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bucketbueckers · 2 days ago

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mess me up - paige bueckers

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader wc: 6.1k content warnings: language, abuse of italics, grammatically incorrect past tense flashback, smut robbery(?), pretty mature but nothing graphic synopsis: your friends invited you out to a frat party to celebrate the men’s team winning the NCAA tournament where you bump into paige bueckers, the girl who you're in love with and who you ghosted for a month after hooking up with her. a much-needed conversation at the party forces you to revisit difficult memories and give her the closure she’s been seeking. notes: idk what this is! based loosely off of 'friends' and 'mess me up' by chase atlantic. unfortunately the smut robbery line is for real, like it's smut in the way lacroix tastes like real fruit (which is to say it's not smut, but like concepts of smut... 😝 (i've never had lacroix idk if this is accurate)) side note i hate writing in past tense but doing a traditional flashback scene is corny as hell! idk if it matters but this is set april 2024 (w/ a february 2024 flashback); doesn't really affect anything, so... anyway, second post on tumblr, lmk if we're rocking w it 🙂‍↕️

For the record, you didn’t want to come to this party.

It’s hot, sweaty, loud, and all you can smell is the same brand of men’s cologne and weed. The air is both stale and somehow feels wet and all you can think about is getting back to your apartment so you can shower and go to bed. You had a mock trial bright and early the next morning and your law professor was a stickler for punctuality and presentability – showing up with wrinkled clothes and smelling like a frat party was a sure-fire way to fail, and you had too much riding on your grades to let that happen.

The frat (whose name you’ve already forgotten) was celebrating the NCAA tournament win for the UCONN men’s basketball team. They’d apparently gone back to back, which you guess is cool, but you swore off basketball a long time ago. If you had your way, you’d be at home, three steps into your skincare routine, but you let peer pressure get the best of you and allowed your friends to drag you out.

It’d be fun, they said. You never come out with us! You’re spending all this tuition money and you’re not even taking advantage of it. How can you say you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?

You only remember that your friends are law students, too, in the most unfortunate of moments when they put their persuasiveness to the test. In the most unfortunate of moments, you’re also reminded of the fact that they’re college students, too, because they’re leaving you at the door and rushing off to find something to drink. You weren’t upset they dragged you out. Not necessarily. You were grown enough to say no. Perhaps you’d simply set your expectations too high when they begged you to come out and you thought they would spend at least a little bit of time with you before doing their own thing. But sure. It’s whatever.

So, here you are – standing alone in the corner of a frat party, watching as drunk college students grind against each other, laugh, and have a good time. A part of you feels like you’re missing out, but as you watch somebody throw up into a plant, you feel like you’re just fine where you are.

You’re drawn from your thoughts when a man wearing a backwards cap suddenly shows up next to you. “Yo, you thirsty?” he yells over the music, thrusting a red solo cup into your empty hands. You don’t have the time to say anything to him before he’s grinning at you, eyes red and hooded. “Come dance with me. You’re too pretty to be standin’ here all alone.”

You hear her before you see her.

“She’s good, bro, trust,” Paige interrupts smoothly, throwing a casual arm around your shoulders. You feel too much like a damsel in distress, but sensing the gravity of the situation, you flash the guy a light smile and lean into Paige slightly. Her grip tightens. You try to not let it bother you.

He raises his hands, surrendering. “My bad. You got it.”

Paige hums, unconvinced, as he leaves. When he’s out of your sight, you wrench yourself out of her grip. “Thank you, but not necessary,” you tell her sharply, red solo cup still in your hand. If this was how your night was going to go, then you need to be a little tipsy to survive it. You barely have it halfway to your mouth before Paige is pulling it out of your grasp, pouring its contents into a potted plant and chucking the cup into a nearby trash can. “What the fu–”

“First of all,” she begins, arms crossing protectively, “never accept a drink at a party that you didn’t pour, didn’t see someone else pour, or a drink that’s already open; matter fact, don’t accept a drink unless you opened it or brought it in yourself.”

You roll your eyes slightly. “This is Storrs, Paige. Do the frats really get down like that here?”

Her gaze is unimpressed. “You’re the law student, ma, you tell me the numbers. Second of all, you’re welcome. That was Kylin. He doesn’t take no for an answer in the first place but he’s all kinds of fucked up right now. I’d say I did you a favor but I wanted to talk to you, anyway.”

“Funny,” you deadpan. “Here? Now?”

“What are you doing here?” she asks you, ignoring your snippy words. “Thought this wasn’t your scene.”

You pause. “It’s not,” you confirm. “Jos and Chelsea wanted me to come out. Figured I should be a good friend once in a while.”

Paige raises a brow. “Jos and Chelsea are too busy playing strip poker with dudes from Kappa Phi to keep an eye on you, and you’re worried about having to be a good friend?”

“First of all,” you say in the know-it-all tone that Paige had used on you, “I don’t need them to keep an eye on me.” The blonde hums again, not entirely convinced, and the heat of her gaze makes you stumble over your words slightly. “Second of all, why do you even care?”

“We’re friends,” she states.

“We were once,” you correct, voice softening. It’s no secret that you and Paige had fucked up whatever you had going on. It’s never been clear whose fault your fallout was (it was yours), nor could the two of you ever agree on what destroyed you (you would argue that you shouldn’t hook up with your friends, especially not the ones you were in love with). It was a messy situation that you were sure the two of you couldn’t recover from (you didn’t want to be friends with someone you couldn’t have; Paige just wants you to give her the chance to prove you otherwise).

“Sure,” she agrees half-heartedly, knowing your spiel by heart now. “Kinda fucked up you think I need a reason to care.” You don’t dignify that with a proper response, feeling something strangely like guilt corroding your heart. “Come outside and get some air with me? Please? Just wanna talk, no funny shit, I promise.”

You sigh, feeling yourself fall back into all too familiar routines. You had a near inability to say no to Paige most times – it was the reason why you had to put a stop to your friendship. And here you are now, undoing all of the progress you’ve made since you’ve been apart (a small part of you knows better; you’re moving forward but you’re not really doing any better. You’re not progressing. You’re just stuck now, only this time, you have less than you did before). “Jos and Chelsea–”

“–made their choice,” she finishes for you. “And their choice was strip poker with a guy named Anthony,” she adds solemnly. You can’t help but quirk a smile at the absurdity of your life right now. “C’mon, please? It fucking reeks in here. They’ve got a porch swing outside and it’s all quiet and shit.”

“You’ve always had a way with words,” you tease.

“You comin’ or nah?” she asks, but you shove her forward (she lets you) and she leads you through the crowd to the door. They part like the Red Sea and you can’t help but admire the way she silently commands the room, feeling a flutter in your chest you try desperately to stomp out. It’s like a fire; all it takes is a small spark before it eventually grows out of proportion. You know better now.

The door shuts behind the two of you and you sit on the porch swing. You can still hear the music’s pounding bass, but it’s muted. You feel like you can hear your thoughts now. The tension in your shoulders eases as you take in the crisp night air, the crickets’ chirps, the occasional owl’s hoot. For a moment, you forget all of the complicated history between you and Paige; the way she held your hand as she kissed up your thigh, the way she stayed afterwards, cleaning you up and bringing you water. It almost seems as Paige is reliving all of it, too, as she looks at you, and that thought is sobering enough to bring you back to the moment.

You finally get a good look at what she’s wearing. It’s nothing outstanding; a gray Nike tech suit and a pair of dunks, although she’s opted to leave her jacket unzipped, revealing the crop top underneath. She’s dressed for comfort, though the most unfair part of it all is how good she looks when she’s not trying. Her cheekbones are sharp, eyes blue and wide and alert, and you can’t help but notice how fitting a slick-back bun is on her.

This was precisely why you needed your space. You couldn’t control your thoughts or feelings. It was manageable when you minded your business – the phrase out of sight, out of mind did wonders for you and you were usually busy enough that she only crossed your mind once or twice a week when the student population was buzzing about a recent game. But now? Now you’re fucked. You’re inches away from her and you’ve allowed her to pull you back into her orbit. She’s the Earth and you’re a meteor – any closer and you won’t be able to come back from the damage you would do to each other. She would survive, you’re sure, but you’d be destroyed in the process.

“So,” she says slowly. You avert your eyes, staring at anything but her. “How you been?”

“Good,” you lie. “Keeping busy.” That part was less of a lie, but it wasn’t her business to know.

Paige has always been good at reading you, so she gazes at you like she’s not convinced. “I think we’re overdue a conversation,” she says, surprising you. “A real one. No more of this running in circles bullshit.”

“Okay,” you agree hesitantly. You finally meet her eyes. They’re strikingly blue, disarming, and you feel an odd mixture of guilt and longing eat away at your insides. She looks like she’s drinking you in, like she’s trying to understand why you did what you did; her eyes soften in the dim glow of the porchlight and you can’t help but flush under her gaze. She always understands you in spite of how often you push her away – she seems to understand why you keep her at arm’s length, too, and it’s then that you fully understand how overwhelming it is to be known.

“Why did you leave?” she asks finally. You have to swallow back the bile in your throat. “The morning after.” Her clarification does nothing to soothe the turmoil in your stomach. “I thought…” Paige’s throat bobs as she tries to find the words. “It wasn’t a hook up. It meant something to me – everything to me. So why did you leave like that shit ain’t matter to you?”

That night in February comes back to you in the blur of a memory. You’ve thought about it so often that you could write a play-by-play of it; every single unremarkable detail comes back to you in a flourish of vibrant color – the way the floor felt beneath your feet as Paige guided you into her room, the slight scratch of her nail against the base of your neck as her hands found purchase in your hair. Paige was wrong. It meant something to you, too much to you. You often remind yourself, if it meant that much, why was it easier to run away? Jumping off of a diving board into a pool conceptually means the same thing as jumping off of a cliffside into beach waves; the jump isn’t the hard part, it’s the reminder of the distance between your feet and the surface. Your feelings for Paige are too consuming. It’s easier to not make the jump at all than it is to worry if you’ll be able to come up for air.

She was in high spirits, drunk off of their win against Villanova. They weren’t an opponent you’d typically call home for, but the Huskies were having a tough season with several injured players and a lot of underclassmen. It was close, 67-46; Paige had contributed to a little less than half of their points overall with a solid 31. She was happy, the rest of her team was happy, and she’d begged you to come over to her apartment for the post-game festivities – which was usually games and snacks as they weren’t big on drinking during the season. You’d nearly refused at first. It was supposed to be a small team get-together and you had some work to catch up on. You eventually gave in, like you always do. Paige had flashed her typical, charming smile, looping an arm around your waist, and you were a goner.

The team accepted you like you were one of their own, too. That was new. You didn’t spend as much time with them as you did with Jos and Chelsea, but it felt like you knew them better than you knew Jos and Chelsea, anyway. Ice and KK were two menacing peas in a pod – they were like sisters separated at birth and whenever they were together, something chaotic was bound to happen, but they loved and protected fiercely despite the way they teased each other and the team. Caroline was like the team mother and many of the girls called her such. Nika was intense on the court, but off of it, she was Paige’s twin through and through – they always had something to say to each other and their banter often brought smiles to everyone’s faces. Azzi was sweet and well-loved by the team (and the student population in general). She introduced you to her and Paige’s son Ines, which confused you at first, but Paige threw her arm over your shoulder and assured you that they’re only co-parenting because Carol has enough children and they didn’t want Ines to be a ward of the court. You couldn’t help but smile at that, leaning into Paige – something about the team’s dynamic healed you a little, and Ines joked that Paige went out and got her a stepmom.

You felt the blush creep up your neck as Paige tightened her grip around you slightly. “I didn’t want you to find out like this, son,” Paige had said somberly, pretending to look sad as Azzi rolled her eyes. “Your mother was havin’ an affair–”

“Oh, bullshit!” Azzi cried. The entire room broke out into fits of giggles.

“Now I understand why Paige wifed up a lawyer,” KK said in between laughter. “Tryna get a discount on that divorce, huh?”

The team had tears in their eyes from their excitement – you didn’t have the heart to tell them you were hoping to specialize in civil litigation, so you just laughed along. The conversation continued to flow as games were played. Nika was exceptionally bad at UNO and Paige never let her hear the end of it. You guys only managed to play a couple of rounds before Nika suddenly got good and played a +4, prompting Ice and KK to stack +4s of their own onto it – Paige stared in disbelief for a solid thirty seconds before picking up 12 cards and rage-quitting one turn later when KK skipped her.

“There, there,” you’d said, lips trembling as you tried not to laugh at the look on Paige’s face. You rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, and she pushed you off her gently, her own lips quirking in amusement. “Show this card game who’s boss.”

“Bro,” she grumbled, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she leaned back into the couch, her arm finding home over the back of your shoulders once more. You remember wondering if this is what normal felt like, what finally finding a community was like – you fit in too well with Paige’s teammates and they made you feel at home. Being near Paige made you feel at home. She was talented that way. She had an uncanny ability to make people feel at ease, regaling them with jokes and an endless supply of charm. When you realized you were in love with Paige Bueckers, you weren’t surprised about it. If anything, you might have been a little upset with yourself – you were sure you weren’t the only person she’d drawn in unintentionally, ensnared in a web whose latticework was meticulously shaped like basketball netting.

As the night went on, more and more laughs were shared until the clock reached midnight and many of Paige’s teammates got up to leave. Everyone shared hugs and affectionate goodnights. All of them even looped around to hug you – which was… nice. Paige shared her apartment with Azzi and Aubrey, so they retired to their own rooms after curious glances to you and Paige, still curled up together on the couch.

The apartment was quiet. You could hear the ring of silence as it enveloped the two of you, Paige’s gentle breathing, and the tick of the clock. It was oddly comforting; normally, it would have lulled you into a drowsy state, but you couldn’t focus on anything but the heat of Paige’s body next to yours, the brush of her thumb against your shoulder. Feeling both unmoored and tethered, you shift next to Paige, gathering her attention. “I should go,” you’d whispered. Her thumb halted.

“Stay,” she requested. She tilted her head. Her gaze met yours. You expected her eyes to be half-closed, dim with sleep. The rasp of her voice was attributed to a tone you knew she’d adopt when she was exhausted, but her eyes were wide, alert, dilated, a blue so dark you were sure you almost mistook the sheer want for something else. “Stay,” she murmured again. “Please.”

“Yeah,” you agreed almost breathlessly, feeling her hand squeeze your shoulder gently. “Sure.” She untangles from you and stands from the couch, offering you her hand, and you take it. She led you seamlessly through the dark of her apartment into her bedroom, where she released you long enough to rifle through her drawers, having found you a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt for you to wear to bed. Paige pointed you towards the bathroom. You changed into her clothes. Your fingers had shook with anticipation at the sheer domesticity of it all as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your – her – t-shirt read HOPKINS GIRLS BASKETBALL. It had all felt so different now. You hadn’t been sure at the moment if it terrified you or excited you.

You exited the bathroom to find Paige’s back to you, adjusting the band of a pair of basketball shorts around her hips. Her hair was out of her bun and it cascaded down her back in loose, wavy strands; you’d felt an inexplicable urge to run your fingers through it, to find out if her hair was as soft as it looked. She was wearing a dark black sports bra. The two of you were friends. Granted, you were in love with her, but the sight of her wearing nothing but ball shorts and her Nike bra shouldn’t have done the things it did to you.

“Which side is yours?” you’d asked, mostly to break the silence. You ignored the crack in your voice. Paige paid it no mind as she turned, which forced you to avert your eyes, trying not to glance at her abdominals.

“Don’t matter,” she responded. You watched the way she moved, sitting low on the bed, legs long and stark against the purple of her comfort. “You gettin’ in or what?” You hoped she couldn’t see the flush on your neck. You slid into bed next to her, hoping to maintain some sort of distance, but she refused to let you get too far. She slung her arm over your waist, fingers brushing against your skin where your shirt rode up. Her breath was even against your neck and the heat of her body nearly turned your brain into mush. “This okay?” she asked, tone softer.

“Mhm,” you hummed, afraid to speak or you might fuck up and tell her just how okay it actually was. Paige was just a touchy person, you tried to remind yourself as you felt the tickle of her hair against the nape of your neck. This doesn’t mean anything to her. It was all for naught. It did little to quell the way your heart raced, the way the heat pooled low in your belly.

“You looked good tonight,” she said casually. You tried to stop the goosebumps as they rose on your flesh. “You always do.”

Unable to think of something smart to say, you shifted your body slightly, your fingers splaying over the arm she held tight around your midsection. “Oh, yeah?” Her fingers brushed a little lower on your stomach, grazing the waistband of your shorts.

She hummed an affirmative, pulling you tighter against herself, and you could barely breathe. It was overwhelming in the best way – she was all around you. Physically, you felt as though you were in her skin as she greedily pulled you in. The scent of her was everywhere; the shampoo that seeped into her pillows, the cologne on her neck. Your hair stood on end as her lips brushed almost imperceptibly against the shell of your ear. “‘M glad you came tonight,” she whispered.

You flipped on your side, face-to-face with Paige. Her arm moved enough for you to get situated and once you were, her hand found the small of your back, her palm warm against your skin. You can’t help the way your breath hitched, even as Paige’s eyes seemed to take in the stuttering rise and fall of your chest. Having found some courage, you poked her cheek, drawing her eyes back up to yours. “What are we doing?” you asked finally, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Her brow raised slightly, the dark blue of her gaze illuminated by the streaks of moonlight through her window. “No funny shit, Paige. You touch me like you want me, claim me in front of your friends.” You searched her eyes as she fell silent. “What are we doing?” you repeated, voice firmer.

