffle in their stalls, steam rising from their backs. Outside, a rooster crows - late, like always. Everything's waking up slow and sweet, the way summer mornings do.
Your pulse thrums steady in your throat. There's danger in this - in the way Sevika's boots fall into step behind you. But you've never been one to let fear stop you from taking in strays. Even ones that look at you like they'd like to devour you whole.
As you walk, you can tell that she’s drinking in the sight of the farm as strangers tend to do. The acres go for miles, the sky straining and stretching across its great, green rolling body. Most of the buildings—the farmhouse, the barn, the bustling chicken coop—were built raised by your mother’s hands. She was an architect romanced and rescued by your father, though you suspect she did the rescuing more than him.
You shimmy a hand down the downy back of one of the newest calves, nose scrunching with affection as he moos back at you. Eventually the house looms before you, the windows popped open and laundry swaying outback despite the expensive machine your mother couldn’t do without.
“You comin’?” You murmur, and Sevika blinks from where she’s been watching you stand in the doorway, your back well-muscled and strong.
⟡ ݁₊ . 🌱🐄🧺 ⟡ ݁₊ .
The screen door snaps shut behind you both with a familiar whine. Morning floods the kitchen through tall windows—your mother's insistence on "proper light for proper cooking"—and catches on the copper pots hanging above the island. The coffee pot gurgles its last, right on time.
You set the shotgun in its place by the door, muscle memory, though you keep half an eye on Sevika as she takes in the space. The kitchen tells its own stories: your mother's architectural drawings spread across one end of the table, your daddy's mud-caked boots by the back door, fresh-cut flowers in a Mason jar that catch the light just so. The dishes on the side of the sink are speckled stone, sanded and glazed by the artistry of your older sister. The washing machine hums through the wall, keeping time like a heartbeat.
"Sit," you say, gesturing to the worn oak table. It's been scratched and stained by three generations of family suppers, and something in you stirs at the sight of Sevika pulling out a chair—this stranger inserting herself into your history. "Less you'd rather stand."
She sits, those capable hands folding on the tabletop. Her shoulders are still coiled tight, ready to run, but her eyes follow you as you move through the kitchen's familiar dance. Two mugs from the cabinet (your favorite and daddy's backup), bacon from the icebox, cornbread left from last night.
"Sugar?" you ask, though you've already reached for it. The container clinks against your rings as you set it down.
"Black's fine." Her voice is softer in here, like the domesticity of the space has gentled her edges. But when you lean past her to set down her mug, you catch a whiff of leather and gun oil beneath the barn hay. Your curls brush her shoulder, and you feel more than hear her sharp intake of breath.
You take your time settling into the chair across from her, adding three sugars to your own coffee with deliberate movements. Your mother would be appalled at you entertaining company in just a corset top, but there's something thrilling about the way Sevika's gaze keeps catching on the lace trim, on the exposed line of your collarbones, the rise of your breath.
You let her observe because you’re doing the same. Sevika is gorgeous, the kind of beautiful that sinks deep inside of a woman and wears her out. Her grey eyes are like two beacons and they remind you of the deer you’d beg his father not to shoot. The ones you would run after, flapping your arms to get them to scatter.
Her face is almost ridiculously romantic, with a strong nose sitting pretty in the middle that reminds you of royalty. Her eyes are never-ending, a pit that gapes into who she is. Her skin is textured, as it gets when you’re (allegdly) living on the edge of the law. You can tell she’s older than you without her saying it. Something about her radiates maturity, the same as your mother who’s practically seen the world rise and fall.
"So," you say, watching her over the rim of your mug. "You gonna tell me what brings a woman like you to sleep in my barn? Or do I need to go take another look at that board in town?"
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't flinch.
"Would it change your mind about the bacon if I did?"
"Depends." You lean back, let your chair creak against the floorboards. Through the window, you can see the laundry dancing on the line, your mother's favorite dress a splash of yellow against the morning sky. "On whether you deserved what put you there."
Sevika's fingers tighten around her mug, and you catch sight of old burns across her knuckles. "Most things ain't that simple."
"Most things worth protecting ain't either." You slide the plate of cornbread toward her, a peace offering. Your voice softens; you were never good at acting hard. "Eat something, sugar. Then we'll talk about what kind of work needs doing around here, if you're planning to stay.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise at the endearment maybe, or relief. When she reaches for the cornbread, her sleeve rides up, revealing more of that tattoo. It looks like a snake, or maybe a dragon, curling up her arm. You wonder how far it goes, what other stories her skin might tell.
The washing machine clicks into its spin cycle, and somewhere outside, your daddy's truck rumbles to life. The morning's moving on, and there's work waiting. But for now, you let yourself sit in this moment: the sun warming your bare shoulders, the quiet sounds of Sevika eating at your family table.
“I suspect,” she says, her throat bucking as she swallows, “that your parents will have a bit more sense about hiring a fugitive for farm work.”
You shrug, pick a corner off the cornbread on her plate.
“Everyone out here is struggling. We all need someone or something. The only reason we’re faring slightly better is because this place was paid off as an anniversary gift by my grandparents.” You glance out the window. “Plus, I’m my daddy’s favortite. He tends to listen to me.”
There’s something sad about the way you say it, as if it aggrieved you to be so loved. But the moment passes and you’re looking back at her, lips full and curved like the moon.
“It’ll be good for us,” you decide and she lets it go. “Get seconds if you’d like, sugar. I'll intercept them.”
“I’m older than you,” Sevika rumbles and you hide a smile, cock your hip out as you grab a basket for the chickens.
“Doesn’t make you any less sweet on the eyes.”
At that her head ducks down and you laugh, the sound clear and bright like a bell.
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With that Sevika finds herself hired as a farmhand under the stern eye of your father and the knowing eye of your mother. The work is honest and she relishes being able to lose herself in it, settle into the rhythm and flow of this little world your blood has built.
She doesn’t know what to do with you however.
Now, Sevika has lived several lives at this point. In fact sometimes she awoke in the night under the strain of them, the urge to run stampeding from where it sits behind her teeth and under the flat of her tongue. She understands on some level that women find her attractive, brooding. She’s unsurprised at the hints you keep dropping over the weeks. You probably find her intriguing, see her as a means to rebel with her older age and criminal nature.. (“I’m literally in my twenties, Sevika. ‘M not a baby.”)
At least that’s what she thinks at first. But then, she begins to doubt herself and overanalyze your rather…creative attempts to satisfy your coveteous nature.
The first is when she wakes up one early morning, the sky slurred between cotton candy pink and a warm lilac, to find you taking a bath in a two-bit shining steel contraption of a tub. Your body is trembling, but you seem at peace. Your curls are heavy and swollen with water, made longer by the weight of the moisture. She watches your back flex as you move, takes in the hidden strength of your arms and peeking thighs. Your muscle takes her aback, makes her stomach warm real down low.
She should move—your parents will be up soon—but you’re just so captivating when you’re kissed by the dawn. The water sloshes as you pour it over yourself, the underside of your breasts flashing as you soap down. And then you turn, peeking over your shoulder and gazing at her with faux-bambi eyes as you trace a hand up and over your chest to get your back.
She feels warm, teased in a manner that makes her throat squeeze and her hands clench. She doesn’t know what to do with this, doesn’t know how to naviage this eager rabid want that you show her so openly. And it just doesn’t stop.
But what really gets under Sevika’s skin is the kindness that you insist on bludgering her with, especially when no one’s watching. It’s genuine, unexpecting, and claws at her skin with tender phantom fingers.
Just the other day, Sevika had been unable to successfully ward off a duo of wolves and three sheep had been lost in her efforts. She’d apologized gruffly and repeatedly until your mother stepped forward and cupped her chin with a firm hand, telling her to “fuck off with this bullshit because it wasn’t intentional and you tried your best.” What was with you women and nurturing her?
After, Sevika had gone back to where the lasty wooly body lay—the small innocent bones of a lamb. She had felt sick at the sight because the lamb wasn’t a lamb in that moment; she’d seen something else. You saw the lean figure of her body as it bent over in some sort of grief, distraught at the sight of the dead animal beneath it.
Sevika, You had said with shining eyes. Are you alright?
Sevika had looked at you long and hard before making a noise from deep within her throat. Turning swiftly, she tried to block you off from the sight.
I don’t think you’ll want to see this, she’d muttered and you’d settled your hands on your hips.
I’ve lived this long before you were working here, you reminded her.
Sevika’s face was still broken in an open expression of confusion and remorse when you moved forward. Carefully, you swallowed the bulk of her body into the warmth of yours. You weren’t nearly as big, but you held your own and you held her fast. The two of you stayed just like that, with your hand tucked neatly behind her head as you steadied her.
Now, she watches as your broad shoulders dip as you kneel to pick up the limp body of a fallen chicken. These goddamn wolves needed to be dealt with.
It’s in their nature, sugar, you’d told her.
“Wait,” she calls out and you turn to look at her, your cheeks apple-full under the thicket of your lashes.
“Hmm?” you say back, your voice curious.
“Put gloves on if you’re gonna touch it. It probably had some sort of disease.”
Sevika walks closer, grabbing a spare pair of gloves she usually keeps for the other town boys who your father has helping him throughout harvesting week. She holds them out, those dark eyes glittering like grey moonstone.
You look up at her then, curls haloed around your soft face. They’re still kept short, dust your dimpled chin. You look so young and probably always would, the baby fat clinging to your cheeks like the hands of a lover. Sevika continues to gaze down at you, firm and unrelenting, and you smile gently as she eventually looks away.
You’re not moving fast enough, so she crouches down and takes your hands, sliding each glove on and making sure the fingers fit. She notes that your nails are square and glossy, painted an icy pink. You watch with an affected air, scooping the small body up when she finally lets go.
“I’m sorry,” You say to the glassy eyes of the hen and Sevika’s heart seizes.
“‘M sorry, sweetheart,” she tells you, gentle and understanding.
You glance at her and then back at the animal you hold.
“No need to apolgize, you didn’t do anything wrong. Can you help me dig a grave for her?”
Sevika doesn’t know if it would really be worth it to bury it, but you’re a little sad and so obviously cold in your oversized cotton tee and denim shorts. Your skin lights up with the mid-afternoon sun and Sevika can see all of your goosebumps and the fine dusting of hair.
“I—sure,” she agrees and You nod, walking away and trusting her to follow.
Before you begin to lead the march, you turn back and cup her elbow.
“Thank you, sugar.”
And that’s all. She wants to fucking eat you.
You continue to unravel her expectations like cotton thread.
You catch her before dawn another morning, when the sky's still tender with sleep and dark like the evening is loath to leave. She's checking the fence line, and you appear like a vision with two thermoses of coffee and your father's old flannel draped over your worn dark green longsleeve. When you pass her the coffee, your fingers linger on hers longer than necessary.
"Thought you might be cold out here, sugar," you say, and the endearment makes her throat tight. She's not used to being the one called sweet things.
You settle beside her on the fence, close enough that she can feel your warmth. The morning fog rolls across the fields like a dream, and Sevika finds herself watching the way it catches in your hair and the bones of your fingers, how it makes you look ethereal and solid all at once.
"You don't have to keep doing this," she says roughly, though she cradles the thermos close.
"Doing what?" Your voice is innocent but your eyes are knowing.
"Taking care of me. Bringing me things. Being..." she gestures vaguely, unable to name the way you make her feel seen.
You laugh, and she shivers. "Sugar, has it occurred to you that maybe I want to? That maybe I see something in you worth cherishing? That I’m just being genuine?"
The word ‘genuine’ hits her like a physical thing. She ducks her head, unused to this kind of naked affection, but you just reach over and touch her jaw with gentle fingers.
"You're allowed to let someone be sweet on you," you murmur. "Even if you're pushing forty."
There's teasing in your voice, but your touch is reverent. Sevika wants to protest—about the age difference, about her rough past, about how someone as bright and whole as you shouldn't want someone as weathered as her. But you're looking at her like she’s the human version of the Promised Land, and all her arguments die in her throat.
"I don't know how to do this," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.
"Do what?" You're stroking her jaw now, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
"Nothing. I need to get back to work."
You lean back, let her go.
“If it’s about learning,," you call, your voice trailing after like smoke, "the good thing is that I'm a real good teacher."
The next time I’m in town, she thinks, I need to buy a pack of damn cigarettes.
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From then on, you start to learn her tells. Like how she always positions herself between you and any perceived threat, how her hands flex when she's trying not to reach for a weapon that isn't there anymore. How she startles, less now, when you're gentle with her.
You catch her in the barn one afternoon, trying to wrap her own ribs after a particularly rough day breaking the new stallion. Her knuckles are white with the effort of reaching around, face drawn tight with pain she won't admit to.
"Sugar," you say softly, and she freezes like a spooked deer. "Let me help you with that."
Her eyes dart to you, then away. "I've had worse."
"Ain't about what you've had." You cross to her, boots quiet in the hay. "About what you deserve now."
You take the bandage from her callused fingers, and she lets you - that alone feels like a victory. This close, you can see the way her breath catches when your fingers brush her skin. Like caring for her is its own kind of violence.
