#violet’s headcanons

[sunsburns]

wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,�� Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her. 

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear. 

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

݁ ˖ ◜You're Vi's prison wife: 18+ HCs

•Vi who was never quiet in prison. She loved mouthing off, especially to the guys who had egos 20 times the size of their dicks. She usually stuck to using people for her own gain in Stillwater. Men were her entertainment, and women her pleasure. Anything between could serve as both, depending on how annoying they were.

•Vi who was sent to share your cell after she tortured some poor guy in the cell next to hers. The warden's orders were final, and she was banned from even stepping foot in that floor. You resided in the third floor for petty crimes, but you were a Zaunite, so of course you were given more time than necessary.

•Vi who was always either punching the walls of your cell or making sarcastic comments. It was honestly entertaining for you, a blessing in a place like Stillwater. She warmed up to you quickly, probably out of pure boredom and loneliness, but she didn't mind sharing a cell if it meant with a pretty undercity girl. She was starting to get...ansty, though.

•Vi who (mostly) jokingly asked you to be her prison wife. You laughed in her face at first, confused as to what the term 'prison wife' even meant. She explained to you, in great detail, that prison wives are like short-term relationships without the actual love. It was just a way to combat the loneliness that set in with the environment and to have a physical stress-reliever. Then she asked you forreal, and you ended up agreeing with the pathetic but desperate feelings that swarmed you. Everyone had the need to feel loved, even if it was pretend. It was just human nature.

•Vi who liked sneaking over to your bed at night when the guards didn't really care to do rounds after midnight. At first, it was for cheeky reasons such as talking to you, sometimes flirting around. Then, she'd plop down onto your bed and pull you in for late-night make-out sessions. Her lips felt so warm against yours, even if they were chapped and she was rather brash. Her kisses felt desperate in a sense, as she always sought out your tongue with hers, and after the first few times, quiet laughs and small sessions turned into her mouth finding its way down your body, her eyes remaining on yours as she ate you out like you were a Michelin-level meal in a world of canned beans.

•Vi who was a MUNCH. She loved taking her time, smothering her wet, sloppy kisses all over your thighs in the late hours until you cursed under your breath and only encouraged more. Fuck, she loved taking care of her prison wife. She'd finally slide her tongue between your slick folds, dipping deeper into your hole and letting her nose brush up against your swollen bud. Soon, she'd attend the mass that was your clit, her tongue swirling around it as she used her heavy hands to pry your legs further apart. You would be dumbed down to absolutely nothing, a blabbering slut for her to mold however she wanted. You would beg for mercy after the third orgasm, and Vi would feign sweetness, climbing up your body to clamp a hand over your mouth. When you finally began to relax, she gave you a shit-eating grin and slid two(or three if you can handle it) digits into your cunt, loving the way your whines created vibrations through her other hand that muffled your sounds.

•Vi who was more than just pleasure for you. Being a wife and all is always more than what you get from simply fucking. For instance: the prison food in Stillwater was unbelievably horrible, but you did like the peaches they'd serve. Vi, like clockwork, would shuffle over to you and hold out her tray to you, peaches the only uneaten food. In return, you had her back. If a guard asked you if Vi had anything to do with the guy with a broken nose? You didn't see a thing.

•Vi who was obsessed with your tits. Sometimes, she'd spend what felt like hours with her mouth latched onto one of your nipples, your breathing heavy from the pure intensity of her touch. She wouldn't even need to fuck you on those nights, and if she did she'd still have a hand groping a tit while she had her head buried between your thighs, or leave hickies on both as her fingers sought deep inside you.

•Vi who noticed you had a huge problem with not being able to shut up during sex, so she opted for slipping her fingers into your mouth. That choice turned out much different than she had even hoped for, because the feeling of your soft, wet tongue swirling around and tasting her skin? God, it’d send jolts straight to her core. It became a routine to practically finger-fuck your mouth while she was actually finger-fucking you.

•Vi who fell much harder for you than she should've. She wasn't immune to feelings, but at least tried to keep everything impersonal in prison. You, however, wrecked any efforts she made. You were addictive and made her weak in the knees with a smile. You were somehow so soft and sweet, and you didn't truly belong in a cell. Still, she was grateful you were, so she could have you all to herself for as long as possible.

•Vi who got out a few months before you, and when you finally returned to the under-city, she didn't hesitate to stake a claim on you forreal. You were hers, inside or outside of that fucked up prison. Just now, she could have you moan as loudly as she could possibly cause, and she could fuck you in her own bed.