“I want you,” she confessed after a few heartbeats of contemplation. She leaned in closer to you, your noses nearly brushing, and she continued, “I want you so fucking bad. Don’t wanna do anything you’ont want, but–”

Your lips were on hers before she had the chance to finish. She responded eagerly, one hand firm around your waist as she flipped the both of you over, pulling you to straddle her waist. You leaned down, your chest against hers, hands on each side of her neck. You felt the thundering of her pulse under your fingers. It was stabilizing in a sense – words were one thing, but to feel how badly you’d been able to affect her, too, did wonders for your growing ego. Paige’s hands had found your hips, keeping you pressed against her body.

You parted briefly to catch your breath. Paige’s chest heaved, her lips shiny and swollen. She was hard to look away from. For a moment, you’d wondered if this was worth it. Your heart had raced, beating uncontrollably; it felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Everything would change between the two of you. Was one night with Paige worth the risk of losing your friendship? You feel too strongly, too much, overwhelmingly. You’ve been told by an ex or two that you were simply too much. You wouldn’t want to subject Paige to that.

Her right hand met your face, tracing the line of your bottom lip. “You want this?” she asked. Her eyes were blown wide, more pupil than iris, but something about it entranced you. The desire in her eyes had brought fresh heat to your stomach, but coupled with the fact she’d be willing to stop made your heart beat a little faster. She was enough to quell your worries, settling the irregularity of your thoughts. You nodded, leaning down to connect your lips again, but her hand was insistent against your jaw as she held you back. “Words,” she commanded.

You’d barely resisted an eyeroll. “Yes, Paige,” you affirmed. Her hand loosened, eyes searching yours. “Want you.”

Her smile turned smug. “Yeah? How bad?”

The tease sent white-hot desire straight through your body as your hips rolled against hers, trying to find some relief. Her hands fall back down to your waist, helping you rut against her thigh as a shared flush creeped up both of your necks. “You gonna touch me?” you breathed against her lips. Her breath came out a disjointed stutter when you guided her hand to the swell of your ass. It was unnatural – Paige was so sure, so confident. To have her nearly at your mercy was like a drug through your veins, but you didn’t want her there. You wanted Paige fully in control; you wanted her to take care of you, to give you everything you’d fantasized about for months on end. You wanted her so bad it rewired the coding in your brain. There was something about her that broke down all of the walls you spent years building.

Your actions and words had been the only permission she needed. One of her hands gripped the flesh of your ass as the other one cupped the back of your neck. Her nail scratched you inadvertently as she dragged you back down to connect your lips – the slight echo of pain caused you to whine against her lips, a sound she swallowed greedily before she flipped the two of you over once more. Your head fell back against her pillows as she rucked up your shirt, finding that you’d opted to not wear a bra. She groaned indulgently, one large hand coming up to squeeze one of your breasts and her mouth finding the other one.

You ran your fingers through her hair, gripping it tight as she lavished you with attention. “So fuckin’ pretty,” she murmured against you, voice dripping with want. She pressed her knee against your core as she found her way back to your lips, kissing you deeply and drawing another whimper from your parted lips. It sent a jolt through your body. “You gon’ let me do what I want, huh? Get you right?”

“Paige, please,” you begged, all of the shame having left your body as you ground down against her knee, feeling the pleasure and relief simultaneously. “Fuck, do what you want, I don’t care – just please fucking touch me.”

She shushed you, lips back on yours, tongue brushing against your lips like she was trying to take whatever you’d give her. And at that point, you would have given her anything if it meant she’d stop teasing you. “I got you, ma, jus’ relax,” she whispered against your lips. She trailed a blazing path down your chest, leaving hickies as she went. Paige reached the waistband of your shorts; she pressed a sloppy kiss to your navel before bunching her fingers in and pulling them off, throwing them haphazardly into the room.

The air was cold against you. You were breathing heavily by then, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. Her hand untwisted yours from the bedsheets, linking your fingers together, and that touch alone was enough to bring you back down to earth. “I got you,” she promised again, reminding you, pressing diligent kisses against the inside of your thigh. You relaxed ever so slightly against her, feeling as though you could breathe a little easier, but your body was still incredibly high strung. Paige squeezed your hand. Then her mouth was on you, and you were done for.

She held your hand as she went down on you, talking you through it until your orgasm reached its peak and you sunk into the bed bonelessly. She didn’t release you when she came back up, her smile a mix of smugness, pride, and quiet adoration. Paige kissed your knuckles, your cheeks, your lips, drawing a contented sigh out of you. “You good?” she asked, brushing your hair out of your eyes, hand cradling your jaw.

Exhausted, all you could do was hum an affirmative. Paige flashed a small smile again, pressing a kiss to your forehead and crawling off the bed, much to your surprise. “Lemme get you some water,” she said. “‘M coming right back, I promise.”

You nodded wordlessly, closing your eyes and sinking back into the pillows as your breathing evens out. She left her room, the door shutting with a silent click. In the silence of Paige’s bedroom, curled up in her purple comforter, all you can think about is how the future of your friendship has inexplicably changed forever. She said she wanted you. Did she just mean sexually? Paige was always intentional in her communication, a byproduct of her media training. Tears brimmed your eyes when you considered the idea that you might have just been another Wednesday night fling for her. Here you are again, feeling stupid about the overwhelming feelings you harbored for Paige despite your better judgment. The worst part was that it wasn’t her fault. You got your hopes up.

You wiped your eyes when you heard the door open again. Paige crossed the room, cracking open a cold bottle of water for you and pressing it to your lips. You nearly forgot about your inner turmoil when she smiled at you again, having thrown her hair back up into its bun. “Gonna clean you up, okay?” she informed you. At your nod, she runs a warm washcloth between your thighs, getting rid of the lingering stickiness. She carefully redressed you, squeezing your hips gently, and you’re left feeling so incredibly conflicted that you’re breathless with the anxiety. Paige disposed of the washcloth and curled up next to you in bed once more, an arm wrapping around your midsection. You’d told each other goodnight, but as her breath evens out against your neck, your mind races.

You slept fitfully through the night. And when morning light rolled around, you extracted yourself from Paige’s grip, sliding a pillow into her arms. The nervousness and all of your overthinking thoughts made you queasy with grief. You were in love with Paige Bueckers. That much was true. You were too head over heels for her to return to normalcy; you couldn’t. At that point, it would be easier for you to not be friends with her at all than to pretend like she wasn’t everything you’d ever wanted.

As she slept, you casted one last guilty look over your shoulder and you ran.

But that night in February has long since passed, and on the porch swing on a much warmer night in April, Paige stares at you in desperation, seeking answers to the questions you’ve withheld for over a month. “Why did you leave?” she asks you again. “Fuck, tell me the truth, lie to me, whatever, just please give me something to work with.”

“It was overwhelming,” you finally admit, twisting the rings on your fingers. You feel terrible as you glance at Paige, whose eyes soften when she takes in your expression.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shoulda seen that something was wrong.”

You close your eyes, lips trembling. You’re touched at how she instantly takes responsibility for your fuck ups, thinking she’s done something wrong. “No, Paige,” you correct her. “Fuck. It wasn’t you. It was never you.” You pick at a loose string on your shorts. She stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “You were so gentle. That night meant everything to me, and that was the problem. I wanted you so bad – Jesus Christ, I was in love with you for months. I don’t do casual. I always feel too strongly and I loved you so much that it was fucking overwhelming. I woke up and nearly lost it because I couldn’t handle the idea of having you like that and having to pretend like I didn’t want you like that forever. It was so much easier to run and not face the possibility of having to be your friend when all I’ve wanted was more.”

When you finally look back to Paige, her eyes are wide with something that looks strangely like grief, like you’ve pulled the rug from under her feet and watched as she fell. As you think about it, that’s probably what you’ve done, anyway. She spent so long thinking that your fallout was her fault, that it was something she’d done, but the ugly truth of the matter was that you were too scared of the way you felt for her that you ran from it instead. Paige runs a frustrated hand over her jaw, her expression nearly unreadable. You frown. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, knowing that your apology is long overdue. You fucked up so incredibly bad with her. Your brain remembers her prior words, the ‘It wasn’t a hook up. It meant something to me – everything to me,’ and you suddenly feel like an idiot. God, it was mutual this entire time and you were too caught up in yourself to realize it.

“You think too fucking much,” Paige says finally, and you hardly have the time to react before she’s kissing you, her hands gripping your hips. You nearly gasp against her lips before you fully register what’s happening. Sinking into it, you wrap your arms around her neck, feeling suddenly like everything is finally aligning, that all of your blurred focal points sharpen. When she pulls away, her eyes are alight with understanding. “So, lemme get this straight. You pushed me away ‘cause you’re in love with me, then we fucked, and you thought I wouldn’t wife you up?”

You frown, feeling stupid all over again. “Well, when you put it like that…yeah?”

Paige sighs. “Fuck. Look at my lawyer – you’d send dudes to jail left and fucking right ‘cause you jump to conclusions too early. Thank God you’re not going into criminal defense.”

You shove her away from you, feeling the embarrassment bloom on your cheeks. You can’t help but laugh as you say, “You’re an asshole.”

She guffaws, reaching for your hands, intertwining your fingers. “Says you! You ghosted me for a month and let me think I fucked us up. Jesus Christ.” She twists the ring on your finger mindlessly as she searches for the right words. “Okay, lemme be really fucking clear. I’m in love with you, too. Like, I’m fuckin’ crazy about you. There is nobody but you. You aren’t too much for me – I love you for you, no ifs, ands, buts, whys, hows, nothing. I know you thought you were protecting us by pushin’ me away, but you gotta let me make that choice, too. I want this with you, alright? Will you gimme that chance?”

Her words leave the two of you in silence. You can still hear the chirp of the crickets, the thrumming from the party indoors. You can feel the way her thumb brushes over your knuckles, the way her eyes bore into yours, patiently waiting for your decision. But distinctly, you can see the plea, the desperation for you to just give into what she knows the both of you are feeling. Your anxiety and constant overthinking never ruined the two of you. It may have set you back, but you and Paige found your way back to each other. Maybe you’re not a meteor, dangerously crashing into her and disintegrating on impact. Maybe the two of you are something simpler – the moon and the tide. She was never going to let you get hurt if only you’d give her the opportunity to show you that.

So, you take that leap – whether it’s off the diving board into the pool or the cliffside into beach waves, you don’t care. You know now that Paige is waiting for you at the surface. “I want this, too,” you affirm, watching the smile bloom on her face like springtime flowers, and you seal the deal by pressing your lips to hers. She responds eagerly, her arms tight around you. You loathe that it took the two of you this long, that it was your fault for not trusting Paige with your heart when she’s given you no real reason to doubt her; despite this, her lips taste like forgiveness and yours like atonement. In spite of everything, you made it here in the end, and it was worth it.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige x reader #uconn #uconn wbb #wbb x reader #ncaa wbb

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gravegoer · 20 hours ago

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Hello, how about a part 2 of being Sevika's boss maybe when they got together or something like that thankyouuu and i love all of your ficss thank you making them hehe

Sevika's Boss ꩜ part 2

hi anon, sevikas boss fanfic got a lot of love a while ago so im happy to write part 2 !! let me know if you enjoyed i threw in some misunderstandings for fun here..maybe kind of angst?? its okay tho you make up very quickly PART 1 , masterlist

You and Sevika hung around eachother a lot, I mean that was normal right? She is your second in command afterall.

Personally, you didn't see a problem with it, and nor did Sevika.

She had grown accustomed to your presence and didn't mind all your small, loving touches and annoying jokes.

And yes, sometimes she went a little overboard for you, like what kind of subordinate stays at their bosses house to tend to them whilst they are injured? Or goes out for drinks every weekend? But maybe your relationship was starting to exceed the bounds of boss and employee.

She has definitely warmed up to you more than she did with Silco. She thinks it was your charming personality, or cute outfits, your smile...

Some people might say you sitting in Sevikas lap while you fixed up her arm might be indecency in the workplace, but you found it to be a simple and innocent task.

But this begs the question, what exactly is your relationship?

This is also a question Jinx was starting to ask herself.

"So uh...whats with you and Sevika?" Jinx asked in an almost singsongy voice.

She flipped her gun around in her hand haphazardly while she was sprawled out on your (Silcos) desk.

"What do you mean whats with us..?" You shook your head, mimicking her movements with your pen.

"I meaaan, you guys act like a married couple or something!" She threw her two hands in the air with a 'duh' kind of look plastered on her face.

You pushed one of her braids to the side to pull out a paper from under it. One of Sevikas reports from a recent trip. Her handwriting was an imperfect cursive. Sighing, you put your face in your hand while you held the paper, staring at it diligently.

Jinx looked at you quizically at your lack of an answer. She sharply pushes the paper down with the tip of her gun, "Hey, are you— Oh," She let out a nasally laugh at the paper, "Damn, you got it bad, huh, toots?"

"What? I have what bad?" You slid the paper away and tilted your head at her.

The blue-haired girl sat up and rested a spindly arm on her knee, "You're so in L word with her." She snickered at you.

"Im in—" Your face flushed at your realization. "I am not in 'L word' with her." You raised your hands to do finger quotes around 'L word.'

"Hmmmm, are you sure?" She teased, putting her gun to her chin and looking up in mock thought "I mean, you practically cling to her, you always walk home with her, and plus you talk about her all the time– hell! You talk to her all the time."

You stared at Jinx, now zoning out in thought. What were you supposed to tell Sevika? Does Sevika even think the same way about you? Would that relationship even be appropriate?

"You know what?" You stood up and pointed in Jinx' face, "Im going to do it—"

She attempted to cut you off with a meek,

"Sevikas—"

"Im going to tell her I love her," You continued, Jinx' half attempt to save your ass fell on deaf ears.

You looked up, finger still in the girls face to make eye contact with a very familiar set of grey eyes. Fuck.

Sevikas gaze faltered, and she cleared her throat, bringing a fist to her mouth, "Um. I came to ask you if you wanted to grab a drink, but it seems like you have better plans."

Holy shit. She didn't know it was about her. Is that good or bad? You only felt a few seconds of relief before Sevika just turned around and walked out. That was bad.

Jinx whistled, still under the pressure of your pointing finger, "You have some explaining to do."

You fumbled over your words before pushing Jinx' forehead back with your finger. "Ughh.. This is your fault."

You drooped back down into the large chair, putting your head in your hand and heaving a sigh.

"Just go tell her while you still have a chance. She's probably going to be moping around the Last Drop," Jinx got up from her spot on the desk, and some papers fell with her.

"That's my queue to leave, though," She hopped out of the office with a little too much energy, probably on her way to cause more mischief.

You sighed and packed up your stuff, picking up stray papers and shoving them into a random drawer on your desk.

Grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, you pushed open the double doors to your office. It was time to go to the last drop.

poor sevika

Your entrance was signified with the ding of a bell atop the door. Music was playing loudly, and people were swarmed around the bar. Your eyes scanned the nearest areas for Sevika, but as you figures she was nowhere in sight.

She was most definitely in her usual gambling spot. You didn't want to approach her while she was in the middle of a game, so you waited at a nearby table, making sure to stay out of her sight.

You could hear the groans of the men at her table, most definitely losing. Chuckling at this, you watched as a waiter came up to your table asking for your order.

You just asked for a simple whiskey sour, hanging your bag on the back of your chair.

Several minutes (and a few drinks later), you felt someone's eyes on the back of your head. Turning around, you, once again, were met with steely grey eyes. Sevika stood near behind you with her arms crossed. The game had finished.

"You get rejected or something." She deadpanned.

"No—well.. not yet." You turned around in your chair to face her, the metal back of the chair was now settled between your legs.

You held what you thought was your sixth whiskey sour in between your fingers, chin resting on the top of the chair back.

She scoffed at this, turning her head to avoid eye contact. You could have sworn a small blush coated her cheeks. But her frown made you think otherwise, her large forearms tensed before she spoke.

"Oh, so you're waiting for her here."

How cruel of you to profess your love to someone in the place you knew Sevika would be. You probably wanted her to see it, right?

"Yeah, shes already here." You said, still staring at her side profile, tracing the scar on her cheek with your eyes.

The neon lights illuminated her face and brought out every curve and angle. But your thoughts were interrupted by her stern and almost angry voice.

"I should leave then," she started to walk away, but you reached out quickly.

(I dont know why you would do that when she wasn't even in arms length to begin with.) You started to fall forward, you let out a small yelp and held onto the chair, your drink falling onto the ground. You awaited impact, but it never came.

Instead, you were met with strong arms holding the back of your chair up. Sevika was bent over slightly, both mechanical arm and human arm on the metal of the chair. And for the third time, you made eye contact with now very close grey eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed in shock or frustration- you couldn't tell.

Without another thought, you grabbed her by the collar and pulled her lips into yours. At first, she tried to pull away but eventually melted into the heat of the kiss. She sat your chair back up on four legs, and her elbows lean on the top of the chair, encircling you.

Almost as soon and she relented she pulled away, "What the hell are you doing," She rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of a large hand.

Her lips were still puffy from the kiss, but almost more downturned than before. When you didn't respond she offered a question, "Are you drunk?"

Your lopsided grin told her all she needed to know. She knew she needed to take you home, but she was going to do so reluctantly. Afterall you were going to become someone else's girl, couldn't have her hands all over you like she usually did.

She grabbed you (almost roughly) by the arms and pulled you out of the chair, "How are you going to profess your love now?" She scoffed.

"I just did, was that not enough?" Your words were slurred and you helped her by stepping up with heavy legs.

She furrowed her brows until she came to a not-so-shocking realization. Cursing under her breath she smirked at you. You could almost see the relief wash over her face.

Her thick arm held you by your upper torso as she almost carried you to the doors. She sighed at your stupidness, why not just tell her right away, then you wouldn't have to have gone through all the trouble.

She eyed your glossed over eyes, shaking her head at the dumb smirk that held its place on your face. She could feel the quiver of your body against the cold night wind.