"Lift your arms for me, darlin'," you murmur, and something in her expression cracks when you call her that. Like she can't quite believe the sweetness in your voice is meant for her. But she obeys, raising her arms slowly, letting you wrap her ribs with careful precision.
"You don't have to-" she starts, but you shush her.
"I know I don't have to. Want to." Your fingers trace a scar on her side, old and silver in the afternoon light. "Anybody ever just take care of you, Sevika?"
She doesn't answer, but the way she trembles under your touch says enough. You secure the bandage and let your hands linger on her waist, thumbs brushing bare skin above her jeans.
"Well," you say, pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder, right where that dragon tattoo curls toward her neck, "better get used to it. I take good care of what's mine."
Her sharp inhale sounds like thunder, and when she turns in your arms, her usual swagger is nowhere to be found. Just vulnerability, raw and beautiful as a sunrise. You cup her face in your hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and she leans into your touch like she's starving for it.
"When did you decide tha?" she asks, voice rough. "That I’m yours?"
You smile, soft and sure, and smooth out the furrow in her brow. "You were mine the moment you settled onto my land, sugar. Just took us both a minute to catch up."
And maybe you came on too strong, ‘cause she yanks herself back and straightens her shoulders.
“Thanks.”
You sigh, loud and irate. She’s so fucking—
“No problem, honey.”
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It happens during the last heat of summer, when the air sits thick as honey on your skin. You're in the barn, having just finished moving hay bales—work that would've taken twice as long if you weren't so used to it. Your blue and white bandana top clings to your chest, sweat stealing out from under it, and you can feel Sevika watching you from where she's meant to be fixing the tractor. You arch your back a little more, make sure to display the way your little rose-bud panties poke over the worn mouth of your lightwash, knee-length jean shorts.
You've caught her looking more and more lately. Noticed how her eyes track the contraction of your arms when you're lifting feed bags, the way she startles when you easily hoist yourself into the saddle. Like she can't quite reconcile your soft curves with the strength beneath them.
"You gonna fix that tractor, sugar?" you ask without turning around, smile curving your lips when you hear her shift. Your desire is practically shaking the bones of your teeth."Or you just gonna watch me work?"
Her throat clicks.
"I’m—I'm nearly done."
You hum, reaching up to stack the last bale. Your shirt’s knot loosens a little ‘round your back, exposing the dip of skin, and you hear something metallic clatter to the floor behind you. When you turn, Sevika's staring at you with those storm-grey eyes, wrench forgotten at her feet. There's grease on her forearms, sweat at her temples, and she's looking at you like she's finally ready to break.
"Something wrong?" you ask innocently, crossing to her. Your bare feet are silent in the hay.
She swallows hard when you reach her, especially when you grip the tractor's edge on either side of her, caging her in with arms that could just as easily lift her. "You know exactly what you're doing."
"Do I?" You lean closer, letting her feel the strength in your body. "Tell me what I'm doing, sugar."
Her hands flex at her sides, like she's fighting not to touch you.
"You're driving me crazy," she admits roughly.
“Oh,” you whisper, pursing your lips. “Do I make you nervous, baby?”
She flushes, tries to scramble back, and you laugh, soft and low.
"Driving you crazy, huh? Only fair. You've been driving me crazy since I found you in my barn." You trace a finger down her jaw, feeling how she trembles. "The way you look at me when you think I can't see. The way you try so hard to be good, to keep your distance."
Your other hand finds her hip, grip firm. You squeeze them in warning.
"I've seen how you watch me work. You like that I'm strong enough to handle you?"
She makes a broken sound, head falling back. "[Name]."
"I've got you," you murmur, and then you're lifting her onto the tractor's edge like she weighs nothing, stepping between her legs. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, and her hands finally, finally come up to grip your biceps. "Been wanting to do that for weeks. You know you gotta tanline right here?"
You finger the thin edge of her boxers from beneath her jeans,
"Christ," she breathes, fingers tightening on your arms. "You're gonna kill me."
“Are you religious? That’s cutesy,” You smile, pressing closer until you can feel her heartbeat racing against your chest. "Nah, sugar. Just gonna take real good care of you." Your hands slide up her thighs, feeling the way she shivers. "If you'll let me."
She answers by pulling you into a kiss that tastes like summer storms and surrender, and you smile against her mouth. You've got her right where you want her—trembling and warm in your capable hands.
"That's it," you whisper when you pull back to breathe, one hand coming up to cup her face. "Let me handle you, mama. Just like you need."
And Sevika, who's spent years being the strong one, the dangerous one, the one who protects—she lets herself fall into you, lets herself be gentled by your hands. Maybe this is what surrender feels like: not a defeat, but a coming home.
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Your most prevailing thought is that you’re pissed you didn’t get to see Sevika like this earlier.
Her back arches beautifully, her chest rising with pleasure as you hold her down on the floor by the hips. Your mouth is relentless, suckling at her warm pussy with fervor. She tastes sweet and she’s so soaked, her arousal dribbling out of your mouth and onto your chin. You hum as she roots a hand in your hair, tugging harshly as she grinds down in tight little circles.
She’s whimpering, high breathy sounds that you’re determined to keep streaming from her slick lips. She’s still quiet, as you expected, but Christ does she want it. You let her use you, sliding your hands from her hips up to cup and grope her tits. Her nipples are erect, so hard and pretty and pointed toward heaven like she’s trying to tempt God. She’d probably succeed.
The sun slips through the slats of the barn and it illuminates her skin, the brown of it so warm that you almost feel as if you’re both on fire. You slip your tongue into the tight clutch of her cunt, gently dipping back and forth so that you’re fucking her on your tongue, and squeeze her ass in silent demand. She digs her nails into you, moans loudly, but still doesn’t heed.
With a groan of irritation, you clutch her ass with a grip of steel and begin to bounce her on your face until she starts to see the bigger picture. Eventually, she’s moving on her own—fast and uncoordinated as that bright spiral begins to coil in her stomach.
“Oh my God,” she groans. “Just like that. Please.”
You pull away, spread her apart.
“I know, mama,” you murmur and then dive back in.
Her thighs come up around your head and you let her crush you, shaking your head like a dog in heat as you nurse and lap at her pussy. Above you, Sevika twists one of her nipples and you feel her body tense in response. You bring a hand up to rub at her clit, and she jerks.
When she cums, she’s so bright and beautiful—like a star imploding onto itself. Her legs fall open and she lets out a low whine, like an animal, her hips still circling as she attempts to ride it out.
“Hold on, mama,” you tell her. “I’m gonna give it to you.”
You move quickly, undressing completely and laying your body against hers. Your tits push into hers and she nuzzles into your neck, mind still hazy. You soothe her, digging a thumb into her lower back as you slip two fingers into the meat of her. She lets out a strangled yell at the overstimulation, but you hold her to it.
You fuck your fingers into her, until the squelch is more than obscene, watching as she shakes and writhes alongside you. You use your other hand to guide her to your mouth, kissing her messily as you introduce a third finger to her pussy.
“Oh,” she moans, low and raspy, and you coo at her. “Oh, shit. Holy—holy fuck.”
“Yeah? Does that feel good, baby? You have to tell me what you like.”
“I—mmm. Yes. Yes, it feels good. I need—I need—”
Sevika trails off, eyes wide and watery. You roll over, tucking her under you while you continue to finger her. You raise one of her legs, widening the angle, and she squeals. You laugh lowly into the seam of her neck before sucking the skin between your teeth, biting down and bruising her.
“What do you need, mama? More?”
“Yes, but—,” She blinks, attempting to clear her head. “I want you too. I want you to finish with me.”
“With you or on you?” You watch her face as you ask, eyes following the twitch of her brow. “Maybe in you?”
That makes her shiver, and you smile as you sit up.
“Whatever you want, baby,” you mutter as you manhandle her into how you want her. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
She shivers again and you pull her up, drawing her against your chest so that your tits are once again pressing up against each other. Carefully, you extend her strong legs over yours and inch forward until your clits catch. The friction is insane and your mouth drops open along the same time that Sevika goes ramrod straight.
You dive right in, fucking up so that your cunts slide and swallow each other. She’s so creamy, her previous orgasm sliding down her thighs. There’s a moment where your control dips, where she’s the one ramming the two of you together and leading you up so that you can grind harder until she stutters again.
Then it’s back and you’re holding her down, spreading her even further open as you rub your pussy roughly against hers. You need her to stay down, need her to take what you choose to give. Sevika is beneath you, trembling and open mouthed, and you stick two fingers down her throat ‘till she’s gagging wetly around them.
“Oh m’God,” you moan, your eyes never leaving hers. “You’re such a fucking slut, mama. Jesus.”
That does it and you feel her pour into you, thick and warm. You follow shortly after, rocking and pushing down against her as you chase the feeling. She’s sobbing, a hand coming up to grip at her throat as she tries to match your movements.
You slow, come to a stop, and stroke her face as you rise off of her. Tenderly, you kiss at her cheeks and eyelids as you sush her.
“I know, baby. You were so good. Such a good, perfect, strong woman. Hmm?” You kiss her temple. “You did so well, mama.”
She’s shaking, so you hold her until she’s less far away. You want to get up, get her some water and maybe something to eat but she’s holding you captive. Sevika turns into you, body big and curved like the moon come to earth.
The afternoon light paints everything gold, and you know you’ve got work waiting—always do, on a farm. But for now, you just continue to hold her. Somewhere outside, those wild dogs are keeping watch.
“i really can be dominant, sev, i promise!” you whine, straddling her lap. her big, calloused hands run up and down the sides of your waist. she could easily put you in any position if she wanted to, but she’s hearing you out.
“is that so?” she questions, her tone condescending. her pupils are blown out, and her gaze is filled with lust. “alright then, dominate me, doll.” she has a wide grin stretched across her face. you can tell she’s enjoying this.
her statement catches you off guard, leaving you stuttering and at a loss for words. she couldn’t possibly expect you to overpower her. she’s so much taller and stronger than you!
“oh, uh—i- where’s the- uh, strap?” you sputter, looking anywhere but her eyes.
sevika’s hand shoots up, grabbing your jaw and making you meet her gaze. your face heats up under her intense stare, and suddenly everything feels warm, dizzy, and intoxicating.
“use your words, doll,” she says, her tone raspy yet stern. “don’t get shy on me now.”
you shake away your thoughts, trying to regain composure. “can you get the strap for me, vika?” you mewl sweetly, running your hands through her dark, disheveled hair.
“tch. dominant but can’t get a fuckin’ strap yourself. hilarious,” she mutters before gently sliding you off her lap. she disappears for a moment and returns with the black silicone harnessed toy already secured firmly around her hips.
just the sight of her like this makes your arousal pool in your panties. she sits back down on the worn couch, her legs spread wide. her muscles glisten with sweat, and her hooded eyes track your every move. she’s waiting for you to make the next move, but when you see her sitting there, so big and ready, you freeze.
she groans your name, snapping you out of your trance. you finally move toward her, settling back on her thighs as you begin to rock your hips.
soft whines and moans escape you as you keep your eyes on hers, your hands traveling along her biceps, tracing the lines of her toned arms. her gaze flickers down to your cleavage, and you smirk, leaning in closer.
“my eyes are up here, sevvy,” you murmur teasingly.
she chuckles lowly, but you can see your teasing is starting to chip away at her resolve. her hands come to your hips, gripping them firmly and rocking you harder against her lap.
you let out a broken moan, your pleasure starting to take over. but you smack her wrist lightly, leaning into her ear. “don’t touch unless i tell you to.”
you pull back to see her reaction, and the look she gives you could kill. it takes every ounce of her control not to flip you over and ruin you right there.
sevika lets out a glob of spit into her hand, stroking her cock with it, prepping it for you. the sight alone is so pornographic you nearly orgasm on the spot. her eyes stay locked on yours as she works herself, your sweet little whimpers filling the room like music.
right when you feel like you’re about to gush all over her, you let up. you guide her cock to your entrance, coating it with your slick as you moan sweet nothings into her ear—her name, how good she feels, how she’s the only one who makes you this desperate.
slowly, you sink down onto her, feeling every inch stretch and fill you until you completely bottom out.
“you’re really committed to this, huh, mama?” sevika growls in your ear. her hands twitch, desperate to touch you, but she’s holding herself back, if only barely.
you only moan in response, focused on keeping your pace steady. but you start to get frustrated. sevika still has the upper hand, and you need to change that. you grab her wrists and pin them above her head, smirking at your small victory. even though you know she can break free at any second, she lets you have it.
your movements grow erratic as the knot in your stomach tightens, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. your free hand trails up to her neck, teasing her skin just before you try to wrap your fingers around her throat.
before you can even blink, her hand shoots up, grabbing your wrist and flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.