At that she lifted you into her arms, covering you with her cloak. You looked up at her with wide eyes, burying your face in the material. God she wanted to kiss you so bad. But she'd save that for the awkward talk in the morning.

thank you for reading ! yes i see your asks all your fics are on the way I swear !!!! much love

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callmecoke · 2 days ago

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Thinking of the first time the 141 discover you on a website for Sugar Babies...p2

CW: mention of sex work (being a sugar baby), SFW much like the last one, but it does deal with adult topics so proceed with caution!

Thinking about the time your friends introduced you to this website, partially as a joke. A place where ‘Sugar babies’ can do live videos for rich guys and galls so they can rack in tons of money just by talking. Honestly, you didn’t even consider it initially. It was all just a fun litle joke.

But, eventually, life caught up to you. Out of a job with bills to pay and school to go to, you were left scrambling to get ahead. Of course, friends were more than happy to lend you some cash for your hard times, but that wasn’t even a temporary solution to your problem. You needed something that could keep you afloat long enough to find a job. Ergo, the website. It was the last idea on your mind and honestly, as you were opening up your laptop you were starting to regret it. Felt kinda embarrassing to put yourself out there and admit you needed money from rich older guys to get by. But your dignity would have to wait for later; you had bills to pay and food to put on your table.

You booted up the livestream and, having no idea where to go from there, just started talking. Eventually A small amount of viewers would pop in and you had questions to entertain. No one really tipped over 10 dollars on the stream. You tried to be energetic, hoping that maybe you would bring in more viewers that way, but it clearly wasn’t working. Nearly an hour goes by, and you’re starting to be disillusioned and a little disappointed. You start considering closing the stream down when a 200 dollar tip lights up your laptop screen, followed by a question from a no name account.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You hadn’t been paid that much the entire stream, and it got the excitement back rushing in your veins. You answered “No!” a little too quickly for your liking but when the answer was followed up by another 100 dollar tip, you knew you didn’t embarrass yourself too much.

All then you started chatting with this mystery account. They asked you all sorts of questions. They asked about your old job, the course you're studying, what you want to be when you leave school, your hobbies, ect. And you started to actually enjoy talking to this person. Not even for the money (All though, admittedly, still a big part of it), but just because there’s someone on the other side of the world that’s interested in your life.

Eventually the stream did have to end when you looked up and realised how late it had gotten. By the time you were closing the stream and checking your account, you realised you had made around 1,000 dollars already. It felt great to see some actual money in your account for once. Before you finally shut down your laptop for good, you got a private dm request on the website, along with another 500 dollar sent to you.

“Hey, Love. Me and the boys want you to know we appreciate the chat. Hope to hear that sweet voice of yours again soon.

Sincerely,

-Price.”

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chemical-killjoy · 20 hours ago

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Like guys, no. It's ALLOWED to be shit. I first started reading fanfic when I was 14, and writing it when I was 16. You think it's gonna be published author good then? No! It's meant for other dorks who want to read the story instead of imagining it! It's meant to be the girls (gender neutral) sharing stories they think of before sleeping at a sleepover! It's meant to be playing dolls but with words and characters that are or aren't yours! It's all fun and games!! It's allowed to break you and it's allowed to make you snort laughing at yourself for reading 14k of almost illegible grammar (true story) because someone else vibed with what you wanted to write but wrote it first! IT'S MEANT TO BE FUN AND A HOBBY, NOT CAPITALIST LEVEL GOOD. How else are we meant to learn if we don't start somewhere? And why should we discourage learning and having fun just because you're not objectively good? Fandom is meant to be a safe space. Just have fun with it <33

At some point "fanfic can be as good as professional writing" became "fanfic should be as good as professional writing" and that's caused major damage to fandom spaces.

#sorry for the rant OP #i just couldn't shut up #anyway I 10000% agree with this

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transfem-tomgirl · 3 days ago

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Yo wanted to ask a bit more about your experience in the transhet community there’s a lot of animosity towards transhets and t4t relationships that aren’t…idk how to describe it but y’know what I mean. Wanted to hear your thoughts on it. Didn’t wanna DM off the bat but if you’re down to chat I’d love to!

I'd love to chat! I revel in the chance to talk with people.

in my experience there's a lot of kindness from other trans people but it does sometimes come with a distinct feeling of "We feel kinda bad that you're only into guys." Which can get exasperating.

Like. Other trans people flinch when you say you're het, in a way that they wouldn't if you were a lesbian, not because they think less of you, but they're just kinda surprised by the outcome. Het trans people just, aren't really thought of as something that happens, outside the context of your right wing grifters who try to be one of the good ones.

And, when you talk to Bi trans girls, there's a sort of unspoken idea that men are a fun little treat compaired to the default of sapphic relationships. which is a little exasperating. [In my mind I've joked about waiting for the monthly boyliking phase so i can get the chance to finally talk about guys.]

And it always feels like there's a worry, even within transhet spaces, of getting *too* het. just like how I've seen a worry in transmasc spaces of getting *too* masc. this usually stems from a desire to not want to recreate the oppressive power structures associated in both, but, in a great twist of irony, often ends up expressing both in their vehement refusal.

That's not to say that you can't be a transmasc femboy or be in a st4t relationship where the guy is small and subby and the gal is strong and dommy and have it be a healthy outlook and engagement with the facets of oppression, far from it. But if you seek those things out as escape from engaging with oppression, you tend to fall into it trying to square the circle so to speak.

these are mostly just personal outlooks and feelings on the subject, but i think they're important, because they're a real persons feelings, ya know?

#t4t #asks #transhet nsft #anon ask #t4t nsft #transhet #st4t

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howtofightwrite · 3 days ago

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What kind of wounds would a shotgun give to someone thats not wearing any bullet proof vest but just thick, winter jackets? Like those heavy jackets with fleece on the inside that old guys wear alot. ( I think its called a work jacket?)

I've always thought a shot gun would give some sort of blast damage and make quite a mess, but in The Day of The Jackal ep 6 it didn't seem that bad when he killed that farmer guy in Hungary lol.

So here's a fun thought to play with. A leather jacket is made from treated animal hide. In most cases, they're actually softened a bit to be more comfortable.

Shotguns are frequently used to hunt large game. Large game where their primary form of armor is their skin. Their skin which does almost nothing to stop a shotgun blast.

So, unless it's loaded with something like rocksalt, a leather jacket is not stopping a shotgun.

In answer to your original question, “what kind of wounds?” Catastrophic ones. It would be really messy.

Also, remember shotguns are still usable up to ~100 meters, at which they'll have a roughly 2m spray pattern. Getting hit by a shotgun, even at 50 meters, is going to be really bad. It's a bit like hitting someone simultaneously with a hail of small caliber rounds. Individually one piece of shot isn't likely to be lethal, but get hit with five or six of them, and that's a real problem. It's going to create a bunch of wound channels, and each wound has a chance to hit something vital, or ricochet and try again. And even at best, you're going to be losing blood from each of them simultaneously.

As for actual armor, most Level III or higher armor should stop a shotgun blast. However, shotguns are pretty good at damaging body armor. So someone wearing a ballistic vest who takes a shotgun hit, probably isn't going to be safe from the next pistol round that hits their vest anywhere near where the shot landed.

Similarly, with plate carriers, it should be fine, but there's a real risk that some of the shot chipped the plate. That's not going to cause the next shotgun blast to punch through, but it does mean that carrier now can't be trusted to stop rifle rounds.

Now, none of that are things you usually obsess over. For the most part, ballistic armor is single use anyway. If you're wearing a Kevlar vest and get shot, it's time to replace that vest. So, having your vest soak a shotgun hit isn't some kind of special tactic on your enemy's part, and is really just your vest doing its job.

Against unarmored targets, shotguns can be downright horrific.

So, using a winter parka to stop a shotgun blast is probably the result of someone who heard the, “shotguns are horrible at armor penetration,” line and took it a little bit too seriously.

There are some AP shells out there. Including slugs that market themselves as armor penetrating. I've never looked too deeply in to these. I know of their existence, but not how effective they actually are.

There's also probably some close quarters scenarios where a slug might punch right through body armor, even though, generally speaking, slugs lose energy extremely quickly, and at mid to long range, they're not going to penetrate. Ultimately, it is an 18mm bullet without a lot of powder behind it, so the drop off makes sense, but it's still a lot of mass to deal with when it's leaving the barrel. Even if your armor holds up, taking that hit is probably not going to be fun.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers

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dadsbongos · 2 days ago

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one must imagine violet happy...

14 k words / warnings - cunnilingus, fingering, choking, strap on (vi giving), drinking your feelings, emotional detachment and flip-flopping, reader's ex is an offscreen 'Her', fem reader

summary - despite vi's (and yours) red flags, you like her so much you can't let go. you think you two can graduate from casual fling to dedicated relationship despite still grieving your exes...

it started out as being vi’s little rebound fuck:

After another win she's drinking and masquerading it as a celebration when there's a meek tap on her shoulder. Vi can barely feel the sheepish, fleeting contact through her thick jacket; but she can make out the sight of a figure right beside her. It's a little wiggly and fuzzy, melting into the background as the warm washes of alcohol begin buzzing beneath her skin.

Vi twirls on the stool, frowning at you, "Yeah?"

Her tone is vicious, full of snot and ridicule, eyes narrowed. Black shade smearing over her cheekbones from the influence of sweat. Similarly, her hair is sweat-slicked, unevenly dyed strands dewy against her temples.

"Uhm, Vi, right?" you clear your throat, leaning close because you're petrified she won't hear you.

"What?" she spits again, though cants toward you -unbalanced.

"Hey, so," your hands knot behind your back, forcing your chest to jut out. Gnawing your bottom lip and eyelashes batting up at her, "I'm kinda like your biggest fan..."

"Hah?" her jaw hangs open, an eye squinting at you in disbelief, "You fuckin' serious?"

"Super serious," you giggle in earnest, hoping maybe a bit more charm will make her hard exterior crack, "I think you're crazy out there."

Vi sighs, surely about to reject you when a hand lands on her shoulder -a brunette man shrugs at her, giving a tiny smile- and she visibly loosens. Shoulders slacking and creased brows smoothing. She turns toward you again.

Heart hammering between your ribs, you catch her gray eyes drifting from your pert face and over your chest and down your hips along your thighs. All sleazy like.

The man murmurs into her ear as she blatantly leers at you. Barely do you catch his advice over the thrumming music: have a little fun.

Vi nods against his tilted head and pats the stool beside her, "Alright, fangirl, hop on."

You've got to clench your bottom lip in razor teeth to withhold a squeal, nodding excitedly and bouncing up onto the seat. Swiveled to face her. Vi reaches boldly between your legs, grasping the chilled metal underside to yank your stool flush against hers. The sides clack, vibrating you in place.

“You drunk?” she slurs at you.

“Uh, no…”

“You want a drink?” she tosses a thumb over her shoulder, toward the shiny shelves of liquor jugs.

“Uh, sure!”

“You picky? What do you want?”

“Uh, whatever you’re having is fine!”

Vi’s brows raise, lips quirking in amusement, “Do you ever start a sentence without some moaning, sweetheart?”

Pushing your lips tight, you have to swallow down the ditzy ‘uhm’ rushing up your throat to refuse, “No! I’m normally super good at speaking.”

“Are you?”

You shrug, “I think so.”

Vi laughs -well more like a loose snicker but still!- and shakes her head at you, combing a wrapped hand through her patchy hair, “You that starstruck?”

“Are you kidding? You’re so cool,” you gush, hands falling to your knees. Squeezing around bone nervously, “I’m totally obsessed with watching you out there.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ooh,” Vi’s fingers, calloused and bruising, so tenderly draw beneath the strap of your bra. Thumbing the extra frills along each edge and pausing at the bow nestled just above the cups, she pushes the minuscule ribbons up with a blunt nail. Bottom lip trapped between her teeth, “This is cute, cupcake.”

“Yeah!”

“Cupcake?” you giggle, a bit ditzy with confusion swirling with anticipation -clogging your throat.

“Uh-huh,” she hums, blinking stiffly. Steely eyes flocking up from your chest to your face before tumbling back down. Fat spilling over the thin fabric, jiggling with your every labored breath. Vi wraps her other arm around your back, swiftly unweaving the hook, “I gotta get this off you.”

Bending into her grasp, you let Vi greedily peel your bra off; eyes tearing into the way your breasts drop free. One hand cinching the loose lace and the other eagerly pawing at your chest. Pinching a nipple solely to hear you gasp.

“So cute,” her eyes have some faraway film over them regardless of how active her hands are at your bosom as if acting out instinctually, like how she’d brush her teeth or breathe without thought.

“Vi,” you whine, raising your hands toward her arms and burning your prints into her forearm. Searing over her joints and up her bicep before wringing around her neck. Tangling fingers into her hair, “You seem distracted…”

“A little,” she admits, looking up at you so dejectedly you’re almost compelled to avoid eye contact. It’s wrong to see her so welpy and limp in spirit; goes against everything you’ve sifted of her personality through watching her fights.

“Should I go?”

“Don’t…”

“Vi, I’m worried-!”

You yelp then as she wrangles you forward by the hips, plying the flesh carelessly. She surges forward, chapped lips against yours with heat -- chaste pecks a ruse of affection before she’s licking into your mouth. Sour beer invades your senses as she cups your cheek and brings you closer. The brush of her thumb along your cheekbone is jarringly tender.

“Don’t talk,” she grunts, flipping and backing you into her makeshift mattress.

The hand not hovering your face massages your bare thigh. She punches up onto her knees, gasping openly against your mouth before rushing a thigh into the gap. Spreading you open while grinding her knee on your mound. Her palm rounds the top of your thigh to dig the warm inside. Merely squeezing her way down, closer and closer toward the crease where leg meets pelvis until her thumb slips beneath the gusset of your panties. Gliding over where you’re hottest to circle your clit with the pooling juices.

Bucking into her digit makes her laugh openly into your mouth.

Hand fluttering down from your face, Vi draws clipped nails over your neck and traces the swell of your breast -traversing your ribs and stomach before she meets the band of your underwear. Another bow greets her and she laughs again, twiddling the velveteen ornament.

“Dressed up just for me, cupcake?”

When her eyes are shut, she can’t see you preparing to speak but she can feel it -- must be able to because before you can confirm that yes, yes, Vi, I did and I wanted you to see me and notice how the set matches it’s my only one she kisses you again. But somehow, someway you need her to know the truth; you moan as you return the wet smooch.

Frantically humping her palm, anxious to dip her long fingers inside you, with a swooning wordless mewl. Vi purposefully ignores the mindless need, ‘tsk’ vibrating through your lips -she leisurely snags and drags your panties down your thighs. Dark fabric wrinkling between her knuckles, which blister white while following the planes of your legs. Her patience lasts until your ankles, where she finally and appropriately rips the cloth free. Tossing it aside. Then pinning your knee aside with the freshly spare hand.

Vi’s lips leave yours, she sighs and leans back to watch herself fan your cunt open, “You even realize you’re clenching right now? Or are you so desperate I’m all you’re thinking about?”

“I just want you,” you wail, back bending up to jam your tits in her face.

“‘Course you do,” she tucks her face into the junction of your neck. Digging canines into your pulse and sucking a welt as unavoidable evidence you had her between your thighs.

You’d let her vacuum hickies all down your body -- she doesn’t even have to ask.

A ragged gasp barbs your lungs as Vi slips her middle finger into you, curling toward the pouch of your stomach. Crescending from slow drawls into solid pistons, pushing out whines and curses between your teeth. She slides a second finger in, thumb sloppily drawing up to your clit.

Suddenly she’s braced overhead, studying your pinched face with intent. Heaving like she’s the one getting fucked. Gray eyes nonstop racing between your sploshing cunt wrapped around her fingers up to your chest and into your teary lashes. The rough pad of her thumb slides distinct characters along your bud.

You could be delusional, or she could be carving her name into you.

The thought she is makes you seize-- then a hard shot through your gut forces your head back. Lips crowning an ‘o’-shape.

“Breathe, baby,” she coos, pushing against your tummy as she continues fingering you through each spasm, “Breathe for me.”

You do as she says, reaping a big deep breath just for her -- with padded air, you sing, “Oh, Vi!” whole body jittering.

“Good job, cupcake,” she lays an overly sentimental kiss on your forehead as you pant back to normality.

Eyes low, you fling hands out to greedily caress her firm stomach careening toward her chunky belt. Rough hands pause you, Vi shakes her head and cups your face again to kiss you hard, pressing you onto the stiff bed with her weight over yours.

“Just wanna fuck you, cupcake,” she groans, taking a snip from your bottom lip. It stings faintly but she’s pleased with herself so you just run your tongue over the sore.

Then, she slinks away. Shortly, only as far as her nightstand, but you're worming down the bed to sap up her heat again. Vi unleashes something jarring, though not unwelcomed. You watch in stunned silence while she unveils it: a shadowy magenta-hued dildo rigged into black leather. She locks eyes, raising a brow: you get it, this is your chance. If you don't want to get fucked, you should leave. Good for Vi, getting fucked was exactly what you were wanting when you approached her.

Vi presses your hips down on the bed flat. Every fluid thrust into you ends with a deep electric pop. Her fingers stretch out until the silky head of her strap taps her skin and then she speeds up until that tapping is a battering. Her back straightens as you wheeze a sweet sigh; leaning upright. Arm stiffening to cuff your throat, thumb affectionately scrubbing along your pulse. Spare hand grappling beneath your knee to widen the gap between your thighs.

Drilling into you, Vi manages to jolt you across her bed mat. And like a fly to honey, she chases -in a flurry to not leave your cunt too long before returning with a slam. Genuine groans and hums singe her throat: heat spiraling down her arm until your hips hop up toward her pelvis.

“Beautiful, baby,” she grunts, eyes fluttering back in her skull.

Skin slapping skin merges with the music of your wetness wailing around Vi. Firework displays of arousal beget more arousal -- watching her crinkle and fall over you makes you clench around her. Something about her borderline manic moans and drooling makes you feel like she somehow feels it.

Vi squeezes your throat before releasing your windpipe: now using both hands to swerve and press your thighs against your bouncing chest. Cock reaching mysteriously deeper. She folds your torso in half, squatting over you so there’s no escape from her dick. Every twitch away is easily overpowered. Her entire weight crashing into your soaked cunt.

Curses flicking between Vi’s clenched teeth when she finally pulses hard, hard into you. Sitting base deep and grinding, swishing back and forth as her eyes widen and glisten.

“Aw, fuck, baby,” she sounds a bit pathetic but the sounds more intoxicating than what you drank tonight, “Baby, baby, cupcake, so good!”

She lowers to kiss you. Once. Then twice. Then she pulls back to smile down at you. Sleepy and lopsided and hazed with serenity.

After precisely one second, she slowly pulls out. Very kindly massaging your thighs as she lowers both legs before rising from the bed.

Vi meanders toward the bathroom -- kitchen sink hissing to life soon after.

Hands unwound by your head and legs smeared across her bed, your chest thunders with each heave for air. Soft padded steps veer closer before pausing completely at the foot of the bedroom.

“Need a walk down?” Vi’s shoulder burdens the doorway, head tipped toward the frame.

Oh, were you being rude?

Maybe so…

“Yes,” you grunt, hips uncooperative as you slide off her lackluster bed. Vi does not rush over to cradle you off but watches with a satisfied smear. Fighting on your clothing, sans the bra flung somewhere over her shoulder, you eventually crash into Vi’s side.

“Trouble walking?”

“Shut up…”

Vi snorts, sympathetic enough to wring an arm around you. Brunting your weight as you both shuffle toward the door, cracking it open to an uncaring brisk wind. Shivering deeper into the burrow of her side, the cold emboldens you enough to wrap both arms around her waist. Borderline snuggling as she hefts you toward the stairs.

“Cold?” a question, you think. Vi says it with plain confidence. Not that she needed that confidence to declare something bare before her eyes. Sometimes when the sky is dark and a dog is barking, you just have to call them as they are.

You’re fucking freezing.

Wordlessly, Vi shrugs off her jacket -- red leather squeaking along her arms and over yours. Her eyes pounce over you, it could be predatory if you didn’t like it so much- before she ‘hmph’s, “You should keep that. I like it on you,” she jumbles you around easily, “Besides, you should start dressing warmer.”

“Are you telling me to cover up?”

She croons over your pout, blatantly looking down your low top -- nipples cutting through the thin fabric and soon-swelling lovebites on display, “Nope. Maybe a long-sleeve couldn’t hurt, though.”

“Oh?” a sudden stroke of genius (and desperation) lathes you, “And would you come give a second opinion?”

Tone lilting just enough to be casual, you could absolutely play this off as a joke! …but you’re not joking.

“If you want me to,” she shrugs.

No fucking way it worked.

“Yeah, really?” your entire point of cool and casual melts without restraint, an audibly nervous, bumpy chuckle flipping through your throat, “I’d -yeah- I’d like that.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“For sure,” you giggle, positively lightheaded.

“You got it from here?”

“Oh, yeah, I can get home…” when you glance her way, Vi’s eyes are over your shoulder. Her knuckles blistering around the banister, “I don’t live far, really.”

“Yeah?” her foot taps anxiously. You nod with a quiet ‘yeah, vi, promise’ and she returns the gesture. Then pats your padded shoulders, fingers tightening around familiar leather, “Jacket should be enough warning, anyway.”

“You’re just that big and bad?”

“Oh, yeah,” she mimics you, shooting a wink before turning up toward the steps, “Find me tomorrow if you’re serious about that little shopping trip.”

Oh God she’s turning away, she’s about to waltz right out and you know yourself. You know you’ll lose this spontaneous courage as soon as her back has faded up the stairs, so you blurt out:

“Uhm, actually!”

“Huh?”

“...do you want to stay the night at mine?”

Vi blinks herself from her stupor, tackling a single step down with the most conflicted confusion lashing her cheekbones. Rolling the proposal from one tooth, around the ring of her jaw, and finally swallowing, “You want me in your house?”

“I can make you breakfast,” you add, to avoid the accusation of being overtly domestic you then throw in a softening, “I have bread and eggs.”

Unthinkingly, she snubs a hand over her stomach -- merely mentioning food has her guts flipping. Phantom curls of toast twist into her nose, saliva gushing freshening her palette. Vi takes another step down, then another, and another, and she grabs your hand -yoinking you forward silently until you’re guiding her toward your apartment.

***

Wet heat. Feathered scratches. Someone’s mewling.

Oh, oh, oh God -it’s you.

Fingers are already knotting into sheets, hips quirking. Gut clenching.

Startling awake with a gasp, your back’s already sharpened upward. Head thrown back into the pillows and legs tossed over Vi’s shoulders. Thighs shaking around her ears. Instinctually, you try raising your hips from her maw- squirming up the thin mattress for relief- but Vi easily rakes you back down. Blunt nails shoveling into your hips, pushing down to keep you still.

Tongue parting your folds crudely, Vi revels in your apparent distress; blinking up at you slowly as you grapple a fistful of hair. She even has the gall to chuckle at you. Vibrations spiraling and fizzing out in the balls of your hips, but still just knowing it’s her makes your chest tighten. Another squeal tumbles out, tongue fighting its way into your cheek to no avail. Every attempt is halted swiftly with Vi lewdly, loudly, and unabashedly sucking syrupy cum from your hole.

Moaning for more, she swivels her face into your cunt before pulling back to flay a broad stroke over your clit. Circling the bud precisely just to hear your staggered huffs. Frustrated tears well in the corners of your eyes.

Palming her flushed forehead, your shuddering arm tries in vain to shove her away. Vi shakes her head into you again, scolding you with her eyes as she suckles your clit -- pulling away just to ‘tsk’,

“I’m trying to clean you up here, you know?”

An uneven puff of breath leaves you, chest jittering and head flinging limply, “‘s too much, Vi…”

“Too much?” she leans upon her elbows, wrapping an arm around your leg to push two fingers across your cunt, spreading you open and watching you clench around nothing, “But you’re still so wet, baby.”

“Yeah, you’re too much,” you manage to pant out, fractionally grateful for the break and partially wondering if it’d be too hypocritical to hump her shiny face now.

Vi mimics a frown, way dramatically downturning her lips, “Am I?” you nod, “So, should I stop?”

You bite your lip.

You shake your head.

“Aw, okay then,” she slaps your thigh, “Stop whining so much, yeah?”

Vi really is so mean to you.

***

First stop on your mental list is also the sole stop, so ideally, this trip would not last long. Of course, before you two make it far, you’re distracted:

“Nice comb, probably expensive,” Vi gruffs from over your shoulder. She saw and fully knew you were going the wrong way and said nothing, only followed with hunched shoulders and hands in her pockets. Mean glares passed onto leering men.

Squeaking in shock, you cradle the comb to your chest and pray it calms the rapid beating of your heart. Flipping the smooth darkwood in your hand, skimming your fingers along the teeth just to feel each fine spike.

��I can afford it,” you insist.

“You got a job?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Vi’s almost startled by your offense, raising her hands in surrender with a small shrug, “How am I supposed to know? You’re always on me.”

“What?” you pout dejectedly, “You got a problem with that?”

“Nah,” Vi snatches the comb from your hand before twining your fingers together, “I like having a pretty thing around,” she holds the tool up over your head before you can grab it, snickering as you try stretching over her to grab it back, “What do you do anyway?”

“Huh?”

“For work,” she kindly elbows you flat onto your feet, squeezing your hand as she guides you through the coagulated market, “What do you do?”

“I’m a waitress, kinda,” you quiet, leaning your face against her thick bicep. It’s warm against your face, skin soft regardless of her own career, “I open at Bombshells…”

“Didn’t know that place was open before night.”

“Our dancers don’t show up until then, yeah.”

“Slow, huh?”

“I mostly clean with the other girl.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“Says you.”

“I’m fine as long as I win,” she grins wolfishly, canines glinting in the sunlight leaking from above. A honeyed glow cast over her faded dye, “Which I always do.”

Cheeks heating at the dichotomy between jagged danger and her big eyes and pretty face, your gaze darts away. Vi ghosts her lips over your temple, it could’ve been a kiss but you mostly just felt her smirking against you. Whenever an unfortunate head turns your way she fastens you deeper into her side, undoubtedly possessive. Terrible a trait as that is, especially given how the two of you aren’t official, you’re bewitched by the showmanship.

You assume it's a good thing: that she wants you.

When she leads you up to the vendor and uses her own coin to pay for your comb, your assumptions only sink deeper. You pray not into delusion, but you’re sure that possibility isn’t off the table.

“Take care of that thing,” she says with finality, as if you need the warning.

A wood so dark it burns red, strips of yellowish discolor vining diagonally along the middle. Shining in your palm with searing polish. You had a prettier comb when you were little -- a gold spine and black veneer, you carried it everywhere. Until you lost it. Losing that comb was hardly the worst thing in your life, especially at the time, although it was very beautiful and so pricey. This comb, if you lost this comb, you can only guess that the world itself would end.

Again cradling the comb against your chest, now with sincerity, you squeeze the hand Vi has wrapped around yours, “I think it’s my favorite.”

Vi laughs at you. Good-natured, you think. You hope.

She takes your hand in hers back on the way toward shirts all the same.

Vi occasionally has to redirect your sights back onto long-sleeves from tiny cut tops. You manage to pluck two that caught your eye and Vi’s little smirk and nod as she says, “you’ll have to model for me.” makes you weak in the knees.

And the downright perverse way her eyes crawl down your torso doesn’t help. She’s slouched back onto the bed, one thigh bouncing in frenzy.

“C’mere,” Vi slurs, raking you between her spread legs with hands on your hips.

“Vi!” you giggle, maybe a little more vapid than necessary, and try to balance yourself against her shoulders.

Without much concern or forethought, Vi is prying the shirt over your head. Mumbling to herself, just loud enough for you to catch snippets, desperate claws to see your skin. How much she misses it already. Calloused hands scar up from your sides to cradle your back while her lips tease down the swell of your breasts. Laving your nipples in broad tongue-strokes before softly tucking one in her mouth, cheeks hollowing. She croons around the bud as if it’s doing anything for her.

As she pops off, you catch the rouge caked into her cheeks. Webs of slobber stitching her swollen lips to your stiff nipple. Shining with saliva.

Then she’s pushing you away, a non-committed attempt at a kiss ghosts your lips before Vi is turning away. She clears her throat and pets through her hair.

“I’ve gotta get to the bar,” as if she can sense the wild request gushing up your gullet, she adds, “You should stay home and get some rest,” she must feel bad because she turns again to give you another chance at a kiss. Chaste and speedy before she’s darting out, “See you around, babe.”

Baffled as you are by her sudden disappearance, you’re equally -maybe even more- flattered by the pet name.

And in the quiet of her distance, you abruptly and sharply realize:

Oh, I didn’t go to work.

Oops.

Well, it’s too late now.

And the thought of finishing off what Vi started between your thighs sounds rich right about now. Your fingers may not be as satisfying but they’ve finished the job before, they can do it again.

Three sharp taps quake the door. Shrieking hinges shooting you alert. What are those odds? They must be good, right? Who else could be coming to your residence?

Did she forget something?

Does she miss you, too?

Skidding along the flat floor, a shirt hanging over your shoulders with skimpy panties beneath, you fling the door wide. Arms speared on either side, eager to wrap around the disheveled woman. You’re about to pile over her when your eyes hone on the face at your stoop.

Avont.

A grizzled man with wiry black hair curling around his jaw, bridging over his top lip, and connected to the slick-black ‘do of a proper undercity businessman.

“What happened?” oak eyes scrutinize you, scanning from your mussed hair to your bare legs, “Are you okay? You didn’t show.”

Ohhhhh maybe the boss you flaked on. That’s someone who might show up late at night, duh. Completely normal.

Well, fairly: it is normal when it’s Avont.

A faux sniffle schlucks up your nose easier than the throat-stabbing cough you force. Stumbling into the doorway with a very sudden, very apparent light-headedness, “I got- !” you silence yourself with another cough, forcing your voice down into the base of your chest, “Caught something… at that bar…”

Scoffing, Avont nods, “Big surprise. That place is nasty as shit. I keep tellin’ you stop going there,” here he goes again -you mentally retreat, planning the next ploy to aid your virus story, while he spiels, “You’re too nice for a gross ass place like that. No little crush is worth that black-eye waiting to happen! You need to listen to me, I was right about that girl and I’m right about that bar!”

Clearing your throat and shaking off both his lecture and the subtle jab at your dating history, you apologize softly and assure him, “I’ll be back on my feet soon…”

“Get rest, kid. I better not see your ass prancing in the lanes…”

Ugh, no faith. Like he thinks you’re a liar or something!

You feign a pained swallow and show a ‘thumbs up’. Nodding curtly. Shutting the door as he turns away. Returning to bed orgasm-less, and now dulled of all carnal heat upon the sight of your boss ]

***

Rising from bed provides a fresh ache, unrelated to the -still recovering- fingerprints scorched along your hips or the bite marks on your chest. This one curdles inside: above the vagina and below your throat. Acting more as a realization than a concrete feeling, one you think is meant to be stifled instead of acted upon. Not that self-awareness helps any.

Because whether it’s embarrassing or not, you’re itching to see Vi again. No amount of maturity or hindsight can pin that into a designated place. It rattles around, bowling one end of your stomach to the other like a wild hog until you’re shuffling out of bed. Intent on somehow finding those slate eyes on you again.

Skimping on work is something you’d be scolded for at home, which makes you thankful you’re not: you get to flee your house without a lecture on the importance of career dedication.

You planned on waiting before seeing Vi, you could picture it so well: you, posted at the bar by yourself in a cute little number with a drink you took one sip from. Lipstick around the rim. Lashes thick and batting over your shoulder as she approaches you for once.

All of that daydreaming is dashed as soon as you step foot inside.

Vi is already there. Black face paint thick around the eyes, strewn down her cheeks nearing the corners of her mouth -- black lipstick around there, too. Outgrown strands flattening out around her neck like oiled feathers. Individual pieces compiling to craft this perfect ego, some mask to make herself unattainable.

Always there. Always lingering. Always looking despite the danger ahead.

It makes you wonder what she serves. You want to know more. You need her to tell you, whisper it against your lips with her tongue in your mouth.

But she’s always there.

Does she live here or something?

Between strobing lights and swamped bodies, you manage to make out Vi’s stained silhouette. Ear cuffs shining back into your retinas.

Now you struggle with how to approach… should you be upfront? Should you tease from the sidelines and pray she notices?

Before you can formulate the most immaculate lie, Vi spots you in the faded crowd. Her eyebrows raise a smidge, a smoke visibly clearing from her gaze upon the sight of you. As if you could have no other prerogative than her (you don’t), she beckons you forward with two flicks of her middlemost fingers -- effectively eliminating the most awkward part of approaching her. Good!

Bounding toward the woman, you shyly tuck your hands at your hip and give a coy, “Hey, Vi…”

“What’re you doing here?”

Fuck!

“I’m here all the time,” not really a lie, just strategically subtracting the part where you come solely to catch glimpses of her beneath floodlights.

“Sure,” she pushes off the crackled counter, sliding back toward the door.

“I was just bored…” you admit glumly, reduced to a miserable, truthful goop beneath her glittering eyes, “Couldn’t think of anything but this place.”

Vi, naturally, chooses to pick on you, “You thinking of me?”

“Wha- ! Ugh, uh, no. Not really. Not even,” again, your bluffs disperse as simply as smoke with a mere flick of her eyes, “Just super bored.”

“Uh-huh,” she shrugs, jerking her head toward the back of the room, “You bored enough for a quickie in the bathroom? I gotta go out in ten for my first fight, need something to get my heart started.”

“First fight?”

“I get double-booked most nights, sweetpea.”

Your automatic reaction is to squeeze your thighs, feeling that slight nudge of fat ripe against your clit -- the friction. The resounding echo of your heartbeat against each rib bone. A dodgy snort racketing through your sinus, “You need to work on your nicknames.”

Vi’s initial response is to roll her eyes as if she could read the arousal off you like text -- her second response is to quietly mumble, “Forget that one from last night.”

Out of respect, you singularly nod and say nothing else, no matter how oddly the request strikes you.

And when Vi links an arm through yours, out of respect, you let her drag you into the bathroom. Spiked jacket collars dig into you as she crushes you toward the back wall -- rigging a janky lock last-minute; you’re not sure it ever clicked, and you’re also not sure that you care.

She keeps you pinned against the tile wall when you try slinking down her body. Vi ‘tsk’s in your face, nipping your neck, black fingernails already dipping beneath your waistband. Fluttering your bottoms down your thighs before whirling you around yet again. She slides onto the lidded toilet, legs spread wide. One thigh braised, muscle tense. She sits you on that thigh.

“Come on, baby,” she viciously swipes your cunt along her thumping thigh, swerving your hips by force. Rudely mimicking your pathetic whimpers back to you, airy, echoed “ah, ah, ah”s passing between sloppy kisses, “You gonna cum for me?”

Hard pressure and stroke against your clit has a ragged gasp raking through your chest, you spread your legs and wrangle hands into her jacket.

Then twisting those hands up toward her blackened hair. Vi has no sympathy, only pushing down harder and sliding you wetly over her skin.

“Come on, girl,” she moans quietly, “Give it to me. I need to watch you cum.”

Your gut twists at the desperate husk in her voice. Thighs quaking around hers. Nails snagging the nape of her neck.