“i said have your fun,” she growls, pinning you beneath her. “not get your ass in trouble.”
hockey jock!vi x tutor!reader, fluff / humor / angst / kinda slowburn / smut (18+ mdni!), wc: 16k+ [buckle your seatbelts bc i could not shut the fuck up about vi if i wanted to !]
synopsis: you’re many things; an exemplary student, quiet and well-mannered, loved immensely by those who bother to get to know you, but most importantly, the newfound object of superstar athlete vi’s every affection. or, in other words, hockey jock!vi is lowkey a loser, atrociously down bad, and will stop at nothing to make you hers.
content warnings: language (duh), brief mentions of familial issues, latent insecurity, miscommunication & lack of communication, kissing, groping, SEX! mdni, seriously, i’ll THROW UP!, more specifically fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), spitting, makeup sex idk, just good old fashioned lesbian BANGING! also! jazz cabbage, lets pretend for the sake of this au that student athlete’s don’t get tested bc i NEED hockey jock!vi to hotbox reader PLS.
fic soundtrack:
i could imagine —alina baraz /snooze — sza /tonight — summer walker / pressure — james vickery + sg lewis / wish that i could — umi
author’s note: of course it’d be arcane s2 that resurrects me from my almost yearlong hiatus...pls enjoy this fic even though i’m pretty rusty; she’s been cooking in the drafts for weeks T-T
i’ll be answering some (very long overdue) asks and chatting with you guys <3 and finally, this shit is barely proofread bc my brain is fried lol
main masterlist | arcane masterlist
VI HAS A HUGE PROBLEM.
One that supersedes every issue she’d ever given weight to in all of her four (and a half) years of university. Is way larger than twice-a-day practices on and off the ice that go hand-in-hand with studying so hard to make sure that her grades don’t slip a fraction. Probably way bigger than the fact that her little sister’s graduating high school soon and she’s trying her absolute best to be as great a role model as she can despite wanting to crack under the pressure. And most definitely bigger than her favorite on-again-off-again fling, Cait Kiramann, who’s rare to come by these days.
Vi has a huge problem, and quite frankly, it’s you.
In hindsight, she’s been relatively good at overlooking you, not that it’d been intentional to begin with, but Vi knows a lot of people. Too many, she feels sometimes. So it's easy for you to slip through the cracks when everyone’s vying for even a shred of her attention.
Perhaps it’s what piques her interest when your orbits finally do collide. Because, admittedly, you know all about Vi. Know that she’s probably one of the most valuable players on the uni’s hockey team (she’s an absolute beast on the ice). Also know that she’s a biomedical physics major and actually incredibly smart. But most of all, you know that not only is Violet a flirt, she’s a player.
Not necessarily that you’ve ever really been on the receiving end, but mostly because her reputation precedes her and you’ve seen it all from a distance. Can't not when the decorated hockey star is such a charmer whether she intends to be or not. Vi has girls both certain and questioning stumbling for a single glance.
You often think it’s pitiful, but it’s not like it’s really your problem.
Until it is.
It all starts at The Afterparty.
Hours after a big victory in the first game of three that solidifies whether the university hockey team participates in the championships, Violet is the star of tonight’s celebration.
She’d sunk the winning shot, and for that she’s being poured shot after celebratory shot. By eleven she’s practically hammered and it’s when her teammate, Ellie, and the captain, Abby, finally show up.
The three of them together, drunk, is like a minefield of obnoxious laughter, dirty innuendos, and rowdy behavior.
And for a while it’s funny, has Vi feeling like she’s on cloud nine, but eventually, the drunken high begins to evaporate and she starts to feel a little overwhelmed.
The spotlight shifts and even though Vi typically preens under the attention, she’s grateful to finally breathe.
With a plastic cup full of water, she’s sliding the back door open and stepping out onto the back patio to take in the cool air for a breather.
She makes a move towards the stairs, but nearly jumps out of her skin when she registers the silhouette at the base of the steps.
“Jesus, fuck,” Vi hisses to herself. “You scared the shit outta me.”
You don’t even spare her a glance over your shoulder, just take a sip from your drink.
“Sorry,” you hum passively.
She catches her breath, doesn’t even bother to ask permission as she drops all of her weight next to you.
The step creaks under pure muscle.
Her strong legs stretch out, elbows settling back against the step up as she waits. And waits. And waits.
The amount of silence that lapses is unusual, uncharacteristic for Vi, especially so because people are typically babbling enough to fill the void when it comes to her.
But you just sit there, nursing your beer and staring up at the stars. The moon hangs half in the sky, softly illuminating the planes of your features.
It’s her first good look at your face and Vi’s definitely drunk, but the immediate thought that comes to her mind is pretty, pretty, pretty. Undeniably and painfully pretty. And not Caitlyn pretty, the only girl she’s ever really used as a benchmark, but intimidatingly so in your own right. Makes her swallow hard, throat bobbing as she watches you unapologetically.
“It’s rude to stare, Violet,” you say simply, eyes finally flitting to meet hers.
Her breath catches in her throat, earthy flecks dancing in your moonlit irises. God, your eyes. Framed by thick lashes and round as you look up at her.
“You know who I am?” she asks stupidly as if point fives of her face aren’t blown up into memes and plastered all over the house.
“Who doesn’t?” you ask, breathing a puff of humorless laughter as you crush the can in your ringed fingers.
And perhaps you got her there, but Vi’s feeling exceptionally small under your gaze despite usually filling out a room. Something about you makes her shrink.
“I— fuck,” Vi stumbles, cheeks red because you’re looking at her with an indecipherable gleam in your gaze that has her squirming. “What’s your name?”
She cringes at herself, rolls the piercing in her nose once, twice, for comfort.
You laugh again, a little more genuine this time because, from a distance, the athlete’s usually so suave, undeniably gorgeous and composed. Right now, the girl in front of you only ticks one of those boxes.
“________,” you offer.
She weighs the name on her tongue, decides she likes it a lot, and tries to shake off whatever this feeling you’re giving her is.
“And you go to school here?” she asks.
You nod once.
“Neuroscience, fourth year.”
“Huh, we’re in similar fields, but I’ve never seen you around,” Vi observes. Because she’s certain she’d bookmark a face like yours, absolutely no doubt about it.
“We had organic chemistry together sophomore year with Dr. Talis,” you say matter-of-factly, like you’re not blowing her mind right now. “And I’m auditing Medarda’s biometry class this semester.”
Vi’s floored.
“Wait, wait, but...” She’s trying to piece the puzzle together, but her brain’s still a little fuzzy, equal parts from the alcohol, but also because she’s caught a whiff of your perfume and you smell so sweet.
“I pop in every once in a while,” you tell her. “But I tutor in that time slot every Tuesday and Thursday, only really go when I don’t have any appointments.”
“Hold on, this is nuts,” Violet says, body easing to face you. You flinch because she doesn’t realize she’s practically yelling. “There’s no way, I definitely would’ve remembered you if that was the case.”
You hum, corners of your lips quirking as you shrug your shoulders.
“Doubt it,” you counter. “I’m nothing particularly spectacular.”
“Nothing particularly spectacular,” Vi repeats under her breath.
And under normal circumstances, she’d be flirting up a storm right now, trying to charm her way into getting you to bite, but this is one of the first semblances of normalcy she’s experienced in a while. No ulterior motives, no exaggerated kindness, no outright asking her to fuck.
Suddenly your phone lights up in your lap and you’re turning your attention to the device.
“DD duties call,” is all you say as you make a move to stand up.
No, this can’t be all she gets from you tonight. Not when she’s been narrowly missing someone like you for the past four years and you’re just now coming to light.
The dormant liquid courage bubbles and Vi’s gently grabbing your wrist to pull you to a stop.
“Maybe I’ll see you around?” she asks, steely eyes liquid as she stares up at you.
You eye the scar on her lip, gaze lingering there before flitting to meet hers.
“Maybe.”
Vi decides that she needs to see you again.
You’d left her with crumbs this past Friday night and she’d spent the better part of the weekend trying (and failing) to cross paths with you again.
“Jesus, you’re down bad,” Ellie chuffs Monday morning on their walk to the campus coffee shop.
“You don’t understand,” Vi defends. “She’s so...so...”
“So?”
“Different, I dunno,” Vi sighs, fiddling with the strap of her backpack as they walk. “We didn’t even talk about much, but that was the most normal I’ve felt around someone in a while.”
Her teammate snorts.
“Probably the gayest thing I’ve heard you say,” Ellie deadpans. “She isn’t immediately trying to munch and you’re already in love. Pathetic.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Vi scoffs as they approach the coffee shop, inside packed full with half-functioning college students so early in the morning. “Trust me, if you met her, you’d—”
The words die in her throat because halle-fucking-lujah, the universe or god, or whatever has answered her every prayer this past weekend as she clocks you a few paces ahead in line.
Ellie follows her friend’s line of vision to find exactly what she’s staring at and she lets out a low whistle when her gaze finds your frame.
From a completely aesthetic standpoint, she can see why Vi’s immediately hooked.
“Hah,” she makes a noise in her throat. “Okay, so maybe it makes sense.”
Vi can’t help but stare because, if it were possible, you were far prettier under the warm lighting of the cafe’s ambiance. The curls of your hair frame your face beautifully and it’s so fucking cute how focused you are on your phone.
“Hate to break it to you, though. That girl’s way out of your league,” Ellie says like it’s common knowledge.
“Wow, way to boost my ego,” Vi mutters drily.
“Just being realistic,” Ellie argues. “If you bag her, she’s easily the hottest girl you’ve been with.”
And Vi can’t really contest that, not when the proof’s in the fucking pudding.
Her body’s moving of its own accord and before she can register her own actions, she’s mumbling quiet s’cuse me’s under her breath as she squeezes between patrons to close a bruised hand over your shoulder.
You nearly jump out of your skin, fumbling with your phone as an earbud falls out.
“Shit, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Vi says quickly.
Your gaze snaps to her, brows furrowing almost imperceptibly before your expression settles.
“Violet,” you acknowledge.
And she realizes that she didn’t really have a game plan coming up to you so abruptly. Had been so focused on actually just seeing you again, that she hadn’t thought through the rest of it.
The way you stare up at her is thoroughly disarming because she doesn’t have the shield of night or alcoholic courage to carry her through it.
“Can I help you?” you ask, but not unkindly.
“Oh, uh, I...” She chances a glance over her shoulder to find that Ellie is watching her from a few customers away, eyebrow cocked and smirk testing. She word vomits before she can think of a coherent thought. “You mentioned tutoring...the last time we talked.”
You don’t even bat an eye.
“I did.”
“You’re also auditing Medarda’s biometry class.”
“I am.”
“I’m...I’m not really doing too hot in Medarda’s right now,” Vi says, brain nearly short-circuiting and freezing up because, lie! She’s doing phenomenally in Medarda’s session and, truthfully, she’s just downright scared to ask you to hang out.
Especially when you look up at her like that.
You shift and she’s swallowing down around nothing.
“Hmm, can’t have that, can we?” you hum.
Vi could melt.
“No,” she breathes out a laugh. “Can’t.”
“You can sign up for a slot through the library’s website,” you say after you weigh the thought.
Vi’s pausing, staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights.
“So I can get paid?” you fill in.
“Oh, right,” Vi chokes. “Right.”
You give her a soft smile before plugging your earbud back in, leaving Vi to rejoin her obviously amused friend.
“You’re fucking joking!”
The librarian gives you and your incredulous roommate a look from the circulation desk and you return it with a sheepish smile from where you’re tucked by a wall of looming floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Maddie,” you whisper.
“You’re telling me that The Violet asked you personally to tutor her?” Maddie asks you, leaned over the tabletop with wide eyes.
“Yeah, cornered me at Brew House this morning and asked me to tutor her in Medarda’s class.”
“Just that?” she asks. “Nothing else?”
You look around in disbelief.
“Uh, yeah?” you scoff. “What else would she want?”
“What else would she— are you serious?” Maddie leans back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she gives you a plain look. “You know all about Vi, you’re actually gonna play stupid?”
“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes. “You’ve seen the girls Violet’s fucked, right? Kiramann? The blonde from the tennis team? She’s got a type and you know it.”
It’s Maddie’s turn to roll her eyes and you see the exasperated groan she’s staving off.
“None of that self-deprecating bullshit—”
“It’s not self-deprecating!” you argue. “Not everyone wants to fuck Violet, Maddie. Put me in the number one spot.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t start.”
“All I’m saying is that anyone with eyes can see that Vi’s hot as fuck. That being said, you’re also hot as fuck. Not only that, but rumor has it, she gives the most toe-curling—”
You’re rolling your eyes again, gaze fluttering out the window momentarily only to find that, speak of the devil, Violet’s approaching the library with a skip in her step.
Maddie stops her spiel to trace your gaze and nearly falls out of her seat when she finds the object of your conversation is advancing, fast.
“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself, pulling up your tutoring log on your tablet to find that, yup, Violet has most-definitely taken your advice and signed up for a tutoring slot.
If the time reads correctly, you’ve got three minutes before she’s due to be taking Maddie’s seat.
Your friend is grinning at you mischievously, stuffing her backpack quickly to vacate the space across from you.
“Un-fucking-believable,” you scoff, slumping back in your seat.
“Tell me how it goes,” she giggles, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stands.