She nudges up into you on each stroke, pressing her lips to yours.

“Uh- !” you gasp, knot blistering apart in your stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Hah…!”

“Uh-huh, baby,” she slowly releases your hips, allowing you to rut at your own pace while you come down from your orgasm.

“Oh, Vi…”

“Good girl,” she pecks your cheeks. Papping the black lipstick stains away kindly, “I needed that.”

Vi has enough decorum to help you yank up your clothes before shuffling you back out into the crowd.

Her thick jacket is laid over you. She pats the two-headed hound over your back with a playful shrug and chooses to not acknowledge the way you solely gaze at her chest beneath the wrap top. What a merciful and kind woman.

You slide your arms through the sleeves of the heavy jacket, letting Vi guide you via a hand just above your ass. Until you’re squishing through raised pews, not mumbling apologies quick enough for all the shoes you’re trampling. Too fast you’re moving in a space too dark.

“Here, baby,” Vi gruffs from behind you, shoving you as politely as possible onto the stone seat beside a man over thrice your size. She pats your padded shoulder and beams at the man while saying your name, then turns to you amongst the cheering crowd and says, “This is my friend! Just stick with him and nobody’ll fuck with you while I’m down there!”

Eagerly nodding along, you perk up as Vi leans down. One hand on your cheek and the other darting between the open drawls of her jacket -- not-so-subtly copping a squeeze of your tit -- pressing you with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Then she hops down the pews vertically, carelessly shoving aside viewers. People scream after her in outrage but don’t change their bets on her win.

An elbow jutting into your side knocks you violently into Vi’s friend. Rather than become as upset as the patrons, he smiles down at you softly and slinks an arm around your back to keep you away from the rowdiness.

Lights dim, then shoot alive. Flashing down into the pit. Circling and circling like scavenger birds as a man rippling with black ink enters directly across from Vi.

You sit up seeing her. Eyes widening as if that could provide some higher definition sight of her.

The man keeps you upright among the thrashing throng. He has no room to say it, but the lovestruck haze on your face both terrifies and moves him. He prays for both yours and Vi’s sake that Vi is big enough with those muscles to dwarf her past. He’d love to put the idea of caution in your head, of a safe distance. But for one: the mob is shrieking, and two: your eyes are soaking wet with infatuation.

Even when Vi is making a man even bigger than himself spit out teeth and blood, you look down at her like she’s gifting a ribboned bouquet.

Post win, reveling in the coins freshly lining her pockets, Vi has you on her arm while her friend repeatedly gathers the bartender’s attention with his broader, taller stature.

Stares linger. Regular betters spotting this man with Vi is not unusual, but you are. A glaring lime green dot in the center of this portrait. Girls stray, syrupy voices sultry to lure Vi from her seat; yet it never works.

Her arm hooked around your waist tightens every time, screwing you into her side until your skin is basically glued against hers. If, at any point, you could be worried about her taking a different girl home: she quickly remedies that by how sparingly she diverts her attention from you.

It was always going to be you she takes home, and you were always going to say yes.

“This is cute,” Vi holds, between two fingers, your absolute embarrassment, “You carry this wherever you go?”

“Why are you riffling through my things?!”

You launch forward to rip your bag out of her lap and try snatching the comb from her fingers but she tosses it aside to wrench you forward. Both arms wrapping around your waist; wrapped hands with dried blood around the knuckles securing you against her.

“I trusted you…” you seethe, albeit non-seriously, and slap her shoulder, “I leave you alone for two seconds and you try teasing me.”

“It’s cute! You got a little reminder charm in your purse, it’s adorable,” when you only pout harder, Vi relents, “Sorry for betraying your trust while you pissed.”

“Ew, don’t say it like that…”

“So sensitive,” she lulls onto her back, bringing you with her so you’re fully nestled on her chest.

Grumbling protests into her bosom, you squeeze yourself around her. Throwing a leg over both of hers. Her blunt nails barely make an indent against your back as she draws lines and circles -and hearts you think?- along your spine. Despite her heavy-handedness and rough pads, the ministrations are incredibly soothing. So gentle and sweet that you find your lids drooping.

Heavy lashes beating down onto your cheeks. Breaths evening and slowing. A fragile yawn escapes your parted lips.

Just as your mind is leaking blank, you’re jostled.

“Alright,” she coughs awkwardly, clapping the fat of your ass until you’re shuffling upward, leaning upon your elbows. Lashes clumped by black dye beat up at you, she presses her lips with furrowed brows, “Let’s get you home.”

“At this hour?” you yawn.

Slipping out from beneath you, Vi is already stuffing her shoes back on. Carding long fingers through her tangled hair as she murmurs, “I’ll walk you.”

You don’t suppose that’s the warmest invitation, and so slink off Vi’s board of a bed.

Much of the creep towards your apartment is as silent as it is prolonged. Her silence could speak volumes if she wasn't so flagrantly dragging her feet, pointing into the smokey, unclear sky to attract your attention or pausing you at each sketchy corner to 'scope' rounding dangers. Patiently, you wait for her to tell you any of the multitude of thoughts she's withholding, but that doesn't come before she's clomping outside your door. "Well, sweets, looks like it's goodnight. Keep those bugs away, huh?" lame, yet charming. You wouldn't have imagined someone as made-up and scenic as Vi would have a shamelessly cringe bone in their body and yet she surprises you. You're desperate to see more.

She’s turning, she’s getting away. For some odd reason no matter how much time you siphon from her it is never enough.

“Wait, Vi!” you clap a hand over your mouth as soon as the call has left your mouth.

She quirks a brow at you silently.

“Uhm,” now you can’t retract it. Commit or die of embarrassment, “Are you hungry?”

Vi’s lips raise in disbelief, disbelief that suffocates itself with a confused smile, “I haven’t eaten.”

“Do you want to come in? I’ll make you something good.”

Vi, for an unbearable few seconds of stunted silence, contemplates the offer before shrugging. Face elongating in pure why not energy -- skimming your side as she slides into your apartment. Saddling your stove impatiently with big puppy eyes, just waiting until you follow in.

“I wanna have a special nickname for you…”

“Give me one, then.”

“How about…” you hum thoughtfully, “Red? Like the jacket?”

Vi tenses, then shakes her head wildly, “Too close to one I don’t like.”

“Uh, okay, then… uhm… ughhh, there’s not enough to work with… I don’t wanna just call you ‘V’, that feels so cheap.”

“Full name’s Violet, if you really want more ammo.”

“Violet,” you sing it so sweetly that it makes heat swoon to her cheeks -she almost clutches her palms over her face like a child at the realization- “What if I just call you that? Is that okay?”

The blush is immediately overwritten by a heinous cackle, “That’s the exact opposite of a nickname.”

“Yeah, but it’s just as special because only I’ll call you that. It’s a name-extender, or something.”

“Uh-huh, or something,” when you don’t retort, instead just blinking up at her bashfully, Vi tilts her head sardonically, “Yes?”

“Do I get a nickname, too?”

“Oh, yeah, let’s go. How about ‘princess’?”

“No! It has to be related to me!”

“You don’t see how ‘princess’ is related to you?” brattishly, you shake your head and Vi rolls her eyes (albeit not with any malintent), “Alright, then… Pumpkin? Candy lady? Sweet girl?”

The last one makes you clench and rub your thighs, but you press that down, down, down and pretend to be normal.

“Why are all my nicknames so ‘sweets’ related?”

She answers, or instead dodges, your question with another one, “How can you sit there and be so nice all the time anyway?”

“I don’t know, it just feels better than being spiteful.”

“Okay, well. Sometimes you have to be.”

“Yeah! I didn’t mean anything by it… just, for me. Right? I didn’t mean anything.”

Vi doesn’t seem to buy it, which is confusing because you don’t think you ever gave her a reason to think you would lie.

“Where are you from?” her gaze narrows.

“Huh? How does that matter?”

“Where were you born?”

“Vi, if you just want someone to be mad at you then why are you with me?” sensing she won’t drop the topic anytime soon, you sigh and answer with great hesitance, “Piltover. I moved here when I was sixteen.”

“Why?”

Her questioning makes your skin crawl. You don’t like her sneer. You don’t like thinking about your past. And you don’t want to explain yourself to someone you thought would understand.

“A girlfriend,” you try to wave the answer away beneath the pan’s sizzle, but Vi catches it.

“You moved down here?” you hum and nod passively, praying she’d only drop the subject, but instead she scoffs, “She was stupid to not move over.”

“She had a family to take care of…”

“She could’ve moved them all.”

“Why does it matter?” you move the pan and swing around after stifling the stove, hands clutching your counter and sights rounding with juicy globs of upset. You already know why it matters. You heard it two years ago and you’re reading it in the displeased lines of Vi’s scowl.

“You don’t belong down here,” she speaks so casually.

“I belong wherever I want.”

“Not down here.”

“Not with you?”

Vi inhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut and arms folding, “Come on, you know that’s-!“

“No, you come on! That’s what you’re saying!” you wail, pushing into the rusting stove when Vi steps closer, “That’s what you’re thinking. That’s why you’re saying all this, right? Why else would you care so much about shit I don’t even think about.”

Vi approaches, hands uncomfortably stuffed into her pockets, “I just can’t understand not being angry about anything.”

“That’s not because you’re from Zaun, that’s because your life was hard.”

“My life is hard because I’m from Zaun,” she bites, “I had a little stay topside, and it was still shit for me.”

Again, you can read what she’s thinking. The sudden crease between her brows says it all -- that vengeful twinge and aggravated quirk of her lips. And again, your heart tells you with fiery anguish that you must hear her confirm it verbally,

“Why were you in Piltover?”

Vi looks down at you over the bridge of her nose, “For a girlfriend.”

Staring each other down with only the rocking of your unsteady body against the stove droning through your apartment. You frown while Vi smiles cruelly. She wants you to say it back. You didn’t belong there. She wants you to bang the pan in her face.

“I’m sorry it was so shit for you,” you cough between bulbing sobs, and the urge to spit them out only grows when Vi is visibly disappointed in your response, “If you’re looking for a fight then you should go back to your own place.”

Vi leans back into the counter opposite you. Arms coming up to fold across her chest. She burns thumb and forefinger into her eyes, then massages her brow and trails across to her temple, “You’re so sweet.”

A mirthless laugh scatters from your deflated self, “Like sugar?”

“Yeah…” she sniffs and clears her throat, “Like sugar.”

Foolishly, you allow the disagreement to settle over her stunted compliment(?), “I still don’t like that. You sound like some hounding drunk.”

“It’s all I got.”

“We should work on your nicknaming skills, Violet.”

“Yeah, whatever ‘name-extender’.”

***

Waking up hours earlier than your routine calls for does not suit you finely. But, alas, you do it for Violet. Violet.

Gorgeous name for such a rugged girl. Her scarred lip and gnarly dye-job don’t scream ‘fragile lavender flowers’. Sometimes there are things you can connect Violet to violets over: soft, round eyes and flushing skin and the taste of her lips. Violet. You roll the name between your brain-folds -- like a marble through grout, contemplating the history behind it. Has she always preferred Vi? When did that nickname sprout? Why is it tattooed on her cheek? Would she let you kiss her tattoo? Would she let you moan Violet when she’s inside you?

For the tenth time this morning, you shoot the clock a deadly scathe. Half past ten.

No longer satiated passing time examining her name, you stand to swing the door and survey your floor. Clean of any body, let alone the significant profile Vi provides.

Vi never struck you as a punctual person, definitely seeming the type to be fashionably late even to her own party, but this was grating. Surely she didn’t choke on vomit in the middle of the night, right?

Momentarily, you feel inspired to burst out and give chase: rush to her studio and cradle whatever hungover pieces remain. Then comes the concern: what if she comes here, and you’re out trying to hunt her down?

To avoid creating a complicated circle, you stay plopped on your couch with your elbows stabbed into your knees and your face hanging into your palms. Every time sleepiness creeps over you, dizzying your head or yanking your lids, you’re shocked awake with anxiety: what if she knocks and you don’t hear it?

To avoid inconveniencing Vi, you stay wide awake on your couch. For uninterrupted hours.

Until you’re forced to rise upon the realization that the sun has crashed beneath the horizon. Indigo glows of nighttime bruise your carpet through dusty windows. Slowly waking, the moon yawns behind a veil of thick smoke. Discoloring it to a vague yellow-ish-green-ish.

You’re a very punctual person. Vi tells you a time, and you find a way to be there two minutes early. So ideally, when she said she’d be showing off at 21:00- you would’ve caught her in the ring.

After elbowing toward the front, hands clasped around the top rail to haul you up high above the fighting -eyes wide to peek at Vi’s rough physique and soft face up close. Only to find two burly men duking in the center. Teeth and blood splattered across the chipped floor.

Bathroom, perhaps?

Shuffling around the edge of the room, you budge toward the back where a single light flickers above the sign with missing letters spelling: RE R O

All you find in the bathroom is another hot couple sweating and moaning in a broken-lock stall. Too caught in their rambunctious whirl of passion, neither pays you any mind before you gather the wherewithal to duck out and slam the door.

Between flashes of light and thumping music, you make out that none of the faces in the crowd are Vi.

Outside, then?

Maybe?

You dash outside, cutting between sweat-slick bodies until the cold air greets you. Music muffled behind steel walls and cigarette smoke curdling around unfamiliar faces. Kiramman banners reflect sickly green beneath the street lamps. They don’t swing in the faint billowing wind; stiff material snaking in jagged lines that hide trashed gutters. A girl with long hair stands in the center, shouting and hugging a boy shorter than her -- you would bet she reeks of Zaun’s finest.

Outside was no luck, you twirl vapidly in the street -as if Vi is standing just out of sight to tease you. Then you find the flight up to her apartment: if Vi’s nowhere, she must be up there.

Bracing the trek two steps at a time, you find a conflicting hint to Vi’s whereabouts.

Coming down the same stairs is the big man Vi usually slinks around with, brushing off his hands with an unbuttoned coat and flushed cheeks. You typically think so kindly of this stranger, but whether it's the swollen concern or aching longing you’re quickly assuming the worst of him. Marching up and pushing him back (rather, he’s polite enough to pretend you forced him back).

He stares down at you with lidded eyes. Bloodshot with heavy bags. He’s frowning.

“What’d you do with her?” despite the comically obvious size difference, you shove at the man’s broad chest with both hands. Face twisted up at him and teeth bared, “I thought you were her friend!”

He merely throws a hand toward the stairs, moving aside for you to fly up the steps and throw yourself into her door. Roughly jerking the knob, finding it unlocked for any passerby, and flinging yourself inside with a panicked call,

“Vi?!”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the sullen strange man stalks away.

“Shhh!”

On her side -eyes clenched and legs twisted around one another with both arms flopped out on opposite sides- Vi is thrown into bed. She looks like she got dumped off by a truck and decided moving wasn’t worth the struggle. You imagine she’s feeling that way, too, if the clattering bottles you kick over when trying to enter are any indication. Her teeth bared with the dangerous shush.

An empty brown glass rolls into an empty green one and the dying orange sun makes them glitter into each other. Cautious to not make too much noise, you step over the two bottles and creak her door shut. A black bucket is beside her bed, angled beneath her face (for easy puking, you imagine). Several more emptied bottles marble the floor, and with the new vantage point inside her room, you spot a bottle on its side spewing bubbly beer. No doubt already soaking into the floorboards.

“Oh, Vi…” you husk, ambling through her maze to pick up the abandoned glass. Setting it on her side table and searching for anything to mop up the impending stain.

Your attention is speedily diverted.

“Don’t,” she spits, eyes still crinkled shut.

“Hmm?” you hum, inching forward to gently card hair from her face. It’s a tad too pliant, not so much soft as it is greasy, “‘Don’t’ what?”

“Say that… my name,” you could’ve laughed if she didn’t sound so deadly serious, “‘Oh, Vi’ like you give a shit…”

“I do,” you hope that regardless of your hushed tone, the firmness behind it is all the assurance she needs, “Vi, I care,” she doesn’t reply to that, instead groaning and leaning her head further off the edge of the bed. You silently adjust the puke bucket so it’s closer to her gaping mouth, “Vi, we should shower.”

“‘m fucked up, babe.”

“I can see the alcohol, Vi.”

“Sure…”

“Are you okay to stand?”

“You’re serious about a bath?”

“Super,” you comb through her fringe, “You’ll feel better afterward. All nice and clean, and then you can pass out all you want.”

“I don’t wanna stand,” she huffs.

“Then I’ll wash you.”

She snorts. Then shrugs, “Pick me up, then.”

Standing, you preemptively remove your thin shirt and shorts before cautiously hauling Vi into a sit. Looping one of her arms around your shoulder and dragging her into the bathroom. Vi silently lets you lay her in her itty bitty tub and twist on the water.

“Is it too cold?”

She remains silent. So you assume she’s fine.

As you tip her head, scaling water over matted black knots and scrubbing pigment straight off her neck with gentle ministrations -Vi is leering through the corner of her eye.

“You stripped,” she notices.

“I did,” you scratch soap into her discolored hair, “Should I throw on a towel or something?”

“No,” Vi leans back into your hands, a soft moan escaping as you massage her scalp, “Bath and a show. I like it.”

“I just didn’t want you ruining my clothes. You look like a splasher.”

“It’s water.”

“Yeah, bathwater.”

Vi laughs quietly, proving your point with a flick of her wrist and sending a small sploosh of water up into your chest. Powder blue eyes locked on the way your breasts bounce in your bra as you flinch away, then how they jiggle when you try scolding her,

“Vi!”

“You should walk around like this more often,” she grins up at you.

“Whatever,” you try hiding your face in your arm.

“Yeah,” one of her hands dips out of the water to flip your tit, giggling maniacally as you screech and retch back, “Whatever, huh? Listen when I talk, babe.”