“Maddie,” you warn.
“Love you, see you at home!”
Violet’s strolling into the library just as Maddie leaves through the other doors and try as you might make yourself small in the open air near the research center, her gaze falls on you as soon as she enters.
“Hey,” she breathes once breaches your vicinity.
“Hi.”
A moment lapses before you’re nodding towards the seat before you.
“We can get started whenever you’re ready.”
Right. Right! Vi’s mentally cringing, pulling the chair out with a squeak and dropping onto the worn cushion.
Her eyes are locked, watching as you pull the biometry textbook from your little messenger bag.
“Any particular areas you’re struggling in?” you ask, flipping to a clean sheet of paper in your notepad and clicking open your pen.
Vi combs her brain, tries to think of anything she’s not really grasping in Medarda’s class, but she’s been acing all the exams with flying colors, so she spits out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Logistic regression, probably,” she answers.
“In relation to...?” You tilt your head and Vi’s breath is hitching.
“The Confusion Matrix,” she answers, even though she knows all about it.
It’s only when you start breaking it down from the bare bones that she realizes that she could listen to you talk for-probably-ever.
You obviously have a great understanding of the subject if the way you deconstruct the relationship between sensitivity and specificity (or whatever the fuck) is anything to go by, and she doesn’t realize that she hasn’t even blinked until you’re glancing up at her.
“Am I making any sense?” you ask softly, taking in the almost confused look on Violet’s face.
“Huh?”
Vi snaps out of it, cheeks coloring pink when she notes the way you straighten in your seat.
“Am I going too fast?”
“No, no!’ Vi practically shouts before chancing an embarrassed gaze around the library to find a few wandering eyes. She clears her throat and tries to relax. “No, you’re doing great. I get it.”
You don’t seem convinced, but the faster you get through the material, the faster Violet can leave and you can finally catch your breath.
Because maybe Maddie’s a little right. That while you know, one hundred percent, without-a-doubt, that you and Violet are cut from two different cloths and that you ultimately won’t mesh, there’s still a sliver of want that settles somewhere confined in the pit of your gut.
You don’t know how long you continue before you notice that sun has begun to set in the horizon, but Vi’s effort is unwavering. She’s probably on her tenth practice problem by now and so far, she’s only flubbed once.
You decide to fold your cards first.
“O-kay,” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as you roll your shoulders and squeeze your hands shut so tight your knuckles crack. “This is a good stopping point, don’t you think?”
No, Vi could keep going forever if it meant hearing you talk all night, but the little G-shock wristwatch winks the time and she realizes that the two of you have been going at it for going on two hours and you’re probably exhausted.
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” Vi says sheepishly. “Thanks a lot for your help, I...”
You look up from where you’re shuffling your papers together, pausing when she hesitates.
“I really appreciate you. I know you probably help dozens of people every week and—”
She stops talking when she sees you crack what seems to be the first genuine smile she could get out of you since Friday.
“It’s my job, Violet,” you tell her. “I’m happy to help.”
And she’d done well enough during the tutoring session, had a successful run with the practice problems. You were confident it was just a one and done. Perhaps served as a review for the upcoming exam Medarda had posted on the class page.
But then you see her name in the final time slot on Thursday, don’t really think much of it until you’re tabbing to next week’s schedule for shits and giggles. Tuesday and Thursday are booked through again, her name highlighted in yellow.
You minimize the calendar and pull up the aggregate schedule only to find that every 4 o’clock slot every Tuesday and Thursday’s been booked until the end of the semester.
You refresh for good measure.
“Oh, you’re so shitting me.”
You don’t know what kind of joke this is, if Violet thinks that this is funny, but you’re not amused.
Especially when you’re stalking all the way to the athletic hall, ignoring the wolfish stares from shameless student athletes to whip into the women’s hockey team’s reserved conditioning space.
You find her benching near the center of the room, Abigail Anderson spotting her while the rest of the team engages in various workouts and exercises.
A hush ripples over the weight room as you approach the hockey star, standing at the end of the bench where her knees are bent. One of Abigail Anderson’s eyebrows quirk up as you stand there with your hands on your hips and you hope the chill that runs down your spine as she checks you out doesn’t visibly vibrate your body.
When the barbell nearly crushes Vi’s chest on her last rep, Abby’s quick to help her re-rack and takes the biggest step back as Vi sits up.
Her expression falls and her face pales when she locks eyes with you, your features severe and gaze stony.
“Oh, hey,” she squeaks.
Truthfully, she hadn’t really pinned you as the type to be confrontational. Thought she’d have enough time to build a strong enough story as to why she booked out all of your tutoring sessions when in actuality she panicked when Ellie started grilling the fuck out of her about being a fucking pussy and begging her to just ask you out.
“You have some explaining to do, Violet.”
And she should definitely be embarrassed, not at all turned on, but she can’t help it as she gulps. Because when you stand before her like this, she can easily admit that she’d die for a private version of the view.
The silence in the weight room is palpable and you want to back down, but if this is some running joke and Vi’s going to make a show of humiliating you in front of her teammates, then you’d give her a show.
“Violet.”
Someone in the back snickers, another whistles, and Vi’s cheeks go red.
She’s standing, sweaty hands closing around your biceps as she spins you around and quickly guides you out of the conditioning room and out of her teammates’ line of ogling sight.
“V—”
“I’m sorry,” Violet splutters. “I’m just not really confident in Medarda’s class right now and I don’t trust myself to study alone, plus you’re a really good tutor and—”
“You do realize that those tutoring sessions are added to your tuition, right?” you ask incredulously. “It’s fifteen dollars an hour.”
Vi’s smile is crooked.
“That’s what my scholarship’s for,” she grins.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?” you try again. “I feel that before an exam for a little refresh is fair, but this would be like relearning the material after every class, all over again.”
“If it’s taught by you, I’ll take it,” Vi says quickly, and you pause because what does she mean by that?
You don’t really have much rebuttal left even though you’d marched up here with a fire under your ass. Vi’s looking down at you with a softened edge in her gaze and she’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and sweat-soaked grey tank that reveals swathes of ink that curls up her arms and disappears under the fabric of her shirt.
She breathes out a small laugh when she notices the way your eyes dance.
“Anymore concerns, cupcake?”
Your gaze snaps to hers and her grin widens when she sees you fidget, little pet name obviously eliciting a semblance of a reaction from you.
“N-No,” you stammer.
“Great, see you tomorrow?“
You swallow.
“Okay,” you agree. “See you tomorrow.”
Violet pops into the library at four on the dot.
Her hair’s wet from an obvious shower and you smell her, warm like honey and cedar as she takes the seat across from you.
“Afternoon, cupcake,” she greets, slinging her backpack into the seat next to her.
You give her a warning look, but she just flashes you a toothy smile and nods towards the opened biometry textbook before you.
“What’s the lesson today, Teach?”
And this feels an awful lot like mocking, but you can’t be sure, not when Vi’s been somewhat respectful, sweet even.
“What do you know about the the sigmoid function?” you probe.
“Jack shit,” she laughs.
And maybe you’d find it endearing if the entirety of the situation wasn’t still absolutely mindfucking you at moment.
“Can I ask you something, Violet?” you ask, leaning back in your seat as you cross your arms to level her with as an intimidating look as you can.
“Sure, anything.”
“Are you messing with me?” you ask. “Is this some joke you and your friends are playing? Because I can’t really think of an outcome that would be funny.”
And you’d like to say that the look of horror on Violet’s face is consolation enough, but you know how being loved and being popular can make people act sometimes.
Vi contemplates telling you the truth, that she’s too chickenshit to ask you out, that getting close to you in any other way scares the fuck out of her. That maybe getting you to tutor her will segue into some form of friendship that’ll allow her to ease her way in. And maybe she’s going about it the hard way, but maybe Vi also likes a challenge.
“No jokes, just bad at statistics,” she says weakly.
You’re silent for way longer than comfort allows before you turn your attention to the textbook and Vi’s letting out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.
“Fine,” you give in. “Let’s talk about sigmoid function and practice some applications...”
Vi’s happy to listen, goes through your preselected practice problems with ease (and maybe fucks up a value or two here and there to really sell her need for you). But the sun’s going down again, and it’s nearing six when Vi folds her hand this time around.
It comes in the form of her stomach grumbling in the emptying library and she looks up at you in embarrassment as you crack the first smile of the evening.
“Hungry?” you ask.
“Starving,” she replies dramatically, leaning so far back in her seat, her knees bump yours under the table.
Your toes curl at the contact, heart skipping when she doesn’t make a move to reposition herself.
“Have you eaten yet?” she asks, eyes looking everywhere but yours.
“Not since breakfast,” you admit.
“You like pizza?”
“Only the good kind,” you challenge.
“Beautiful,” Vi hums, shuffling her papers into her textbook and chucking it back into her bookbag. “I know the best place.”
Valentino’s is a hole-in-the-wall right outside of campus, a short walk from the library that Violet leverages as a way to get to know you outside of being lectured about statistical curves and correlation.
“Did you grow up around here?” Vi asks once the waiter sets two glasses of water down between the two of you.
You shake your head.
“No, grew up on the east coast and decided I needed a break from my life there,” you admit easily.
It’s almost as if the facade of professionalism fades away, melting to reveal you.
Vi’s desperate for more.
“As in?”
You look at her for a moment, wonder if you should divulge because you’re not really sure if Vi would get it, but she watches you like she’s hanging onto every single word you say, so you’re spilling.
“My dad died when I was little, left me and three other siblings with my Mom,” you offer. “And I love my siblings. Love my mom. She’s been a great parent, better than great actually, but most of our family disowned me when I came out and it was easier to run away than to deal with it.”
Violet’s expression falls, a furrow settling deep between her brows.
“Wow, I’m, uh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says, and she sounds sincere. A long moment lapses before she’s adding, “for what it’s worth, I think that’s very brave of you.”
And you seem a little surprised at the sentiment.
“Thanks.” You smile. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
Vi could turn to goo in this dimly lit booth, stained-glass wall sconce casting a warm glow over your pretty face.
“You—” She sniffs, changes the subject because she doesn’t know if she can do this on an empty stomach. “You like pineapple on your pizza?”
“Oh yeah,” you confirm proudly. “It’s a hill I’ll die on, I’m not sorry.”
“God, marry me now.”
She doesn’t realize she says it out loud until you’re bursting into a fit of laughter on your side of the booth.
“So this is something we can agree on?” you ask, head tilting in the way that makes Vi want to grab your face and taste you.
“Oh yeah,” she parrots instead. “One hundred percent.”
Valentino’s becomes routine just as much as Vi seeing you at four every Tuesday and Thursday becomes routine. It’s always after the Thursday session (because they have a three dollar slice from 6 to close) that you and Vi cram yourselves in the same booth near the kitchen and giggle over half a Hawaiian pizza.
“...And my little sister blew up her science project in the fourth grade—”
You choke on your bite, eyes wide as Violet recalls Powder’s little mishap that sent the entire gymnasium evacuating despite the tiniest fire.
“Now she’s about graduate and start school for chemical engineering,” she says, obviously proud.
“She seems like a smart girl,” you observe, if the countless stories Violet shares with you is anything to go by.
You figure being related to someone as great as the new friend you’ve made also speaks for itself.
“The smartest,” she agrees. “I’m proud of her.”
“I’m sure she’s proud of you too,” you assure her. “You’re a good big sister.”
And it’s in these moments that Vi realizes that she’s in far, far deeper than she initially gave stock. Because these past few weeks, she realizes that there’s a lot more to your big brain and your pretty face. You’re an attentive listener, way funnier than she could have anticipated, and just a lot more laid back than you let on.
That much she finds out after the two of you graduate from emailing with silly sign-offs to exchanging phone numbers and texting. It starts off rather irregular, a coffee order here and there, maybe a TikTok that Vi swears is funny, you just have to watch it all the way through! But then she starts texting you when she’s bored, when she’s in class, before practice, after. Even pops the question that’s been niggling at her since she met you: on a scale from 1 - 10 how down are you to smoke?
Like cigarettes?
no, weed, dummy.
Oh. Hmm. 7. 10 if I’m drunk.
She could not wipe the smile from her face even if she tried.
And then she gets the invite.
Ellie swears it’s her in.
“Jesus Christ if you even consider me a friend, you’ll bang,” Ellie calls from the couch.
“It’s just tutoring,“ Vi argues.
“Yeah, at her place,” she scoffs. “At least test the waters, maybe cop a feel.”
“You’re a pig,” Vi snorts, making sure her laptop and all of the worksheets Medarda’s assigned over the course of the week is in her backpack.
“You’ve been wet dreaming over this girl for months.”
“Fuck all the way off.” Vi’s face warms because her best friend isn’t necessarily wrong.
You’re too hot for your own good, but you don’t even know it and Vi thinks she could die sometimes. Especially when you wear your favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hug the swell of your ass just right. Or swipe on that shimmery lipgloss she swears makes your mouth look edible.
If you were willing, Vi would be all over you, but thinking about taking advantage of the fact that you trust her enough to invite her into your space feels a little grimy.