Standing abruptly at the new title of ‘babe’, you shudder and shake out the nerves bottling in your gut, “I might as well join you if you’re gonna soak me.”

“You should,” Vi spreads her legs while leaning back, making an obvious gap for you to fill. Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cramped tub, “I’ll treat you real nice in here.”

“Liar,” you smother your humiliation beneath indignation, then a thin spread of frustration, “You’re getting pruney, let me finish washing you.”

“What if I wanna wash you?”

“Do you? Or do you just want me in the water?”

Vi shrugs playfully, a drunken smile on her face, “Never tell.”

“Okay, Vi,” you roll your eyes, rinsing suds from her hair and watching as the water browns beneath her.

Her skin gleams beneath the shoddy yellow lights now, and you can clearly make out each intricate line in the tattoo going down her spine. Branching off either arm and licking up her neck. Outgrown hair hides some of the neck detail.

“When’s the last time you got a cut?” you wonder aloud. Not really expecting a response.

Vi stiffens, arms locking around her bent knees, eyes unfocused and breath heavy as she answers, “Couple months now.”

Patting Vi’s shoulder into a rise, you unplug the tub before assisting Vi out. She trips over herself and just snickers as you scramble to keep her upright. Vi yawns while you lead her toward her makeshift bed with both hands. Kicking aside empty liquor bottles as you do.

“Wanna get dressed for bed? Or total commando?”

“Naked,” she stumbles up, caught by diligent hands and escorted back onto her stiff, patchwork mats, “Thanks.”

“Hm? Uh, oh, sure. I don’t mind.”

“Okay…”

Despite technically fulfilling her request: you feel guilty leaving Vi there, bare to the sprawling draft on a thin mosaic of lumpy cots. She curls tightly, spiraling around herself with her clasped hands as a pillow. Heart drowning in stomach acid, you sigh and drop onto your knees,

“Vi, don’t you have a blanket around here somewhere?”

She mumbles something and flings an arm straight out, a single finger pointed straight toward the boarded floor. Crouching beneath the bed frame, you reach out blindly into the dark undercarriage; fully unaware there was even enough space down here to fit something. After uncarefully scrounging for all of two seconds, you find bundled fabric. Absolutely not soft enough to be a genuine thread blanket, even from the fissures.

The material itself is… off. Thin, sure, but almost plastic-esque. Not vinyl. Not a sheet.

Yanking the cloth out and flattening it across your lap. No matter how dark Vi’s room grew with the sunlight’s decline, you could make out that boorish symbol anywhere. Hard lines stacked into the most offensive polygon you’ve ever seen;

A Kiramman crest flag.

Did she just rip it from a post? Surely with all she wins, she could’ve gotten something more… well, like a blanket.

“Vi, you can’t wear this, it won’t keep you warm…”

She snores and twists away from you. Jet-black ink staring you in the face, now. Swaying with her breath, but otherwise motionless: perfect opportunity to scan down her spine. Because that’s where her tattoo sits, of course.

Hard rectangular blocks, exceptionally round, screw-like joints and gear types at either shoulder. Never before could you conflate Vi with mechanics because everything about her is so hot.

Blood and skin. Layered hair. Bloodshot eyes. Pink lips. A heartbeat. Flaying lashes.

Perhaps that’s an old part of her. Locked away behind the years since she got the tattoo done. Maybe she doesn’t even remember what the meaning is.

What if it just looks cool?

Slammed out of your thoughts, Vi rolls around again with a strung-out huff. Now a silvering scar denting her top lip stares you in the face. A nose ring glints just to the left, teasing you to stick around. You see both so much better without those black shades she packs on before each rumble. For as much as you adore the hardened painting, you think she’s prettier like this. You catch the roundness of her cheeks better. The wideness of her eyes. Her collarbones.

You inhale slowly and stumble back into a stand. Hands shaking at the sudden, frightening swell of affection.

You should probably go.

Vi shivers, big eyes clenching tight and burly arms roping around herself for cover.

Dropping into a speedy squat, you snatch the Kiramman flag and splay it across her although it does your heart no favors. Still unpleasantly contracting.

She could get sick…

She’s doused by moldy colors. Surely the material is scratchy, too.

“At least I know what’s watching me…” rouses you from the fresh concern.

“Huh?”

“Can’t sleep like this,” Vi laughs, stifling it in the hull of her throat before rolling to sit up. Staring up at you tiredly, “Felt like I was being watched.”

“Oh, I guess I was… I wasn’t, I mean- not like that,” you groan, scrubbing exasperation from your tense eyes, “I don’t wanna hurt you, Vi.”

“Comforting.”

“Just worried… you’ll get sick, you know?”

Vi pushes off to stand, smirking when your eyes momentarily sink toward her chest -- she pinches your cheek, “Cute.”

Shirking a stringy black top and boxers on, Vi snags the flag -and kicks it back beneath her bed before assuring you, “I’ll find something else, okay?”

“Okay…”

Striding past you, Vi opens her door and knocks her head into the frame before gesturing you through, “Ladies first.”

You chuckle, good-naturedly rolling your eyes and flouncing out of her apartment, “You’re a lady, too.”

“Mhmm,” she shuts it behind you both -impulsively going to jam her hands in pockets until she realizes there are none there. She says nothing but leads you toward the wide staircase, “Not like you, though. Coming all this way for me… Undercity’s finest.”

“Not even,” you’re glowing beneath the praise. Goofy smiling and cheeks heated. So you intentionally stray a few steps behind, so she cannot see you.

As you dust the final step, looking out into the narrow alleys -flaying Kiramman flags mystifying the space, so crowded together you can no longer see between them as the wind raises each flap- you realize you have a longer way to go.

Vi must come to the same conclusion simultaneously. Already staring down at you when you peek toward her.

Her mouth opens, lips faintly stained blue around the ridges and smears of black lingering beneath her lashes. Vi’s eyes trace you, hands shaking at her sides. Then she sighs, eyes blinking half a second apart, “I might be too drunk to walk you home, sugar.”

Knowing she’s inebriated gives you an edge -knowing that perhaps tomorrow her head will pound so hard she won’t remember this conversation- you straighten your shoulders, “Then why don’t I stay the night?”

Blinking down at you, drowsy lashes hanging for a moment, Vi hums thoughtfully even though you can see the rejection already in her face, “You shouldn’t…” eyes sliding away from you, “You won’t get much sleep…” she laughs at herself before bumbling out, “the mattress is uncomfortable.”

“Huh,” you twist uncomfortably, an overbearing and embarrassing tension rising as you battle uphill to get back into that apartment, “I’ll miss you then.”

“Stay safe, sugar,” she soothes a hand up your arm before slinking away. Overly cool and completely unbothered, she has to white-knuckle the rail as she climbs back toward her lonely studio apartment.

A biting wind slithers up your back.

You forgot Vi’s jacket at home.

***

Technically, there was no plan to see each other again.

That doesn’t mean you want to any less.

Work is disinteresting and despite living here for coming to eight years, you have yet to establish a social circle independent of work or… Her. Who shall not be named.

The most social stimulation you’ve had today was another knock-switcharoo incident. Flurrying toward the sound, expecting Vi to be leaning there with her muscles and soft lips, you opened the door to find your next-door neighbor with a crooked smile. She held out a silver key and asked you to keep it because it’s a new copy and I don’t trust myself with the duplicate….

That was two hours after you woke up. Many more have passed since then.

A momentary pass of awareness scoops you up: is everyone right? That you don’t belong here? Should you go back home? Would that help you re-grow your spine, would that re-inspire your social battery? Would that alleviate the doubts still gnawing at you with Her teeth?

But then you wouldn’t get to see Vi if you moved back home…

Maybe you shouldn’t.

You sit at home. You don’t know what to do with yourself alone except for craving Violet.

Antsy for something to do, you resolve to rid yourself of the last fossil from two years ago: throwing apart the cabinets above your speckled stove, nearly tearing one door from its hinges. Sparkling from the back, unhidden, is a bottle you haven’t touched since She stormed out of your apartment. Leaving you with a two-bedroom to hemorrhage money over while her things slowly disappeared overnight. Its waxy red neck shivers for warmth, and your palm is awfully sweaty -- it needs something cold to wrap around.

Thrilled spines pierce along your spine and into the arm you’re extending for the bottle. Amber liquid swirls kindly at you, calling your name with such foreign affection that you have no choice but to politely reciprocate. Unscrewing the cap and abandoning it into the garbage. Swigging like water until your throat burns, then you drink more to pacify the sting.

Once your belly is buzzing and hot, and any thought past breathing is too hard for your head to compute: you decide you’re in perfect condition to get out of your stuffy apartment.

After all, don’t you deserve it?

You’ve been locked away too long, you should get out. You should dress up. You should keep the bottle with you as you get dolled up. And you should roam deep into the inner city. For no specific reason except that’s usually where the excitement thrives. Your ex taught you that.

Deep in a cardboard box buried in the back of your closet is a matching set. Your only one. You only wore it twice.

Black thread is thickest in the outline: straps and cups, then a sheer mesh. Wine tinted over your flesh and purple bows on either bra strap, right at the pit of your arm, and over the front of your panties. Vi loved it the first time, she’ll have to love it again. It’ll remind her of that first night: the heat, the passion, she could’ve eaten you alive and it was enchanting.

Over that, you tug a pink dress. Short to let your legs breathe. Hugging around your hips and chest. Simple enough to be unassuming as a slip dress, but undoubtedly tempting for someone like Vi.

When did this abrupt outing become about Vi?

…you don’t remember…

You don’t care too much, either.

A dangerous walk to the pit is nothing to your drunken mind. Determined with nothing but soot in your hands, dust blowing out of your fists without you realizing.

Vi doesn’t notice you with her back turned. She’s alone and hunched over the counter with a vice grip around a glass bottle. Her cheeks are rosy and the glass has only been dug into a fifth of the way. You approach, and she must catch your glinting smile in her peripherals because her head glides your way.

Releasing the bottle, Vi tilts her head onto her newly spare hand while reaching out for you with the other. Fondly, she massages the back of your hand with her thumb -- settling you onto the stool beside her and tugging you flush into her side. She pats your thigh and cups your cheek.

Vi snickers, drawing a thumb beneath your bottom lip and swiping up-away from the corner. Only once you see the crimson smear on her skin do you realize she was cleaning up drooping lipstick. What a romantic…

“You look like me, sugar,” she says strangely. Not happy. Not sad. Just quiet. And her face betrays nothing at all.

“Are you happy to see me?”

“You drink before showing up?”

Her question flies out so quickly it doesn’t occur to you that she completely dodged your own.

“Can you tell?”

She nods, “Hard not to when I can smell it.”

“Augh…”

“You’re still cute,” she promises and swings back her next drink. Dragging the back of her hand across her jaw to catch sour dribbles, “I just have to catch up now.”

Before she can poke even a little, you’re clawing an open hole through your stomach. Guts piling onto the counter in front of her. An earnest glow overtaking your face, and a desperate rag choking your sweet tone, “Vi, I missed you.”

“Did you?” she swallows another shot from the bottle.

“I want you totally, Vi.”

“Do you?”

Now she looks at you again. Your face is spared two seconds before her steely eyes drop toward your cleavage. Elated with having her stare on you again, you don’t catch the pure carnality electrifying her. Raw desire infects her sloppy judgment when she nods.

“I want you too, sugar.”

“Seriously?” despite all your dreams, you hadn’t thought she would agree. Preparing yourself for the utter worst, now you don’t know what to do as she hops down (stealing the whole bottle with her, you notice).

“What else would you be doing here?” she grins up at you from your perch on the stool, “Now come on, are you gonna sit here and make me go home alone?”

She already knows, you can tell by that smarmy lilt in her voice, she must know that isn’t what you came here for.

Taking her offered hand is natural. Medical wrap comfortably fitting into the grooves of your clasp. When you trip over the first step, she dramatically sweeps you up into her arms. Barking a laugh when you scream and curl both arms around her neck in panic, legs tightening and smacking against her clavicle. Regardless of her not being winded or in any detectable pain, you rush to kiss her cheek and spew apologies.

“I’m tough, sugar, don’t be sorry,” she carries you up the steps, “Feel free to keep kissing me though.”

So you do.

Red lip print after red lip print, overlapping and staining her pale cheek. Mingling and murkying with her long-drawn eye makeup. And when you sear your lips against her jaw you see that black shades over some of the red.

As a test, you kiss down her neck and again: black in red. She stained you, too.

It makes you giddier than it should, but you blame it on the alcohol and not your festering obsession.

Vi lets you off after kicking her door open, finding plenty of joy in how you -again- squeal in shock and cling tighter to her. Bonking your forehead against her. Her laugh is so full of fluff, delighted by your dread -she still sounds so pretty. She kneels to unclasp your shoes and slips you out of them with black tar kisses on your knees and shins.

Unlooping the straps of your slip until it bleeds onto the floor: pooling around your ankles. You hop out of it without a second thought.

Kicking off her own shoes, Vi slides her hands over your neck and smooches both cheeks -- grinning broadly with bloodshot eyes at the sight of her lips printed on your skin.

With the door open, you feel free. Unhidden. A bottle about to be chugged. Her hands on your neck, so warm and so gentle. You feel buzzy in your belly and overwhelmed by endearment, you pry your ribs back to expose a still-beating heart. Vi can take it. She should take it.

“I think I love you, Vi.”

Hands tighten around your throat before snaking off, fastening at her sides. Red eyes come alight like she didn’t just carry you up the stairs and kiss your legs, “What?”

“I’m - I mean, uh… I… I want you, I want us…” your shoulders slump, brows furrowing, “I thought…”

“You thought?” she prods, eyes wide and chest erratically pumping. Each breath a gunshot.

“I just thought…”

“Thought what?” she spits, glare spearing you against her bedroom wall, the radiating chill washing your back keeps you stiff, “What could you possibly have thought this was?”

“Uh,” you lull, shoulders rising toward your ears and eyes drooping onto the floor, “uh,” you hesitate and let your arms flop out on both sides, “uh…”

“God!” she scoffs, and it teeters off into a snaking laugh by the end, “Do you ever start a thought without moaning?” Vi shakes her head, eyes cutting aside -toward her cracked mirror, “What did you think I was gonna be for you? What you were for me?” she looks back onto you, low and angry. She’s never looked at you like that, “You can’t be that dumb.”

“Oh,” your chin falls into your collarbones, eyes pointed onto your socked feet and beginning to sting. Hands come up belatedly and curl around yourself, “...oh…”

Vi steps back and collapses on her bed. It creaks beneath her. She isn’t looking at you. You’re not looking at her.

Instead, you’re focused on your clothes strewn over her floor. A baby pink slip you ripped from the lanes -a thin film of soot caked into the fabric- and Vi’s old red jacket. A toppled pair of flats with the soles beginning to poke through the bottom kicked by her door. An unfortunate glance cast toward her mirror confirms the lipstick you wore is now smudged sideways. Hair mussed and whole body constricting to hide itself.

Vi stares at the floor. You feel so stupid.

“Was I actually just sex to you?” you finally ask. A whisper into the buzzing coffin.

Like a nail beneath the hammer, Vi answers, “What else could you have been?”

Maybe her girlfriend.

You don’t suggest that. You just nod. You step back into your dress, pulling each thin strap slowly around the curve of your shoulders. She says nothing. It’s so quiet you can hear the extra step it takes for you to skip over her old jacket and slip each shoe back on.

Fingers tighten around the brass knob, twisting until it squeaks and pops out of frame.

“It’s weird to leave your place without you walking me down,” you whisper, gaze hooking back just to see if she’ll flinch. Vi remains static, bent over herself on the bed.

“You’re still upright,” she mutters, voice low and strapped with razor wire.

“I tried really hard to look nice, Vi.”

She shivers as her name crawls off your tongue, tucking her head down and away from sight. You’re not sure what else you expected. She obviously wants you out, yet you stand just to delay the inevitable. You’ve never spent the night before, that won’t change because you confess how pathetic you are for her.

Leaving feels wrong, staying is wrong.

You step out slowly, as if to taunt Vi into grabbing your hips and yanking you into her chest. As if she would.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

A stiff, low nod is all you get. And the only evidence that’s what you even got was the rustle of tarred hair flapping.

Sliding the door shut behind you, you pull the knob hard to ensure it surely shut. Silently stepping back, you coil around yourself upon a sweeping breeze; peeled eyes set on that dilapidated door. No shuffling, no screaming, no banging. Vi sits on her bed, then, and quietly forgets you were ever there. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Feet dragging down each step and an unsteady hand clutching the rail. Sniffling. Reconsidering everything you said, every spot in her room you looked too closely at, how you didn’t rush to touch her -hug her, hold her, soothe her. Wondering if maybe had you kept your mouth shut tonight then she could’ve fallen for you, that maybe all she needed was more time. After tonight, she could’ve been yours, right? She just needed time, now she wants nothing to do with you.

But you keep hoping she’ll run down after you. She should be tripping over herself, racing the wind, and skipping three steps at a time to scoop you into her big arms.

A nasty, soaked hiccup chokes you. Cupping a hand over your mouth stifles nothing, but it does make you light-headed with the sudden lack of oxygen. Maybe if you pass out now she’ll find you and feel so bad she just takes you with her anyway.

Or maybe someone else will find you and feel so much pity they stomp you out right there.

Either way, you would have been saved from the humiliating task of blubbering all the way home by yourself.

Only once you’ve stripped and kicked off your shoes do you realize -you left a comb on Vi’s bedside table. Your favorite one. And your favorite bra, too, was thrown somewhere across her bedroom. With much hesitation and more regret, you swallow the fact you’re never seeing either again and climb into bed.