“Whatever, bang, don’t bang,” Ellie says nonchalantly. “Blueball yourself for all I care.”
Vi rolls her eyes, slings her bag over her shoulder before sliding on her shoes and leaving her friend on the couch with a resounding click.
You live off-campus, maybe a ten minute drive, in a cozy little complex near the suburbs. Your roommate, Maddie, a chipper blonde with a bob, is all too eager to leave when Vi arrives.
“Hi, sorry we couldn’t meet anywhere else,” you apologize as you let her into your space. “Even if the library wasn’t closed, the vet said I have to monitor Pip for the next 48 hours.”
Vi raises a brow.
“My cat,” you clarify.
“Oh.” Vi doesn’t know why she suddenly feels like she’s intruding as she hesitantly toes off her shoes and follows you down the hall.
But she does take the opportunity to take you in in all your glory; all cozy and cuddly in an oversized sweatshirt, plaid pajama shorts and mismatched egg socks.
Cute. So fucking cute.
You spare her a glance over your shoulder and she’s clearing her throat.
“We don’t have to have a session tonight," she says, stopping at the threshold of the living room. “I would’ve understood if you had to cancel.”
You shake your head, give her a soft smile that has her knees feel like jelly.
“S’okay,” you assure her. “A promise is a promise.”
And you do start off studying, shoulder to shoulder in front of your coffee table, but then Pip crawls from his little hiding spot under the TV console to curiously nose along Vi’s feet and she’s a goner.
“He’s so sweet,” she practically wails as he paws at her thigh and nudges against her arm so that he can climb into her lap.
You warm at the sight, can’t help but snap a picture, much to Violet’s dismay.
“Stop,” she laughs. “That picture can’t see the light of day.”
“Why?” you whine, making a show of climbing onto your wooden coffee table to get a funny top down photo of the hockey star with your cat. “You and Pip look so cute together.”
She feigns a scowl even though her shoulders shake with laughter.
“I have a bad boy image to uphold, sweetheart.”
You snort, reach into her lap to scratch behind Pip’s ear, and her heart melts, body warm from her ears to her toes.
“Is he sick?” she asks cautiously, petting him softly.
“Just a little,” you say. “Something some rest and medicine won’t fix.”
It’s how the two of you end up on the couch, study materials long forgotten as Animal Planet plays in the background. Pip’s moved to lounge atop the covers draped over your lap and you’re blowing your nose into a tissue as an especially sad segment about baby animals being rejected by their mothers finishes.
Vi knows she shouldn’t laugh, but you’re too fucking cute and she can’t help but coo at you.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” you hiccup.
“What, that you’re a big soft baby?” she teases.
“Vi,” you whimper.
And something in her brain tickles because she can’t recall a time you’d ever called her by her nickname, only ever referred to her as Violet and nothing else.
She resists a smile.
“Okay, okay,” she gives in. “Lets change the subject.”
You make a noise of agreement as you cuddle your sleepy Pip.
“I actually wanted to ask you something,” she says, arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers a hairsbreadth from your figure.
Test the waters, cop a feel.
Vi’s not particularly into the idea, but the opportunity’s right there in the way wisps of your hair falls from its hold. Her fingers move of their own device, tucking the strands behind your ear.
She feels you still for the slightest, most imperceptible of moments, but then you’re relaxing, letting her fingers brush from your ear down to your shoulder, then back to where it rests on the back of the couch.
“You doing anything on Saturday?” she asks, really hopes you’ll say no.
“Not that I know of,” you say without second thought.
Not that you really need to. Your tight circle of friends are all alike, tethered to their hobbies and their homes.
“I have a game on Saturday,” Vi starts, fiddling with a little hole in the cushion. “If you wanted to come.”
You don’t agree or disagree immediately, and Vi’s scrambling to soothe over any potential discomfort.
“You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, of course,” she says quickly. “I just— I thought you might be interested in going and I’d really like to see you there and—”
A small little laugh puffs from your lips.
“Of course I’ll go,” you agree easily.
Vi deflates in relief.
“Great,” she sighs. “Awesome.”
Vi doesn’t know why she invites you. More so, she doesn’t know why she tells her teammates that she’s invited you because now they’re whooping and hollering in the locker room, towel-whipping her and sing-songing that their star player’s gonna get laid.
Doesn’t know why she invites you because as soon as she glides on the ice, she’s searching the stands high and low for your familiar figure. When she clocks you nestled in the middle with your roommate and another friend she vaguely recognizes, her heart’s soaring and her stomach’s twisting in knots.
Vi’s never nervous, but somehow you bring out the worst of it.
It only takes a few moments, though. The blare of the horn snaps her back into her zone and she leaves all the noise off-rink. In this moment, all she knows is cutting ice, dodging the other team’s most aggressive players and sinking shot after shot.
It’s nearing the end of the second period when she finally glances at the score.
5—4.
The opposing team’s giving them a run for their money and this is probably one of the tightest matches they’ve played all season. She takes a moment to find you in the stands again, and you’re right where she left you, eyes already glued to her as you hover over the edge of your seat.
She hadn’t realized it before, but you’ve got her number painted on her face and another surge of warmth layers over the exertion.
You give her a thumbs up and she feels like lightning.
They reset and she’s off, like a streak of light in the night sky, she’s shuffling the puck towards the goal.
Then you see the navy uniform barreling towards her, voice caught in your throat as Vi gives the puck one last shot before that damned Jersey Number Six shoves her so hard, she’s flinging into the rink’s wall.
The horn chugs, signaling the end of the second period and the stands erupt in a ceremonious cheer as the playback reveals that Vi had sunk the puck before time.
“Fuck yeah!” you cry out, shooting to your feet to clap your hands.
Vi ignores the instigating chants to fight, only really pays attention to your little dance of excitement as she shakes off the other player and rejoins her team for intermission.
“Fuck, Vi, you got it bad, huh?” Abigail Anderson’s spearheading the teasing once they all return to the locker room at the end of the game.
Vi’s body heats at the thought, isn’t really in the business of denying it anymore, because, you know what? Yeah. Vi’s got it so fucking bad for you, she doesn’t even know what to do with herself. You’re her first thought, her final prayer, and everything in between.
So all she does he shrug, can’t help the grin that splits her lips as she rubs her towel through her sweat-damp hair.
She’s the first one out of the locker room, dressed in some sweats and a pullover, towel slung around her neck as she steps into the tunnel. Your contact’s pulled up, and she’s ready to fire off a text asking where you want her to meet you, but she stops short to see you already leaned outside of the change room’s doors.
“Hey, cupcake,” she murmurs, smiling hard when she finds the smudged number 5 still chalked on your face.
“Hi, Violet,” you return shyly, hands clasped behind your back.
She hears the telltale whoosh of the locker room doors, the chattering of her teammates as they poke their heads out into the hall to be nosy, but she’s guiding you along, throwing a wink over her shoulder as the two of you fall into step.
“Thank you for coming,” Vi says after a moment. “You being here really meant a lot to me.”
You don’t know if Vi’s always been this sentimental, but just never given the opportunity to showcase it, or if she’s just buttering you up, but you can’t help but beam at her with pearly teeth and dimpled cheeks.
“God, Violet, you were so good!” you say excitedly, a little skip in your step. “You were in the rink, skating circles around them, like this, and like this.”
She bursts into laughter as you start speeding down the tunnel, dodging garbage bins and jumping up into the air to click your heels.
Something falls out of your little fannypack when you land, and Vi’s crouching down to pick up the tulle baggie to find a little beaded bracelet with a gold clasp that reads puck off.
“What’s this?” Vi asks, and you stop your shenanigans to turn your attention to her.
When your expression falters and you’re running back to her at full speed, she’s holding the baggie up just a little too out of reach for you, grin smug.
“Is this for me, sweetheart?” she asks presumptuously, even though her heart’s thrumming hard in her ribcage.
You’re on your tiptoes, chest pressed against hers, and god, please! is all Vi can think when your head tilts up, a little defeated knit between your eyebrows.
She milks the fuck out of whatever this is, arm banding around your waist as she returns the baggie to you.
“Maybe,” you whisper finally.
“Maybe what?” Vi teases.
“Maybe it’s for you,” you respond, free hand coming to rest on her chest.
“And what do I have to do to get it?” she asks, voice low.
It makes your body jolt hard as a shiver slinks down your spine because there she is, the insufferable flirt who knows exactly what to say to have your brain turn to mush.
You seem like you’re contemplating for a moment and Vi’s breath is hitching in her throat, wondering if you’re willing to play this cat and mouse game with her.
You smile, something glinting in your warm eyes.
“Puck off.”
Your giggle is maniacal as you slip away, leaving her temporarily stunned before she chases you down the tunnel. And she should expect your speed, especially because you’ve got legs, but it takes her a moment to catch up with you when her practice bag’s thumping on her back like that. Her calloused fingers are closing around the flesh of your hips in no time and she’s pulling you back into her arms.
“Cough it up, sweetheart,” she huffs.
You whine.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you counter.
“Gimme, gimme, gimme.”
And you give in because Violet’s made you weak. She’s holding out her wrist as you free the multi-colored bracelet.
You barely clasp the closure in the ring before Violet’s stumbling into you, a big burly girl from the other team shoulder checking the fuck out of her.
“Nice job standing in the middle of the walk way,” she bites.
Violet only snorts a laugh.
“Whatever, good game,” she calls.
Whoever she is, stops, levels Vi with a deadly look before her gaze flits to the bracelet you’ve just fixed around her wrist to you who stands frozen into place as the tension crackles between them.
“Cute,” she observes and your skin prickles. “Let me take her for a spin?”
“Violet,” you warn when her shoulders square and she takes a step forward.
She looks torn between walking away and beating the shit out of whoever this instigator is, but one of her teammates is shoving her along.
“Leave it.”
Whatever that was shatters the moment between the two of you and Vi’s taking in a deep breath as Abby trails behind the two of you.
The girl whistles for good measure and you throw a dirty look over your shoulder.
She winks.
You’ve still yet to find out who hosts these parties, but this time around gives you a weird sense of deja vu as you climb the steps with Maddie in tow.
You and Vi had parted ways at the rink, not before extending you an invite to the celebration later in the evening.
You should come, I can pick you up.
But per usual, DD duties call, and you’d smiled up at her despite the lingering pressure from the prior confrontation and promised her that yes, you’d absolutely be there.
Maddie squeals from the step below as you climb the front porch, breaths coming out in puffs of steam.
“You look so hot,” she says excitedly.
You giggle nervously, sure hope you do because you’re freezing your ass off!
“Yeah?”
Maddie gives you an incredulous look, eyelids powdered with glitter and gaze lined charcoal. She’s looking extra cute tonight too and you know that the two of you could fall into an endless cycle of teasing because a certain someone’s probably inside tonight.
“If she doesn’t fuck you before the night ends, I will,” Maddie teases, and you’re warming unceremoniously at the thought.
Because maybe you’ve been thinking about it a lot more recently despite only going into this trying to get through these tutoring sessions and dipping. Especially as of late now that Vi’s made it a habit to FaceTime you after practice, on your walk to the library, dripping sweat and chest heaving.
You’d always seen the appeal, but now you feel it.
You smooth down your asymmetrical skirt and Maddie steps up to adjust your tits in your lowcut lace blouse just as the door swings open to reveal none other than Violet.
“Oh—” Her voice catches as she takes you in.
Maddie gives your ass a little swat and Vi’s gaze is following the movement as your roommate pushes past her to slip inside.
“I was— I was just about to step out. To, uh, to call you,” she stammers.
You breath out a little laugh.
“Here I am.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Here you are.”
Jesus, fuck Vi could burst into flames right now. Your boots hug your thighs and Violet’s not gonna lie, she really wishes it were her head squeezed between—
“You look...” Hot, so fucking edible, downright fuck— “...really nice.”
You smile, but you can’t help the way your teeth chatters.
“Fuck, shit, you’re probably cold,” she curses, warm hands closing around your shoulders to pull you inside. “Why didn’t you wear a jacket? You’re gonna get sick.”
I wanted you to want me.
“Guess I just forgot,” you say quietly.
She looks like she wants to scold you, but instead, she’s pulling down her coat, a big black work jacket, hanging from the banister of the stairs around your shoulders and you’re relishing the residual warmth that lingers there and her familiar scent.
“Can I get you a cider?” she asks. “It’s still warm.”
It hits you as her fingers curl through yours, that Vi’s truly nothing like what you initially thought. She’s sweet, and she’s respectful, and she’s everything you could ever hope for.
You freeze at the thought, and Vi’s glancing at you when she’s tugged to a stop.
“You okay?” she hums.
Your eyes search her face, gliding over the scar on her lip and the one slit through her eyebrow. The gold hoop pierced through her nose glints under the lowlight and her thick lashes flutter as she looks down at you.
You give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes because wow, you’re in deep.
“I’m okay,” you assure her, give her fingers a squeeze for good measure.
When she finally secures you a mug of steaming cider, she’s guiding you to her group of friends that occupy the living room.
You only recognize Ellie, her best friend and her roommate, and Abby, the captain. Everyone else is a jumbled mix of names and faces and you stick close to Vi as she settles into the left corner of the couch.
You make a move to sit on the armrest, legs crossed and hands folded around your mug, but Vi’s spreading her legs and pulling you into her lap before you can effectively protest.
Her warmth immediately engulfs you and it takes every ounce of self control not to curl up into a ball in front of all her friends and classmates.
As they recap the game and catch up with each other, you remain hushed, eyes flitting from person to person as they speak. Toes curling whenever Violet’s voice vibrates in her chest as she talks big about sports and the hot teams this season.
You’re caught off caught when Ellie’s directing a question towards you and you barely register.
“What do you like to do?” she asks you.
All eyes audibly shift to where you’re cozied up in Vi’s lap, cider empty and abandoned on the side table.
“Uh.”
Your words are lodged in your throat because you’re so used to talking Vi’s ear off about your interests (namely, Animal Planet and your son Pip), showing her your little craft projects you like to do in front of the television on a weekend evening (you’d taken a break from the scarf / hat combo you were knitting to finish the bracelet you designed for Vi), and yapping about some obscure film you’d watched while finishing said projects.
But here, now, you don’t know what to say. Not when this isn’t your typical crowd and you don’t know what to expect from her friends.
Vi must feel your hesitation because her digits are slipping into her jacket, fingertips ghosting the small of your back as she presses a palm against your spine to smooth the tension there.
It’s okay, is a silent insinuation.
You give her a look from the corner of your eye before you turn your attention back to Ellie.
“I don’t do much,” you offer honestly. “Just starting my old cat lady duties early, I suppose.”
Ellie laughs benevolently.
“You have a cat?”
“Yes, his name’s Pip, and he’s basically my kid.”
“Cute,” Ellie coos. “You got any pictures?”
And you seem to light up, spare Vi one more glance as you dig in her coat pocket to produce your cellphone, charms jangling as you power it back on to show Ellie the lockscreen.
“I contemplated naming him Toothless from—”
“—How To Train Your Dragon!” Abby fills in from across the couch. “That’s such a good ass movie.”
It warms Vi to the bone, seeing you and her friends nerd out. Seeing them put in the effort because they know she likes you and seeing you reciprocate because, well, you’re you, and you just need a little warming up.
She doesn’t know how long you and her friends chat for until you’re shifting a little and turning your attention back to her.
“Can you show me the bathroom, please?”
Her gaze flits to her circle, and they’re smirking, obviously under the impression that this must be some sort of code the two of you concocted.
She ignores them, and most importantly she ignores the way her pulse jumps when you stand from your seat and perch between her legs, offering both of your neatly manicured hands to her.
This is getting fucking ridiculous.
The bathroom is tucked under the stairs near the front of the house and she stands post outside the door as you finish up.
It’s only when you’re poking your head outside the door sheepishly that she stands up straight.
“Can you help me with my zipper?” you ask timidly.
She puffs a laugh, slips in through the space you crack for her to find you holding the two sides of your skirt together.
And she knows she shouldn’t look, but the space allows her to see the pink lace of your panties. She’s shoving her tongue in her cheek, focusing on lining up the seams and pulling up your zipper as you hold the fabric taut.
“Thanks,” you whisper, looking up to see that Vi’s impossibly close to you in this cramped little powder room.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” she croaks, leaning against the counter as you wash your hands.
She thumbs the hem of your skirt absently.
“I like this,” she admits, gaze trailing up to meet yours. “You look pretty.”
Your ears burn, unable to meet the smolder of her steely eyes. You’d probably find that her pupils are blown wide if you did. Instead, you’re watching her mouth, lips stained cherry and tongue coming out to wet the dry patch.
You hold your breath as you reach across her for the hand towel, but her hands find your hips, teetering into dangerous territory as she moves almost close enough to slip her hands under your skirt.
“You’re not gonna say thank you?” she asks, watching you through hooded eyes.
A nervous giggle bubbles.
“Thanks, Violet,” you murmur.
“‘Course,” she agrees easily. “You gonna wear it again?”
You bite.
“If you ask nicely.”
She licks her lips again, body flexed as you allow her to press you closer. One of your hands splays on the counter behind her, the other brushing over the blooming bruise on her jaw.
“Can I?” she husks.
You don’t need to ask for clarification, not when her nose is nudging yours and your breaths are mingling.
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Pl—”
The door rattles with the ferocity of whoever’s knocking on the other side.
“Hurry up in there, I gotta piss!”
To your dismay, the two of you don’t talk about Saturday night. And things’s aren’t particularly bad, but something’s definitely shifted and it’s driving you nuts.
Vi’s on the ice practicing the following morning and after classes on Monday, so you wait for your session with bated breath on Tuesday. You try extra hard despite every voice of reason telling you that you’re reading into it too much.
Vi smiles at you easily as she drops into the seat across from you, pulling out her biometry textbook without so much as a peep about the fact that the two of you almost kissed in whoever the fuck’s bathroom that was over the weekend.
You’re staring, hard.
Because that familiar feeling’s coming back. The seedling of doubt that had rooted in the beginning about Vi’s intentions with you. She’d done a good job of weeding it out over the weeks, of dismantling whatever image you’d built of her in your head, but it plants itself again.
She’s squeezing your hand across the table and your gaze flits down to her rough fingers. That’s when you notice it, the bracelet, still fastened where you clasped it on game night.
You relax a fraction.
“Everything okay?”
You smile, something small.
“Yeah, good,” you assure her.
The rest of your tutoring session is uneventful, goes off without a hitch. And you’re shameless in admitting that you hate to see her go as she walks you to your car in the student lot near the library.
You’re grasping at straws, clearing your throat before she closes your door for you.
“Uh,” you squeak. “Do you want to come over?”
Vi’s pausing, hand still on the edge of your door as her lips twitch.
“Like right now?”
You nod because you’ve already pulled the trigger.
“Like right now,” you confirm.
She checks her wristwatch, sighs heavily because fuck yes, she’d love to come over right now, but Anderson and Williams are expecting her for a strategy meeting with the coach and—
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to, I know we only really—”
She pinches your cheek before tucking some of your hair behind your ear.
“I can’t tonight, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says. “But tell you what, if you’re willing to free up your Friday night, I’d really like to plan something.”
Your heartbeat skips.
“All yours,” you say without missing a beat.
Vi’s grinning wide.
“Perfect, drive safe,” she bids. “See you tomorrow.”
And you don’t know why you’re so fucking high strung, not when Vi hasn’t done anything to make you doubt that this isn’t all in your head, but it only gets worse as the days go by.
It doesn’t come to a head until Thursday, when your tutoring slots are miraculously empty until Vi’s and you receive an email from Medarda to meet in her office after her string of lectures.
“Afternoon,” the older woman greets, smiling warmly at you as she lets you into her office. “Just wanted to check in with your audit and request any feedback you have.”
You think for a moment before shaking your head.
“Nothing in particular that I can think of,” you say easily, then add with a laugh, “feel like I’ll be a professional by the end of the semester.”
“Why do you say that?” Medarda chuckles as she logs into her computer.
“I have a student sitting every Tuesday and Thursday for tutoring in your class,” you reveal.
She gives you look crossed between surprise and amusement.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” You giggle at the distant memory of Vi’s expression in the weight room. “She seems to be picking it up well enough, though.”
“Huh, every Tuesday and Thursday?” she asks, fingers flying over her keyboard. “I must be doing something wrong.”
“I’d hardly say that,” you say. “When Violet booked all my sessions, I thought it was a joke, but I think she’s just really dedicated to doing well.”
“Violet?” Medarda repeats, hands stilling over her mouse.
“Yeah, Violet, on the women’s hockey team?”
Your professor’s eyebrows twitch.
“Why would you— huh. Weird,” she comments.
“I admit it was a little strange, but—”
“Violet’s a consistent top scorer on the exams,” Medarda shares. “She’s been top of the class since the beginning of the semester.”
And it’s like the world stills as she reveals that information, fragile pieces shattering as the gears start turning in your brain and you try to put the puzzle together.
You glance at the clock, find that you’re due to meet Violet in half an hour.
“Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” you say politely, try to ignore the concerned expression etched on your professor’s face at your sudden departure. “It was nice chatting with you. If I think of anything feedback-wise, I’ll be sure to email you.”
And you’re running.
Vi’s in the locker room after practice, toweling off after an extra long shower because she’s been looking a little extra forward to seeing you today, but perhaps that’s everyday as of late.
She’s hooking the bracelet you gave her back on when her phone vibrates and she’s practically diving into her locker when your text tone bleats.
sweetheart: I have to cancel your session this afternoon. I’m sorry.
Her expression screws up.
everything ok? can i do anything for you?
sweetheart: Personal things to take care of. I’ll see you next week.
I’ll see you next week.
But what about tomorrow? She’d been working so fucking hard on tomorrow, on finally pulling her head far enough out of her ass to ask you to give the two of you a shot.
She sets her phone down, slumps down on the bench as she turns her wrist and takes in the smooth glass beads of the bracelet.
She sighs. Hard.
You hole up all weekend long, put your phone on do not disturb, and try your best to get whatever this is out of your system. But you’re a slave to your emotions and you can’t help but check your messages every time you know Vi’s free.
It’s a single text on a Saturday night, one that surprises you because you know she has practice now that the big game’s fast approaching.
violet <3: hey sweetheart, just checking in. i know you said you had a few personal things going on, but i’m here if you feel like you need someone <3
You’re texting back before your better judgement can stop you.
Just been a little stressed. You wanna come over?
.
.
.
Then you add, We can smoke.
Vi’s sending you three running emojis and you crack a smile at your screen before realizing that you need to shower.
You lay out some clothes beforehand, ultimately settling on last Saturday’s skirt.
Vi’s giggling as you fumble with the wrapper, rolling it with clumsy fingers because, truthfully, you don’t do this often, but she shuts right up when you don’t break eye contact as the tip of your tongue slides across the seam to seal the joint.
She’d picked you up with a Sprite and a slice to split from Valentino’s, throat drying as you bounded down the stairs in the same fucking skirt that had her touching herself after she’d gotten home from the party, guilty and wound tight. Now the two of you are tucked away behind some abandoned strip.
“Ready?” Her voice rasps as you pop the end between your lips and she brings the lighter to ignite the end for you.
It burns as you inhale and Vi’s thighs squeeze together involuntarily. She’d smoked with you twice before, both times on the roof of your apartment building and at a reasonable distance. But now, she knows what your body feels like, almost knows what your lips taste like.
You take a few more puffs before offering it to her and the smoke begins to plume to fill the space of her little coupe. It’s moments like these, tucked away from prying eyes, that it’s just you and Vi.
Not Vi, the supposed womanizing hockey star, or you, the nerdy homebody tutor. Just the two of you, two souls trying to get through university and carve your paths.
“I aced Medarda’s exam this week,” Vi says softly, jay pinched between her fingers as she watches you with lowering eyes.
“Oh, yeah? I wonder why,” you quip in return, face impossibly close to hers despite the console between you.
“I have a smartypants tutor that does an especially good job when she’s motivated,” she answers.
Your cheeks flame, but you don’t back down. Vi’s been extra good at pushing your buttons and flirting hard as of late, and maybe you’re a little more than willing to receive and reciprocate, but the two of you have been toeing the line, yet neither of you have taken the leap.
This moment, however, feels like it could be it. Like you’re going to find out what the fuck all of this even is.
“I have to meet this tutor of yours,” you play along. “She sounds like a miracle worker.”
“Among other things,” Vi teases, sucking in the smoke and blowing it through her nostrils.
“Like?”
“She’s also funny as fuck,” she hums. “A big baby when we watch Animal Planet.”
You narrow your eyes at her and Vi lets out a little laugh that makes your toes curl.
“Uh-huh?”
“She’s really fucking pretty too,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she affirms. “Kind of pretty that makes you wanna do bad, bad things.”
You smile falters as a shiver rips down your spine and before you know it, Vi’s putting out the joint before climbing in the cramped backseat of her car to spread her legs.
Doesn’t even give you a moment to process before she’s pulling you on top of her and allowing you to settle comfortably in her lap. Her hands run up your thighs and disappear under your skirt to grab the fat of your ass.
You breathe out a little giggle as your slender fingers come up to cup her jaw.
“Think my tutor’ll be mad at me?” Vi murmurs, nose brushing yours. “‘Cuz I really, really wanna kiss this pretty girl in my lap right now.”
You let out a broken little sigh when her hips buck.
“Maybe she’ll forgive you,” you whisper. “I know I would.”
And that’s all the affirmation Vi needs from you before she’s taking the plunge and slotting her lips with yours; kissing you with so much fervor, you’d think she needs you to breathe. She tastes like mint and weed and you can’t get enough.
Vi’s all-consuming, her kiss a delicious mix of teeth and tongue. And, god, her hands. Rough and calloused, but gentle in the way she explores your body. It isn’t until she’s snapping the band of your thong and her fingertips ghost the seam of your sticky heat that you’re hyper-focusing.