Steely cold sheets slither over your skin, flatly covering with no comfort -- and surely no softness. Despite the conditions, your eyes close and you clasp your hands over your chest, rolled up tight on your side. Never before has your breathing sounded so lonely, ravaged by a swelling throat with lungs knotting around your heart. Slowly unballing your fists, smushing them flat over your eyes just to catch the dripping wetness.

Maybe if you collect it all, and show the swirling cups to Vi she’ll let you stay and cry for her a little bit more.

Or maybe she’d just shut the door in your face.

***

Nights are long. You sleep to get to morning and sleep some more to ignore the day. Tempting is the bottle, but then you'd be flat broke and with all those sick days recently you doubt your boss will be thrilled to keep you around on tough times.

Rolling out of bed for a shift feels how you'd imagine a glass blade dragging over your face feels. Dramatic, possibly, but if someone could bare their palms around your every thought then they'd know the comparison was real. Much dread fills you, so full and so bloated with trepidation that you could spew it out unto neighbors as you walk.

A blinking red sign awaits overhead. Few letters are stubborn enough to remain lit the four minutes you spend procrastinating outside. The rest flicker without remorse, spelling a stuttered and ill-aged: BOM S

Deciding to brave a striding entrance rather than being dragged in by your glaring coworker, you finally push open the cracked glass door. Fingerprints and blood smears of varying degrees of dryness paint the exterior. No new faces decorate the floor: a promise that you still have a position. After all, not many are bustling to work at the poorly managed, poorly budgeted titty bar.

Skidding past the curious and agitated faces of coworkers, you veer into the back room. Pleased to find your locker intact and untouched.

Your name plated across a dinky silver tag with a crooked back pin is still stitched into place over the heart of your black apron. Which smells as clean as you left it. Same with your tiny black shorts and low-cut top. Shucking on the minimalist uniform, you speedily whip out onto the floor and ignore the incredulous stare of your fellow opening girl.

Levaya storms your way while the floor is still empty, an uneasy morning dust still coating each table. Sticky beer clicking your heels into place on the floor. Monte is still at the bar area, wiping the counter before getting to any part of the restaurant used at this time of day - which makes total sense, of course.

Her red lips are twisted furiously, though the pinch in her eyebrows unveils deep concern, “Where have you been? We thought you died!”

“I was sick. Really out of it.”

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, “You’re always out of it. Just tell Avont before your story changes, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you watch her storm off, “whatever.”

Mornings at Bombshells are never, ever busy enough to justify having two servers on staff -- you doubt there was a sudden influx of patrons before afternoon that has Levaya salty. If anything she must have just been so concerned she gave herself a stress headache, as if that’s your fault.

In any case, you end up outside Avont’s office before the first hour of your shift ends. His name is seared into a rusty board, too thin to be the plaque he insists it is. You knock out of courtesy before simply opening the door, which is never locked because there is no lock. He blew that budget on the front door, a smarter venture given the location.

Avont sighs when he sees you, “Where’ve you been?”

“I was sick, real loopy. Couldn’t tell time, kept falling in and out of sleep.”

“Right, m’kay,” he scrawls -you assume that excuse- in the corner of a paper before waving a hand to shoo you out. As you’re trying to exit, you swear he mutters, “Hope it was worth it…”

The wish makes you swallow hard, and gaze upon the hollow chairs -ghostly tables. Were you better off here than out in the pits?

Levaya palms your shoulder, warm skin on warm skin, she tilts her head, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re usually spacey, but not this bad.”

“Uh,” you clear your throat -you should start thinking without moaning, apparently it’s scathing- “Fine. I'm fine.”

Snapping catches both of your attention, Monte holding out a bucket and two rags. A silent prod if you got time to lean, you got time to clean -- which usually doesn’t bother you, after all, you could’ve moved to the night shift when people actually show up if cleaning bothered you. But right now you’re almost too devastated just standing, let alone scrubbing and soaping.

“Technically,” Levaya seethes, “One of us should be at the host stand,” she snatches the harder job up right in front of your eyes and waves the rag at you like you’re a child, “And you owe me, so you have to take it! No arguing!”

You don’t get to open your mouth before she’s whipping you in the ass with the rag.

So you quietly meander to the so-called ‘host stand’ which is just leaning against the peeling wallpaper and waving at bypassing citizens. Nobody stops in. Nobody ever does since Avont axed the cheap lunch specials. Why would anybody stop into a place like this without dancers otherwise?

Why would someone go where they aren’t fulfilled?

Why do you stay in the undercity?

Levaya swears at a chunk of dried gum beneath a table. Monte laughs. Avont waves papers in his office.

Your name is shot from Avont’s cracked doorway, he flaps a clipboard at you, “You have to sign these!” when you don’t jump up from the wall, he grumbles, “For your sick days, kid, let’s go!”

Waltzing out of Avon’t office provides the kind of show you’ve missed at Bombshells since moving to the morning crew. Shouting. Angry shouting.

Levaya is wringing her grayed rag with fury, mouth similarly twisted as she glares upward, “Get out! I don’t know who you think you are, but she’s not here! And if you don’t get out now, I’ll make you!”

Rarely do you see the dark-haired woman so enraged. So you eagerly round the corner to peek at her opponent to find-

Violet.

Completely pliant to the person screaming in her face. Dormant in a corpse way. Eyes low and fingers knotted kindly although she doesn’t seem to be listening at all.

“Get! Out!” Levaya whacks Vi in the arm.

The woman flinches, glaring down at your coworker but otherwise still. Pale gaze warping around the floor just to find you.

“Vi…?”

She finds you.

Levaya scoffs your name, “Come on!”

You wonder how she knows you so well.

“We should talk outside,” you rush over, pushing Vi around and forward by the shoulder. She moves easier than water, entirely soft beneath your fingertips. Nothing like the stonewall woman you’ve known.

“Good friend,” Vi mutters as soon as the glass doors clink shut.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was drunk last night…”

“You were drunk a lot of nights.”

Vi sighs through her nose. Eyes scrunching shut. Her hands are tight in her pockets.

“But last night, I wasn’t. I didn’t,” she groans, “I wasn’t thinking last night. I got scared.”

“You got scared?”

“I got scared,” she confirms, “And it wasn’t you, it’s everything behind you. It’s topside.”

“I don’t live there, there’s nothing for me up there,” or down here, but you don’t say that, “I can’t be loyal to a place I left.”

“It’s not about loyalty,” Vi lets the statement linger so long you almost start a refusal when she bursts out with, “Last time I had a topside girl, my spirit was crushed. I just don’t want to be that way again. Blinded and unsure, it’s not good,” she gestures to herself as if to add humor but it truly just makes you sad, “You’ve seen the results.”

“I like you, Vi, I like what I see. You treat yourself like a chore forced onto me, but if I didn’t want to be with you then I wouldn’t be,” such generic statements make you nauseous, but it’s the single truest thing you could think to say. The most honest you can be is in those blanket statements.

Vi’s eyes soften, self-loathing dissolving into something much more passionate. She looks down at you sweetly, though her thoughts are anything but: you’re so pretty she wants to choke herself and so kind she wants to pluck out her own eye. You’re terrifying because she knows she could fall for you, and you don’t belong with her.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Vi.”

And yet you’re so concerned with how she feels.

“I don’t wanna hurt you either,” she lets out her pocketed hands just to ball them at her sides, shaky with frustration and red hot need, “I just want you around. Everything’s boring when you’re gone. And your apartment is more comfortable than mine now,” frantically, she cards a hand through her hair and wets her lips, “Or maybe it’s just you because I swear the one time I could lay on my shitty bed without a backache was when you were in it.”

“Why push me away, then?”

“I was scared. But I’m more scared of never seeing you again,” she palms the back of her neck, almost shyly, and nudges her head toward the glass doors, “So, can I see you again?”

“You wanna watch me work for the next six hours? Nothing happens on mornings…”

“But you’ll be here, sugar,” she beams, you can tell she’s trying to be suave but it all cracks into unadulterated glee as you nod.

“Well, I guess you’ll be my first customer…”

“What an honor, I’m sure the service will be great.”

“The best.”

“For some reason, I doubt that,” Vi entwines a shaky hand with yours, dragging you toward Bombshells. Re-entering, but now, you think- you plainly assume- as a couple.

If not, then at this point, what the fuck else could you possibly be?

tagging people i thought would be interested:

@wowcatboys + @ch6douin + @deathrose36 + @opoyend + @fortheharbingers ? *metal on metal screeching sound* maybe y'all?

#vi x reader #vi arcane x reader #vi smut #arcane x reader #vi arcane smut #vi fluff #vi angst #lets go lesbians lets go

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bluespider008 · 2 days ago

Text

Oc: Mayhem (transformers)

1. [are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?]

Like many other Decepticons she had a mainly purple color palette, though after leaving the 'con army she began to veer into more greys, various purples, 'n some yellow as well in her paint jobs (kinda like a Megatronus color palette)

2. [what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?]

Absolutely LOVES rock 'n rap! 'Keep their heads ringin', 'Rollin', 'X gon give it to ya', 'The choice is yours', 'Till I collapse', 'No sleep till Brooklyn'

3. [weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?]

Prefers blasters that she herself makes (being a weapons specialist/engineer) even if they don't always work the best. She's currently workin' on makin' a blaster that can also change into a sword (likely will never work)

4. [how crafty/resourceful are they?]

She is incredibly crafty 'n can make a weapon out of just about anythin', she specifically loves building weapons or items to make missions more fun for her chaotic self.

5. [how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?]

She has spikes naturally formed on her helm but she added ones to her shoulders. She also likes comic stickers, 'n caution tape, as she heard they looked cool in human culture.

6. [how do they wear their hair? do they care a lot how their hair looks?]

No hair, just helm lol

7. [favorite animal? why?]

She likes platypuses.. cause, like- they are mammals but lay eggs? How? HOW???

8. [do they have a nickname? who gave it to them? if it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?]

Bullet (from her brother. Y'can probably guess why she's called Bullet)

9. [favorite food? least favorite? are they a picky eater? do they have any dietary restrictions?]

She'll literally eat anythin'- even if she ain't supposed to 💀

10. [if they wear jewelry, what kind? do they prefer silver or gold? do they have a favorite gem?]

She likes any yellow stones/crystals as they remind her of her brother's optics

11. [what do they have in common with you?]

Fear of attachment/abandonment as well as love for buildin' things (same fam, same..)

12. [how long have they been around? do you know their birthday? is their birthday the day you made them or another day? what do they think of celebrating birthdays?]

Birthdays aren't really somthin' she's accustomed to celebratin'.. (also, cybertronian age is pretty confusin' so just think of her as a 17 year old in human standards)

13. [what languages do they speak? how fluently?]

Cybertronian, basic alien dialect, can learn any language by goin' through databases as well as mimickin' accents.

14. [are they any good with numbers?]

Ehh.. so/so

15. [how big or small is their family? who did they live with growing up? do they live with anyone now?]

The actual size of her family is yet to be known as she was raised by her brother. Neither of them truly never knew their sire or carrier 'n had been on the move constantly throughout their childhood.

16. [do they have any pets? what do they call their pets?]

She isn't allowed to have pets yet until she learns to be more careful with her large frame 💀 (she's already accidentally crushed multiple things)

17. [how did they spend their summers/free time as a child?]

As a sparklin' / young teen she spent most of her time on buildin' random projects, her first successful build bein' a hoverboard like invention (before she learned how to transform properly)

18. [their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing?]

All can be reasonable dependin' on the situation you're in.

19. [are they quick to anger? what sets them off?]

She's a bit of a hothead 'n can easily be set off when someone mocks her or her inventions.

20. [if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?]

She definitely drives like a drag racer 'n not so surprisingly becomes very competitive if she's actually challenged to a race. (Her alt mode is a deep purple custom '69 Ford Mustang Mach 1)

21. [their favorite place to be?]

She likes the mountains, finds the snow to be beautiful 'n peaceful durin' winter.

22. [do they sleep well at night?]

Depends on the night/ how hard she'd worked prior. Sometimes she'll fall into recharge rather quickly, other times she won't or she'll be jolted awake from dreams.

23. [how would you describe their voice? can they sing?]

She loves to project the voice of the singer she's listenin' to through her own vocalizer, pretendin' that she's the one actually singin'. She often switches through accents 'n speaks pretty fast, so it can be a bit hard to understand at times.

24. [do they have any creative hobbies? art, writing, music, etc]

Loves art, engineerin', 'n music.

25. [how good/bad is their hearing? what about their eyesight?]

She has very sharp hearin' 'n pretty good sight, though one time she'd almost lost her optics in a fight.

26. [how do they move? are they clumsy? light on their feet? do they use mobility aids?]

She's far too strong 'n flexible for her own good which only boosts her already huge ego, often gettin' to her head 'n causin' her to do very reckless things durin' battle, sometimes old Decepticon habits come into play 'n she goes overboard.

27. [if applicable, do they have a favorite sport they play any sports or prefer to watch?]

Boxin' 'n racin'. Gets WAY too competitive.

(Might do the last few questions some other time..)

i wanted to make an oc ask game 😋 things i like to ask people abt their characters:

are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?

what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?

weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?

how crafty/resourceful are they?

how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?

how do they wear their hair? do they care a lot how their hair looks?

favorite animal? why?

do they have a nickname? who gave it to them? if it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?

favorite food? least favorite? are they a picky eater? do they have any dietary restrictions?

if they wear jewelry, what kind? do they prefer silver or gold? do they have a favorite gem?

what do they have in common with you? how are they different? would you get along with them?

how long have they been around? do you know their birthday? is their birthday the day you made them or another day? what do they think of celebrating birthdays?

what languages do they speak? how fluently?

are they any good with numbers?

how big or small is their family? who did they live with growing up? do they live with anyone now?

do they have any pets? what do they call their pets?

how did they spend their summers/free time as a child?

their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing?

are they quick to anger? what sets them off?

if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

their favorite place to be?

do they sleep well at night?

how would you describe their voice? can they sing?

do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc)

how good/bad is their hearing? what about their eyesight?

how do they move? are they clumsy? light on their feet? do they use mobility aids?

if applicable, do they have a favorite sport? do they play any sports or prefer to watch?

how do they show that they care about someone? how do they express that they don't like someone?

are they associated with any particular element (air, earth, fire, water)?

do they smell like anything notable?

do they like receiving gifts? giving gifts? what is their ideal gift?

do they have any habits that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them.

how would your character describe themselves? it doesn't have to line up with how they really are.

do they ever return home?

#maysocs #mayhem #long post #oc info #transformers oc #traditional art #transformers g1 #transformers #transformers generation one #transformers one #transformers bayverse #autobots #decepticons #wreckers #cybertronians

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carbonfiction · 1 day ago

Text

Dark Desires

older, best friends dad!Logan x reader

summary: a week ago you found yourself drunk texting your best friends dad; something that should've been a mistake, but you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would know everything you'd kept from him all those years. You'd been thinking about it for longer than you'd care to admit; adding to the fantasy. so what happens when logan finally indulges you..

warnings: Swearing, dirty talk, F!Receiving oral, PIV smut, prone bone and missionary, Somnophilla (technically??), daddy kink, roleplay?? pussy sniffing?? Kind of voyeurism? But the person is very much asleep. Also tagging this for dubcon but it’s more pre established consent/free use and slight CNC vibes depending on how you view it? Tagged this the best i believe i can but ultimately you are responsible for your media consumption.

A/N: i don't know where this came from, other than i had a glass of wine and a naughty thought. i tried real hard on this and its a little darker than i usually write- not to mention longer- but i hope yall enjoy a filth filled piece of my intoxicated brain anyway. Et voilà.

Masterlist Words: little over 4k (oop- longest thing ive ever written.. i got carried away..)

Your heart is hammering away inside of your chest so insistently that it feels like your ribs are bruised and your breasts are trying to punch their way out of your dress.

You're still wearing the stupid thing and Laura is drinking another mimosa. Part of you is grateful for that. Yet while you want her drunk and snoring tonight, part of you can't help trying to stop her.

You make eye contact, give her the look. Tell her to slow down because you two have been down this road before. She gets wild, has fun for half an hour, and then spends the rest of the night dizzy in a bathroom asking deep philosophical questions like why do my eyes hurt? And why do guys suck? And do i still have puke in my hair?

But if she's drunk tonight, just enough to sleep like the dead, then what?

You set your own drink aside to check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time this hour and lift a shaky thumb to your texts.

You've read the thread again and again and again, and still you don't quite believe it. The party swirls around you. A hurricane of sound and the smell of cocktails is sour in your nose. You feel the heat of your friends, your fellow graduates. one day lawyers, doctors, professors, professionals in their field; and yet here you are reading over the texts again.

You feel like a little girl and yet simultaneously the most grown of women because you have a secret, a dirty little secret.

You were nearly as drunk as Laura is now when you sent the first text a week ago. You were celebrating the end of finals and you were curled up in bed after a long night out.

One of your other friends had flirted with the bartender. You'd told the girl to stop and Laura had reached from her stool and pinched your leg. Asking if you'd ever needed something so badly that you actually made a bad decision.

Everyone had laughed, all except you.

You know she was teasing and complimenting in the same breath. You're a good girl and everybody knows it. Reliable, honest and never involved with the wrong kind of guys.. Always a reason to why you were too busy to bother. You were studying, too busy hanging out with Laura. Too busy prepping for school, internships and the next two decades of your life.

You're no angel, although of course, no one was. You've had your share of regrettable hookups and disappointing boyfriends, but nothing that set your world alight. Nothing worth risking anything for.

But maybe what Laura had said thread under your skin more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you were just drunk enough to ignore the obvious risk.. Or was it that you'd been thinking about him for an indecently long amount of time?

So with finals over, diploma practically in hand. There was nothing preventing years of pent up lust from sending a jolt down between your legs, setting a crackling fire in your heart and making you sweat. Dripping down your neck, stomach, that spot on your lower back, they all tingled as you crouched on the corner of your bed and wrote a single text.