“Mmmph, Violet, Vi—” Your voice cracks as she breaks from your lips to map a series of kisses from your jaw, to the juncture behind your ear, down the column of your neck. “Wait.”
She stops, hands pulling from under your skirt like you’ve burned her. And perhaps you have, branded nearly every part of her because she can’t really think of a sound moment if you’re not there.
“Sorry, sorry,” she shudders as the arousal ebbs through her tightened body. “I—”
I’m caught up. I’m losing it, and it’s all your fault, and—
“Violet,” you swallow, fingers toying with the collar of her varsity sweatshirt. “I have something to say.”
Her throat bobs and her grey eyes gleam like ash in the lowlight of the backseat of her car. The windows are smoked out and it’s exceptionally warm, equal parts sexual tension and another thing Vi can’t quite pinpoint.
“Yeah, anything,” she assures you, hands resting on your waist instead. “You can tell me anything.”
One of your palms settles over her chest, right where her heart is and you suck in a sharp breath.
“I— uh, I really like you, Violet,” you admit quietly. “A lot more than I think I’ve ever liked someone in a long, long time.”
Oh.
Oh. Here it comes, the big fat rejection. The coming to your senses.
“But?”
The look on your face is devastating and Vi’s scared.
“I have to know that if I give you a chance, you won’t abuse it,” you hiccup, and wow, that’s definitely not what she expects you to say, but fuck does it leave a sour taste in her mouth.
“Abuse it?” she repeats, face crumpling.
“Violet,” you sigh.
“Abuse what?” she husks.
“I know you—”
“Do you?” she scoffs, a wave of irritation washing over her as she looks you with disappointment. “What gave you the idea that I would ever even dream of taking advantage of you giving me a chance?”
“You don’t necessarily have a spotless record, Violet,” you say, voice edged. “And I know that I’m not your usual—”
“Not my usual what?” The venom in Vi’s tone is uncharacteristic, but this is not at all how she expected tonight to go and she’s frustrated. “Not my usual type? You internalized all this shit that people say about me even though I’ve been trying to get you to see me for months.”
Emotion clogs your throat because a small part of you knows that Vi’s right. She’s never given you an outright reason to doubt her interest in you, but it all just seems too good to be true.
“Sue me for wanting to protect myself,” you choke, climbing out of her lap and back into the front seat. “Especially because I know that you don’t actually need help in Medarda’s class.”
And that catches Vi off guard. You see as much in the rearview mirror when she pales.
She clambers back into the driver’s seat.
“Who told you that?” she asks, not even bothering to deny the fact.
“I mentioned that I was tutoring you in passing when Medarda asked for feedback on her class,” you respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “She asked why I’d be doing that when you’re top of all her sections.”
Violet’s voice is stuck in her chest.
“And then your past hook ups parade around campus like a reminder that—,” you cut yourself off, obviously hurt after bottling this all up. “And it isn’t any of my business, nor are we anything enough for me to plausibly upset—”
“Yes, I lied,” Vi admits quietly. “But only about one thing.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re right, I don’t need help in Medarda’s class. I lied about being clueless and I signed up for tutoring even though I didn’t need it,” she says.
“Why?”
“You know why,” Vi huffs. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”
It’s a glaring insinuation that makes you crack.
“No one ever says it out loud, but I know what everyone thinks,” you choke. “Violet’s fucking that loser?”
“You really believe that?”
“God, Violet, I don’t know what to fucking believe,” you cry out. “My life’s fucking fine and dandy and then you show up and make me fucking question everything I—”
Vi lets out a humorless laugh, can’t even look at you and it could make you sick.
“You’re so fucking loved by everyone, even those who won’t admit it,” you croak. “And you’re incredible at everything you do, turn everything you touch to gold, and I’m just...”
Vi’s brows furrow.
“You’re what?”
“I’m me,” you whisper meekly. “I’m just me and you’re you, and I just don’t see what makes me so different.”
And Vi realizes that she’d read it all wrong.
“Look at me,” she says softly, fingers tracing your jaw.
You knuckle your tears away, make a petulant noise in your throat.
“You wanna know why I booked all your stupid tutoring sessions?” she huffs. “Because I really fucking like you, ________. And it’s beyond wanting to fuck you even though god knows I’d fucking die if you let me. It’s so much more than having you physically. Because I’ll take being just friends with you if it means having you around. I don’t give a shit about anything else but you.”
It’s the most sound declaration you hear from the girl in the semester you’ve known her and it makes you cry.
“You make me feel so fucking normal and you remind me that I don’t need to be anything else but me,” she breathes. “And I get where you’re coming from, I hear you. I just really hope you hear me too.”
“I do,” you whisper. “I’m just—”
Vi squeezes your thigh, takes your hand in hers and brings your knuckles to her lips.
“Let’s get you home, okay?” she offers gently.
Vi only has one more game before the championships and she won’t lie and say that this limbo with you has her feeling like she’s going to be ill.
You’d cancelled her tutoring sessions this week, told her that maybe the two of you needed to spend some time apart and that she was clearly doing a number on you. So she agrees, tries to give you space to work through what’s weighing on you.
sweetheart: Good luck at your game tonight, Violet. I’m rooting for you.
She really wishes you’d be there, but she knows you need the time alone.
thanks, sweetheart. i appreciate you.
“Alright Vi, we have fifteen til puck drop,” Ellie says carefully, has been front row to everything transpiring between you and her best friend.
Vi tucks her phone away in her backpack, unhooks your bracelet from around her wrist and fastens it to the handle of her bag, and grabs her stick from the rack before she lets her teammates jostle her into the tunnel.
And she wishes she could lock in, clear her head and get into the game, but all she can think about is you.
It’s a narrow victory once the game ends, but she can’t find it in herself to celebrate, especially not at the kickback afterwards because fucking Sev and her assholes are there.
“Where’s your little dime piece?” she taunts.
“Fuck off,” Vi warns, obviously not in the mood.
“Shame,” she whistles. “She looks like a fucking weirdo, but she sure does have a fat ass—”
Ellie’s fist cracks so hard across her jaw.
“She told you to fuck off,” she hisses.
Sev spits the blood in her mouth on the toe of Ellie’s shoe, fists bunching the collar of her sweater.
“Keep that fucking energy on the ice because I’m gonna wipe the floor with your fucking pissbaby team.”
You wake up on Monday morning to a text from Vi and a handful of notifications from Instagram.
violet <3: can i see you this week?
You open Instagram.
sev.94 has requested to follow you!
sev.94 has sent you a message request!
Your brows furrow, opening the message request hesitantly. There’s a few DMs and a video from this Sev person.
sev.94 hey pretty, sorry to text you like this.
sev.94 just thought you should know the kind of person your little girlfriend is
sev.94 sent a video.
sev.94 i don’t really do relationships, but i’d take your mind off of it if you let me.
You’re playing the video, quality grainy and audio blasted. You don’t know what you’re looking at at first, it’s dark, and there’s so many voices. But you see skin, see the outline of a girl’s naked back, delicate and arched in pleasure.
You think this Sev person’s just fucking with you, playing some stupid joke with a shitty punchline as someone’s hands snake around to palm the flesh of the unnamed girl’s ass, but then you see it.
The bracelet.
Vi going to lose her shit for two reasons.
(1) Because you haven’t responded to her message despite your read receipts being on, and (2) she can’t fucking find the bracelet you’d gifted to her.
She’s barging into Ellie’s room, shirtless and hair dripping.
“Jesus, fuck, do you knock?” Ellie hisses, buds she was in the midst of grinding scattering across the floor.
“I can’t find the bracelet she gave me,” Vi says quickly.
Ellie’s face scrunches.
“Huh?”
“The bracelet ________ gave to me,” Vi says. “I hooked it on my backpack before practice on Saturday but it’s not there anymore.”
Ellie’s expression morphs, eyes narrowing in thought.
“Maybe you misplaced it,” Ellie offers. “Regardless, we practice tonight, I’ll help you look for it.”
Vi’s chest is tight, doesn’t want to admit that the stupid little bracelet means way more to her than she lets on. She only ever takes it off when she’s on the ice, won’t risk losing it when she’s got a target on her back and everyone plays rough.
It turns out to be futile when they enter the rink and she retraces her steps only to come up empty-handed.
This, she realizes, is the start of a very long week.
You should’ve seen it coming, really. Don’t know why you tried to psyche yourself into thinking that Vi could ever really want something with you when the world’s her fucking oyster and she can have anything she wants.
And you want to feel bad when she texts you intermittently through the days, checking in, offering to meet you, anything. But part of you is angry, unforgiving, tired.
You could’ve gone the rest of the school year unscathed if she’d just left you the fuck alone, but she pried and she tugged and she settled, and she made a home inside of you and you hate that you let her.
xxxx: i really miss you.
You block her number, block her social media, and even though finals are imminent, you now know that Vi’s been playing you for a fool this whole time and you cancel every last one of the sessions she’s booked.
You hope she’d get the message, figure that you’d caught onto her little game and aren’t willing to play anymore, but she doesn’t, that much is clear when you’re finishing up your two thirty session and find her stalking into the library just as the student leaves your table.
“Are we going to talk like adults or are you going to keep acting like—”
You don’t entertain a response, just pack your bag and sling the strap over your shoulder because the tears are bubbling and you don’t trust yourself not to break.
“Seriously?” Vi bites, hot on your heels as you throw all of your weight against the library doors and suck in the icy air.
“Leave me alone, Violet,” you warn.
“No, fuck that,” Vi spits, hand closing around your bicep. “You don’t— You don’t get to make me fall for you and then try to leave with no explanation.”
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
“What?”
“Fuck you, Violet,” you hiccup, yanking your arm from her grasp and putting as much distance as you can between the two of you. “I hope you and your friends got a good laugh out of it.”
Her face is screwing up and if she wasn’t confused before, she’s definitely confused now.
“Listen, I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Vi argues. “I’m so fucking lost right now.”
You hate how believable she is. How the thought of hurting you seems so inconceivable to her. But that grainy video was clear enough.
“I hate you,” you murmur. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
Your name comes out broken, like you’ve wounded her. But you’ve officially folded your hand, won’t dare look her in her eyes because the both of you know it’s not true.
The championships roll in fast like a tide and neither your or Violet are ready for it.
You hear they’re live streaming the game, it’s the most anticipated one in the season. Piltover Stallions against the Zaun City Tigers. A part of you wishes you could support them, but then you’re starkly reminded that you’re a laughingstock amongst them.
The library on a Friday night is as quiet as can be, the hum of the fluorescents background to the voices in your head that are loud. You’re so engrossed in the study material that you don’t realize someone’s making a beeline for you until they’re knocking on the tabletop.
Ellie Williams stands before you in all her lean glory, hands sunk in her pockets as she stares down at you.
“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” Your tone is clipped, disinterested because you believed that you and Ellie could be friends once upon a time.
“Coach sat me out because I socked one of those dickhead Zaun City Tigers in the mouth last weekend.”
You humph.
“Listen, we don’t have much time left, so I’m going to make this short and sweet,” she says. “Whatever happened between you and Vi is obviously personal and that typically would have nothing to do with me, but she can’t get her shit together because all she can think of is you.”
“And that’s my problem because...?”
“I know that Vi comes off a certain way, but she’s my best friend, like my best friend in this entire shithole of a world, and she’s—”
“No offense, Ellie,” you cut her off. “But if Vi sent you here to plead her case, I think that’s pathetic and—”
“Okay, well maybe if you shut up for three seconds and let me get to my point—”
You close your textbook and shove it in your backpack before standing to signal the end of the conversation.
“Whatever, I don’t have time for this.”
Ellie watches you walk away, takes in a deep breath because wow, you’re a bitch when you’re mad, but she absolutely gets why Vi is whipped.
“Violet’s in love with you.”
And that statement makes you freeze. Tears cloud your vision as your fists tighten around the strap of your bag.
“If you fuck someone else while you’re in love, I want nothing to do with it,” you bite.
Ellie’s brows shoot up.
“Whoa, what?”
“Violet fucked someone else as soon as things got tough, and if that’s the kind of person she is in love, I’d rather be alone,” you say stiffly.
“Respectfully, there’s no way Vi’s interested in getting pussy from anywhere else with how down bad that bitch is for you, but even if she was, I spend over seventy percent of my day with her and know that all she’s been doing the past two weeks is moping over the fact that you handed her ass to her on a silver platter.”
“There’s a video.”
Ellie’s brows must be mingling with her hairline right about now.
Her reaches a palm out.
Show me.
You open the DM from sev.94, watching as Ellie’s expression morphs from morbid curiosity to disbelief, to a quiet rage.
She’s handing your phone back to you and grabbing you by your forearm.
“She’s fucking dead.”
When you enter the rink, the ice is tense.
It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 3—3.
Your eyes comb the playing area, can’t find Vi’s jersey number in the mix, but finally settle on her on the bench, shoulders terse and obviously on edge.
She doesn’t clock you yet, had given up on the idea of patching things up with you after your last conversation.
“Vi’s been missing her bracelet since practice on Saturday,” Ellie’d told you on the way there, then pulled out her phone to show you the photo she’d taken of Vi passed out in nothing but her boxers on the couch the night of the last game, fucked up and sad. “We went out for like an hour after the game, but that was it. Vi was too fucking in her head.”
The girl from the tunnel, the one who’d been taunting the two of you, you piece together, has been the one behind it all, stirring the pot.
Throughout the end of the second period and all through intermission, Vi doesn’t notice you, too busy trying to get off the fucking bench to survey the crowd.
It’s only during final puck drop in the third period that their coach finally gives in, smacks the back of her helmet and tells her to make him proud that she lifts her head up.
And there, front and center of the student section is you.
Her eyes are wide, body frozen in place as she tries to figure if you’re just a figment of her imagination, but then the horn’s blaring and she’s having to zone back in.
At this point in time, she doesn’t give a fuck if they win or lose, she just needs to get to you.
“Your little bitch looks cute tonight,” Sevika comments wolfishly. “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”
Vi easily intercepts her pass, cuts between two players as she shuffles it along with practiced precision. She sends the rubber flying and the goalie narrowly misses block.
“Maybe if you played as good as you ran your mouth, you’d wipe the floor with my pissbaby team you big bitch,” Vi calls, resetting in their corner.
And perhaps you’re her good luck charm, the only thing she needed to see to get back into it, because Vi reignites. The adrenaline pumping through her veins fuels every shot, and soon the timer’s buzzing.
7—5.
The roar is deafening, but you’re all she sees in the ocean of cowbells and pompoms.
She barely inches forward before something arcs through the sky and lands before her feet.
Her bracelet.
You watch from the sidelines, the final confirmation as Vi picks up the loop and launches herself at Sevika.
The crowd cheers.
Fight, fight fight!
You don’t know how many swings Vi gets in, just know that she’s flashing you a bloody smile before she skates off the ice.
Ellie emerges from the locker room and you’re perking up.
Most, if not all, of Vi’s teammates had come and gone and you’d been waiting patiently, anxiously, for her to emerge since the end of the game nearly an hour ago.
“She’s the last one in there,” is all Ellie says before strolling off.
“What if...what if she doesn’t want to see me?” you ask hesitantly.
Ellie chuffs a little laugh, doesn’t bother turning as she calls from halfway down the hall, “Find out for yourself, sweetheart.”
Vi’s pulling a tank top over her head as soon as you enter and your cheeks bloom when you catch a split-second of her tits.
She glances up at you, nose bruising and lip busted.
“Hey,” she spares you, stuffing her uniform and skates into her gym bag.
“Hi,” you squeak.
A pregnant pause as you take her in, hesitant to close the distance between the two of you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” she observes.
And you don’t really have a bullshit response, know that you had every intention of staying as far away as humanly possible, so you settle on humming your agreement.
“Ellie told me,” she starts. “Why you lashed out on me.”
You swallow.
“And part of me gets it, I really do,” she continues, “but I also thought you had more faith in me than that.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Fuck, Violet, I’m so sorry.”
“I told you to free up Friday night a few weeks ago,” she says, shuts her locker door and slumps down on the bench behind her. “I was going to tell you everything, officially ask you out, but then all that shit happened and it caught up to me.”
You take a step forward, and then another, and another until you’re standing in front of her.
“You have to know that I would never do something like to anyone, but especially not to you,” she says softly, taking your hands in hers.
“I know.”
She brushes her lips against your knuckles, pulls you in closer so that you’re standing between her legs.
“You’re right,” she continues, voice hoarse. “I don’t have a spotless track record, but I meant it when I said that I don’t give a shit about anyone else but you. I would give you anything I can if you let me.”
Your hands rest on her shoulders, her chin resting against the plush of your belly as you look down at her, speechless.
“That night, in the car, you said that you didn’t see what made you so different.”
“I don’t,” you admit.
Vi stands, caging you between strong arms as she drops her face into the hollow of your neck. You shiver when you feel her lips press to the skin there.
“We could start off with the obvious.”
One of her hands rests on the small of your back, pulls you flush so that the only things that separate you are the flimsy fabrics of your clothes. The other grabs a handful of your ass.
“I meant it when I said that you’re the kind of pretty that makes me wanna do bad things.”
You gulp, thighs squeezing as her lips part and she bites.
“Vi.”
“You got a giant brain,” she laughs breathily, fingers coming around the fiddle with your belt.
She kisses you, mouth hot and breath warm. It’s better the second time around, no doubt obscuring you from truly indulging.
“Pl—ease.”
“You’re kind and you’re selfless, and you’re my sweet, sweet little crybaby.”
“Violet,” you sigh breathlessly. “Listen to me.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Fuck me,” you pant. “Please.”
Violet nearly runs two red lights and whips into your neighborhood on two wheels.
The two of you are stumbling up the stairs and she’s spanking your ass on the last step as you fiddle with your keys and try to find the right one under the dim light of the complex hall.
Violet’s already unbuckling her belt as you turn the key, nearly taking you down as she shoves you inside and up against the front door.
“Maddie home?” she breathes.
“Out of town,” you answer quickly, kicking off your sneakers and pulling your sweater over your head. “Visiting her family upstate.”
“Perfect,” Vi hums. “I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you on your couch.”
“Oh–”
One of her rough hands comes to cup your tit over your bra, her tongue laving over the other while her free hand makes work of the clasp.
You walk her back to the couch, stand between her knees as she flops back into the seat. Her arms spread over the back as she settles in, legs widening to give you ample room to strip.
Her eyes never leave yours as you easily unclasp your bra and shimmy out of your jeans, leaving you in nothing but a tight pair of little lace panties and pink socks that has Vi wet.
“C’mere,” she rasps, pulling you to straddle her lap.
Her lips immediately latch onto one of your pebbled nipples, tongue hot as her hands wander.
“Fuck.”
“Tell me what you want,” she husks, biting down on the swell of your breast.
And having Violet this close, her touch excruciatingly featherlight and tempting, you wind tight.
“Want you inside of me,” you whimper, fingers fixing around her throat. “Please.”
“Yeah?” she eggs you on, lips brushing yours as her palms settle on your ass. “You want me to fuck you?”
You nod eagerly, hips rolling in her lap as her breath pitches.
“Vi.”
Her nickname puffing from your lips makes her crack. You’re wound in her arms, face in her neck as she peels your thong taut, away from your waiting cunt, and runs her fingertips from your slit down to your clit.
“F...F—uck,” you sigh.
“Holy shit,” she marvels, licking her lips when she easily glides through your folds. “You’re really fucking wet.”
You grind down against her, clothed clit catching against her belt buckle. The cool metal sends a jolt through your pussy and you’re moaning loud in her ear.
And Violet really wants to take her time with you, wants to milk the first time she ever gets to fuck you for as long as she humanly can, but she’s still fully dressed and you’re practically naked, perfect tits pressed to her chest and fat ass in the palm of her hand.
She shifts you further into her, so that she can peek over the arch of your back as she sinks her middle and ring finger three knuckles deep into your needy heat.
“Ah, fuck, Violet.” Your voice breaks as she starts pumping into you, your arousal coating her fingers and the sound of her easily slipping through your pussy reverberating through the living room. “Fuckfuckfuck.”
She kisses your jaw, litters them until she’s catching your lips and licking crudely into your mouth.
You cry out when her fingers slip out.
She’s leaning the both of you forward, easing you from her lap and onto the couch as she takes a moment to shuck her shirt off and pull her belt through the loops in one tug.
You watch her through it all, the way the trim muscles of her biceps and shoulders flex as she leans over you, takes you by the ankles and yanks you until your ass is half-hanging from the edge of the couch.
She kneels before you, strips you out of your thong.
You don’t miss the way she shoves the soiled fabric in her jeans pocket.
“Jesus,” she breathes, gaze fluttering between your eyes and your pussy. “You’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart.”
Your toes curl at the praise, fingers closing around where Vi’s holding your legs apart.
“You know how bad I’ve been wanting to taste your pussy?” she rasps, gathering the lewdest amount of spit to dribble onto your clit. When you don’t answer, she’s freeing a hand to slap your slit.
“Nnngh, fuck!”
“Think I’ve always wanted to have you,” she admits. “But it was that stupid party fucking party and that stupid fucking skirt. God, I would’ve fucked you in that skirt if you let me.”
“Yeah?” you whine breathlessly. “Tell me.”
She’s stuffing you again without warning, curling her fingers in a way that has your back arching off the couch.
“Would’ve bent you over that sink and made you watch yourself while I ate you out,” she says easily.
And it’s so fucking delicious, the nasty shit Vi’s saying to you while she pounds your aching heat; the way she finally gives in and tastes you, sucking on your clit like she’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sate her hunger.
Your fingers curl through her hair as you teeter dangerously over the edge, nails grazing her scalp and tugging when she hits the spot deep inside of you that has you keening for more.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” you choke. “Holy fuck.”
You feel Vi grin against your pussy, watch her with a slack jaw and half-lidded eyes because the sight of her between your legs in your moonlit living room has your insides twisting hard.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” she encourages you. “Cum all over my fingers. Wanna see you gush.”
“Hah, h—” Your thighs tighten around her head, fingers curled so hard in her hair, she moans in a mix of pleasure and pain. “Don’t stop, Vi, please.”
She moans into your cunt, savoring the heady taste of you as you practically ride her face.
The sound that fills the room is downright filthy, the sight that Vi beholds when she peeks from where she’s devouring you equally so. It’s picturesque, the way she has you writhing. A sheen of perspiration glistens over your flesh as she eats you out and it’s a perfect mix of her tongue and her fingers that send you soaring over the edge.
It’s a pitched whine that echos, the staccato of your shaky breathing that sings like music in her ears as you cum. And hard.
Her lashes flutter against the skin of your inner thighs as she peppers kisses there, her lips slick with spit and arousal.
“Fuck, babe,” she whispers. “That was...”
She can’t really choose a specific word, is just mind blown at the fact that she’d just made you cum so hard and so fast. It makes her tense and tingle, a smug wave of pride washing over her as she starts mouthing a trail from your belly, between the valley of your tits, up your throat, to finally press a chaste one on your lips.
You taste yourself first and foremost, but then you taste everything she’s ever wanted to say to you, all the unspoken words and the things she’d been too scared to share. Feel it in the way her hands are roaming, squeezing, caressing.
You breathe a disbelieving laugh, peck her lips again when she pulls away to brush your hair from your face.
“Vi—” Your breath hitches and your eyes glaze.
“I know, I know.”
You wrap your arms around her shoulders, legs hooking around the narrow of her waist as she bears your weight and picks up your boneless figure.
“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.”
The sun is warm against your skin when you wake up the following morning, your bedroom bathed in an orange glow.
You feel bone tired, body sore and muscles tight as your arm sweeps the other side of the bed in search of balmy skin, but instead you’re met with cool sheets and swelling dread.
You sit up quickly, find that you’re still naked, and take a moment to asses your bedroom. The bathroom door’s cracked, light off, and everything else is exactly where you left it.
Everything except Vi.
Oh, you think to yourself.
Almost don’t want to leave your room because your empty apartment will be confirmation enough that Vi really did get the last laugh in the end.
But you force yourself out of bed, shrug on an oversized t-shirt before finding the living room just as still as it had been before the two of you had barreled in the night before and she’d left her mark on you.
The only sign that the entire thing wasn’t just a figment of your imagination was Vi’s belt strewn haphazardly on the coffee table.
You feel hollow, almost numb, and even if a persistent part of your brain was consistently telling you that you should’ve known better, the tears well in your eyes because you’d really hoped Violet was different.
You knuckle the tears away angrily, mind racing far too fast to register the door quietly unlocking and the soft footfalls coming down the hall.
“Babe?”
Your gaze snaps up.
Like a vision, Vi’s standing in the doorway, a handful of plastic bags in tow. She’s wearing her clothes from last night and the puffs under her eyes make her a little worse for wear.
She sets the bags down on the eat-in, rounds the couch to take you by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she worries. “What’s going on?”
You hiccup, crumpling in her arms because you were so fucking scared.
“Thought you left,” you croak.
Vi breathes a sigh of relief, blowing out a hollow laugh because her girl’s such a baby.
“You have jack shit in your fridge,” she teases lightly. “How am I supposed to make you a five star breakfast with greek yogurt and carrot sticks?”
You whine.
“Don’t care about breakfast,” your muffled voice sounds from where your face is pressed in her chest. “Just wanted to wake up to you.”
Violet groans.
“You’re so cute,” she laughs, kissing the top of your head.
“I wanna go back to bed,” you mutter petulantly, emotional whiplash making your eyes droop.
“You’re not gonna let me make you breakfast?” Vi picks, smoothing the hair from your face.
Your eyes catch the bracelet refastened around her wrist and you grin softly, taking her fingers to press a kiss to her palm.
She could combust, gaze gooey as she watches you watch her.
Yeah, Vi has a huge problem.
One that’s particular, and overarching; one she doesn’t think she can go without.
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