You: I need something.

You sent it. Had forced yourself to before you chickened out and immediately regretted it. You thought you'd worded it in such a way that you could play it off, pretend it didn't happen.

But you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would read those three words and know everything you'd kept from him all those years. Every dirty thought, every horny fantasy, everything.

It was all right there in the text. 2am on a Thursday night and truly it could only mean one thing. You put the phone down, tried to make yourself go to sleep.

Logan was an older man with a life. A job, house and a child- your best friend- and you were sure he wouldn't even see the stupid thing until the morning when you could say you meant to message Laura. Not him, not her father. But then you picked up the phone again, half panicked and ready to change your mind, when you'd saw those little dots.

That meant he was writing something back, at 2am on a Thursday night, either in bed or his limo.

Logan: You need to go to sleep

Of course.. Responsible. That was the responsible thing to do. And you would do just that. But first you'd just write a quick text to apologize. Say it was the wrong number and sleep this off; pretend it didn't happen for the rest of your lives.

But.. what if, for once in your life, it could be easy? What if Logan did know everything? What if.. There was something else? Because that was how this all started, hadn't it?

You'd always felt something more, saw something different in his worn eyes, his gruff demeanor. Heard something he was saying when he really wasn't saying anything at all.

Or.. Was it all in your head? Was this only ever a one way infatuation? A young woman's crush, a dark fantasy that only grew darker with each new kink you discovered in yourself? Losing all confidence, you texted back.

You: sorry. Wrong number.

And that was that- or it should've been that- If it was only ever a one way street. You put the phone down, tried desperately to keep your eyes closed, but the moment you heard the phone buzz again you peek.

Logan: Is that true sweetheart?

Oh no, no. it wasn't true at all. You knew he knew exactly who'd texted and why; what you wanted him to do. You'd been thinking about it for years. Adding to the fantasy. Soaking your sheets in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep, all that brought a temporary relief. If only for a little while; So, you text back.

You: No

Just that. A simple No.

Logan: You telling a lie?

You: Not exactly

Logan: So you wanted my attention then?

You: Wanted? No Logan.. Need.

And yes, you know need is a very strong word.

Logan: You feel very strongly about that huh? Strong feelings can be dangerous sweetheart.

You: what if i want something dangerous.

You answered back with the most honest thing you could say. And then there was a pause, a very long pause, in which you could see no dots, and even started to wonder if he'd abandoned you. Left you on read.

A thousand images erupted in your mind, different versions of him sitting and staring at your number- your words. Those cheap reading glasses perched on his nose as he wondered if this was some kind of game.

But if it was a game.. Logan was ready to play and after a few minutes your phone dings again.

Logan: you're being a real bad girl tonight, aren't you?

And then it wasn't your best friend's father you were texting. Well, it very much was- that was the crux of it, wasn't it? But now it was also the man. The man on the other side of the phone who was paying close attention.

You: Yes, daddy. very, very bad.

Now, In the darkness of his daughter's room, You imagine colors swirling on her ceiling. Your heart restless like a caged animal and there is a knot in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter by the second.

You don't know how long you've been lying here. 5 minutes or 5 hours. But you know you can't possibly wait another moment... But then you do, because you have to.

You haven't heard from Logan all day and that makes you afraid. Really genuinely afraid that He's forgotten or changed his mind.

Because, well, it's just you and Laura in here, isn't it? You're lying on the floor, a lumpy pillow under your head, and a spare, slightly musty blanket folded under your breasts.

Laura is snoring away in her bed, her limbs tangled with a stuffed animal almost the size of her- one you'd won her from a carnival. It was like old times, she slurred drunkenly. The three of you huddled together in her bed, giggling and watching some crappy reality show.

She'd tried to get you to join her and the animal in the bed, but you'd said no. Insisted that it was too hot tonight. That you'd rather be able to spread out on the floor. Fortunately, by the time you made it up to Laura's room, she was too far gone to argue.

Unfortunately, now though, there's a very drunk girl in her bed beside you, a possible witness to your depravity. And so you lie there, staring at the ceiling and forcing yourself not to text. Not to call. To just ignore the nagging doubt in your gut.

And yet again, you still find yourself opening the text thread. Reading through the things you told him, the things he'd told you. A formed plan and line after line of you promising things. All of the 'Yes, daddy I want this' the 'Please do that to me' The repetitive 'ill be a good girl, Promise' And then, at the very bottom, a safe word. It was when you'd agreed on the safe word that you knew this was for real. Not a fiction in a book or a fantasy playing out in a movie.

The word. Kitty. An inside joke from years ago. The word proof that all the little confidences and conversations held an attraction you were both willing to hide for the sake of decency

But.. you don't want to be decent anymore. You'd confided your fantasy, one that you had dreamt so many nights. Wished for it in the hot, comfortable haven of Laura's bed every time you'd stayed over. The thought of her older, attractively gruff father coming to you in the night and making you submit to his secret lust.

Of him pulling your panties to the side while Laura slept untroubled. Logan ravishing you while you whispered and mewled 'please, daddy, make me your filthy slut'

You've always been his filthy slut, haven't you? Deep In your heart. The thought is turning the wet spot between your legs into a soggen menace. You've been horny before, You've been needy before, but never like this- because you've never tried something like this.

Never wanted something badly enough to ask for it; or even beg for it. This was a dream, a dirty desire, a secret yearning never to be true.

Then you'd drunk texted. You told him and he'd responded, not with shock or disgust, but enthusiasm, cautious enthusiasm. But it was still only text messages. You haven't spoken to him yet, not properly at least. Even when you saw him walk in at the party, or in the limo on the way back to Laura's. You couldn't bring yourself to say a word. Your mouth was so dry, cheeks so hot. Laura had laughed and said you were flushed in the backseat- a lightweight to end all lightweights- when in fact you haven't had a drop to drink tonight.

You're going to throw your phone at the wall, you swear it. But No, that would probably wake her up. Instead, you conclude that you're going to find your pants, and you're going to leave this house and never come back. You love Laura but you can't bear it, can't believe you trusted him with this. You can't lie here and torment yourself about your decisions a minute longer about your need.

Then, your heart leaps into your throat. phone dropping onto your chest with a soft thud. Quickly you brush it off and turn onto your stomach. Your head hitting the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and pulse racing like you've run a marathon.

Through your closed eyelids, you see the glow of the hall light from the open door, only for it to vanish moments later. Either the door has closed or the light's been turned off, but you're not sure which because blood is racing so loudly in your ears. Breath escaping in overwhelming gasps.

Do you hear calculated heavy footsteps or is that your imagination? You struggle to listen for Laura. Is she awake or still sleeping? The tension so tight in your chest that you begin to feel dizzy, almost nauseous. Then comes the creak of the floor at the foot of your makeshift bed, the unmistakable presence of another person in the room, their eyes on you.

You can't stop your body from trembling slightly as the sheet is softly yanked away. Adrenaline courses through your veins, making your body buzz with anticipation.

Your legs are bare the cool air of Laura's bedroom. You're laying on your stomach. Face pushed into the pillow, eyes clenched shut as if you're locked into a deep, drunken sleep- like you should be.

Your legs are splayed out, dark lacey panties riding up the crevice of your ass. One of your ass cheek's indecently exposed... then a rough touch caresses over the swell of that exposed cheek, two big exploring hands, gliding over you.

You hear the grunt of a man, and you know it can only be Logan. He's the only other person home.

Your heart is beating so hard you're afraid you're going to pass out. Laura is on the bed, sleeping mere feet away, and her father is groping you in your supposed sleep.

So the question becomes: are you dreaming now? or are you praying this is as far as he'll go?

when Logan pull's the fabric of your panties to the side, you know he's willing to go much further. He's quiet in the darkness around you, but he's big and the house is old; the floor creaking and groaning as he readjust's his heavy weight.

Your panties are roughly hiked over one cheek of your ass, the sound of ripping lace filling your ears. Logan's hot breath roll's over your ass and the tremble in your limbs becomes a full shiver.

You can feel his scruffy face so close to your body, Feel his nose against the crevice of your ass as he roves lower. Dipping further until his mouth- his nose - is pressed into the folds of your bared cunt.

You hear how he inhales deeply, toes curling in response. Your fingers lay over Laura's spare pillow, the case tight in your grip. He's smelling you, nuzzling against your dampening skin not once, but many times. Lewdly breathing in your scent like a dog that's found something it likes.

His calloused hands spread you open so he can breathe deeper still and when hes as deep into your cunt as his face will allow, his wet tongue slides out to lick at you. You cannot stifle your moan at the feeling, immediately biting your lip to keep from growing any louder.

But with this the culmination of so many fevered late night fantasies, you dont know if you are dreaming.

His wide tongue laps at your swollen clit, swiping open the seam of your pussy and to the point just shy of your tighter hole. You hear logan growl into your wet slit like a monster unleashed from beneath the bed. Feeling how how his licks grow stronger, longer and twice as ravenous as he steadily turn your pussy into a drooling, dripping mess.

He laps at you in the quiet darkness of Laura's room, calculated and experienced as you fight to not to cry out. The pressure of an impending orgasm building so tight in your body that it feels time you woke up.

And so you take a deep breath, a rough gasped sound falling out too. Your fingers claw at the pillow as you flex your lower half.

"Hmm?"You grumble, pretending to bat away the cobwebs of sleep. "Wha-whats happening, What are you doing?" You ask, voice thick with mock confusion.

Within moments you feel Logan's tongue retreat from your pussy, a weight so much heavier than your own crawl over your half naked body. You feel him pressed tight against you, still clothed if the scratchy fabric tells you anything, but an unmistakable bulge is hidden inside. Hard and large against your ass you feel Logan's arm rub against your shoulder. A big hand sliding over your mouth.

"Quiet, sweetheart" he growls in your ear. "Daddy's had enough of your teasing"

Another large hand slides beneath your sleep shirt to cup your tender tits, The nipples diamond hard against Logan's palm. You cant help but moan into his hand as you plead.

"Please. Didn't mean to tease" its a wine, petulant in tone.

"Course you didnt.. Shame S' Too late now" he whispers against your ear, teeth biting into your earlobe. The hand on your breast trails down. Right the way down to his slacks.

"B-but Laura" You warn him in a whispered panic, hearing the sound of a zipper sliding down. you struggle teasingly, hips bucking back against him. Its not enough to cause a scene or enough to wake your sleeping friend- his sleeping daughter- but just enough to make him pin your body down. Enough for you to feel a fraction of his real strength.

Logan's muscles bulge from the effort of caging you against the floor and spreading your legs.

"Nuh uh, Stay still. Stay right where ive got you" he murmurs darkly in your ear, voice a low rumble. the words fire through you like liquid lightning as you bite into his palm, not to fight but to restrain a high pitched moan that you fear could wake the neighbors- not just Laura.

"nothing you can do now sweetheart, just gotta take it" Logan says and you hear the mocking smile in the words, feel the throb of his thick cock as it emerges from the confines of his pants. "Kept telling me you were a good girl, so show me"

With your stomach flat against the ground, legs spread wide beneath him, you can do nothing but tremble as his cock slips between your legs. The cock belonging to your best friend's father sliding deliciously across that little bundle of nerves that sparks a whimper of pleasure.

Your eyes roll back as Logans hips buck, cock brushing your clit again, running up and down your slit torturously slow. "fuuuck, you feel that? How hard you've got my cock?"

You're kicking your legs now, moving your hips. It could be viewed as a struggle but its not, not really, you're just so desperately excited you can't keep still.

"Don't need to fight me baby. Just let daddy in hm? let it happen sweetheart."

And then he's pushing inside your body in one heavy thrust; slow and impossibly deep. The weight of him inside your cunt making you mewl against his palm. All the years of secret yearning, wet fantasies and subtle flirtations have all led to this moment.

It doesn't take many thrusts before your tongue is rolling out of your mouth, licking wetly against his palm like a grateful dog- a bitch in heat. You try to use it to muffle the moan that follows, a pitiful sound mixed with pleasure, like you're ashamed to be in the situation.

Used and humiliated around logans cock.

Its push followed by retreat, a half thrust and then withdrawal over and over. "So fucking tight" Logan growls as you wiggle your ass, not certain if your trying to squirm further in to his grip or out.

He's stretching your walls apart, the burn of his size delicious with each heavy he offers. Each bringing a pulsing throb on your clit. "Yeaaaa, that's it, take it like a good girl.." he groans. "S' what you wanted isn't it."

Logans right, this is exactly what you wanted and more. His body trembles atop yours from the exertion, balls squeezed against your ass, his hand on and off clenching around your breast. His thrusts picking up in pace as you struggle and squirm to keep quiet even under his palm

"L-logan" you whimper as he pushes particularly deep, pussy squelching lewdly from your arousal, his hand barley muffling the word. He knows your close before you do, can feel your cunt clenching desperately.

"Getting fucked so good your gonna cum sweetheart?" he rasps in your ear, panting into it. "C'mon, tell daddy how good his cock feels."

"S-so good.. F-fuck yes daddy, please"

You whine and It is a struggle to pry his strong hand off your mouth to get the words out.

"Go on sweetheart. Cum, coat my fuckin cock. Show me this cute little pussy is mine"

and then his big hand clamps back over your lips as he begins to fuck you into the floor. Your orgasm crashes over you in burning waves. Every stroke becoming an ecstatic agony, overstimulation starting to buzz over your bones. Its a constant struggle to hold your moans and neither of you can move properly for the risk of waking Laura .

But Logans hips remain unrelenting, Fucking you prone on your friends floor. His balls swinging, swatting unbearably at your clit with every entry. The heat of him and being trapped against the floor is almost unbearable, but so is having to keep your whimpers quiet. sweat beads hot on your brow

you can hear his own desperate attempts at staying quiet. Broken only by muffled groans, grunts of exertion, and primal chesty growls as your cunt clenches wetly around him.

Yet the discomfort of overstimulation is no match for the absolute bliss of your submission. Your toes curling so hard you're on the verge of a cramp.

The friction between your clit, Logan's cock and the floor builds to an intolerable pressure. Something must give way. The temptation to lose all control and scream his name too great. Now that possibility of you blacking out is too dangerous to ignore. So you say it the word.

"Kitty!"

Not because you want to, but because in this moment you have to. Almost as soon as the word leaves your lips and sinks into the pillow, wet from saliva and tears, you feel his body shudder. muscles seizing while a heavy groan sounding out into the skin of your neck.

"you okay?" he pants softly worry creasing his brow. "Was it too much?"

Your wordless and it worries him. Making him pull back, cock slipping free with a hushed hiss as he helps you shift onto your back, so he can look at you properly.

Your hands rise, fingers caressing his scruffy cheeks. "M'okay" you pant, eyes on him. "wasn't too much. Promise."

No, in fact, It was just right- before it all overwhelmed you that is. Now? now you just want to hold him, make love to him. Hold onto something- someone that isn't really yours. Eye to eye, your mouth slides back over his, legs spread back open, ready to welcome his length back inside. Without a word you buck your hips down, beckoning him to fuck you again.

Things are much quieter this time. Pace slowed to deep grinds rather than shallow thrusts, pleasure once again coiling in your gut as you lean up to watch his cock disappear inside.

"Feel so good sweetheart, my good girl" he coos, lips against yours as his hand slips back to cup your breast. "My good girl with a fuckin perfect body"

You keep your eyes on logan, blissful smile across your face, and for this moment he's not your best friends father. Not with the way he's gazing down at you with a mixture of lust and long held affection. "always wanted you" he whispers, hand moving back from your breast to cup your cheek. "But I would have kept that secret forever.."

You squeeze him to your chest, heart stuttering at the admission as you lock your arms behind his neck, legs tight around logans waist. You whimper back his name, a plea on your tongue.

"Want you to cum logan.. Please, need to feel it"

You want it more than anything, to feel his cum pushed inside you; for it to drip out later as a downright filthy reminder. You kiss his neck, then cheek, and finally his lips. You want Logan to claim you right here on the floor, right under her nose and you know it makes you a bad friend. Your eyes roll back, hands clawing down his chest as you feel yourself giving up all thought to the rush that flows down the center of your body. The one that begins and ends in the wet, sticky place between your legs, Where the sensitive bud of your clit pulses like a dying star.

it's then he growls much too loud, and you respond back in a whimper, lips pressing tight as you cum together in panted kisses. Him pumping hot heady ropes of cum inside your cunt without reservation or regret as you clench in a vice grip around him.

Tomorrow you will be sore, you know it for a fact. But Tonight.. Tonight You can revel in a fantasy made flesh, your flesh and Logans wrapped around each tight. You drag weak fingers down through his damp hair, then his back, feeling the way his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

Logans panting has subsided by now, breaths no longer crackling besides your ear. He plants mouthy kisses at the juncture of your neck, ever so gently, like a sated wolf nuzzling at the muzzle of his mate. You giggle quietly as those kisses grow fiercer, teeth nipping at your neck.

"my good, great, naughty girl" he murmurs against your skin, voice soft. "you feeling okay sweetheart? sure it wasn't too much?"

You nod and he can feel the enthusiasm seep from the move as you grasp his face again. "Mhm, better than okay. Was perfect" you hum sleeplily, content in his hold, in the scent of him. Your eyes flutter, lashes tickling his cheeks as you kiss him long and deep, until the rub of his beard hurts your face and sleep begins to take you under.

You both know tonight was the culmination of so many fevered dreams. The breaking point of lust and its power that can't be fully expressed in words. So he holds you close- just as you do him in your rest- for a little while longer, until light begins to filter soft through the curtains and the reality of what you'd both done really begins to set in.

thats it!! lemme know what you thought anddddd yea! asks are always open to shoot the shit, drabbles and more! <333

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