[redroses07]

real

[vampiefemme]

thinking about rockstar!vi… oh i need her.

rockstar!vi and her smudged eyeliner, cradling a beer in one hand and the microphone in the other as she sings low and sultry, then loud and aggressive. she’s got a cult following: barely legal teens and twenty-somethings who toss their bras to the stage at every concert, screaming when she throws her half-drank water bottles into the crowd. she’s lost count of how many pairs of tits she’s been asked to sign, how many lipstick kisses she’s been covered in at fan meetups.

rockstar!vi has had her fair share of groupies. she’s had them in filthy, piss-sticky bar bathrooms, her unkempt dressing room, the cramped quarters of the tour bus, anywhere you can possibly think of. but just as soon as she’s given a groupie her dream-come-true of a night with the lead singer of her favorite band, vi is on to the next.

that is, until she meets you.

[jester-lover]

P4 Relationship Headcanons

Authors Note/ I have read the manga up to the last English translated volume, but I’ll stick to the public school arc characterizations of them for convenience’s sake.

CW/fem! reader but otherwise no physical description , fluff, kindof accurate Victorian courting, a little angst, manga spoilers! I most definitely forgot this arc was getting animated, so I’m late, might be a little OOC, it’s been a few months since I read the manga

Edgar Redmond

Flattery was his main method of gaining your affections: descriptive poems sent to your mailbox, tulips and chocolates left on your doorstep by a mysterious admirer—a carefully held facade that fell apart when Edgar realized just how badly he wanted your affections returned.

While he has always considered himself a free spirit, capable of swiftly moving from one lover to another, he has an epiphany when he realizes he needs exclusivity with you. Edgar has found something beyond flings with you, a woman who can truly make him nervous; make his heart beat against his chest every time you bless him with a glance.

He isn’t always the most touchy lover, but he tends to take your arm in his while the two of you are out together. (He’ll do nothing more, as he doesn’t want rumors to spread around your private relationship.)

Edgar tends to fuss over you a bit, fixing your dresses, brushing his fingers over your coat, and generally keeping your appearance looking tidy; it’s an act of service that displays his affections for you.

Lawrence Bluewer

When I say all of his sisters gang up on him to tease him about his crush on you, I mean it. Lawrence tried his best to keep his love for you a secret, but his yearning glances over his glasses reveal his truth. They encourage him to speak to you, giving him advice about what women like. (Trust me, he needs it.)

Lawrence is a very dedicated man, particularly when it comes to you. He holds up all of the important customs of an exemplary Victorian man and treats you as an equal in all matters.

He’s adamant on listening to your opinion on matters involving the two of you, but he’ll also ask for your opinions on issues in his home and dorm. Your opinion is important to him.

Lawrence is a very intelligent young man; if you ever find yourself struggling with your schoolwork or a matter of principle in your personal life, he’ll help out to the best of his ability.

Call him by any affectionate nickname, and that carefully held stoicism crumbles before you, and a red tint suddenly appears on his pale face. The only time he ever broke his own rules was after the cricket match, when he embraced you tightly in the stands after winning, so much more proud of his victory now that you had seen it.

Herman Greenhill

It feels as if someone has struck him in the heart each time he lays his eyes on you. He can feel the warmth of his skin and the sweating of his palms each time he tries to talk to you without stumbling through his words. Herman is so utterly rigid and awkward around you, it’s completely obvious he’s head over heels.

He’s often flustered around you, even when you’re already courting, as one of his ideals of chivalry and respect is treating ladies kindly. He acts like a strict old man and a shy schoolboy at the same time, wanting your touch so desperately but bashing himself for it.

You will probably have to enact most of the affection between the two of you, sneaking kisses when your chaperone turns away, holding his hand when you walk into a more private corridor of his residence, and cheering loudly at his games. The easiest way to get a reaction from Herman is by showing off your stockings; he’s a sucker for good hosiery.

Despite his proud and sort of arrogant personality, Herman is a shy and careful lover; he remembers all of your favorites and special days, and he loves receiving your praise. Whenever he achieves something, he immediately looks to you, waiting to see what you make of him.

Gregory Violet

You wouldn’t even know of his existence when he first saw you, but he was always there, with a thick black sketchbook filled with drawings of you, going about your daily routine and interacting with others in a way he only wished he could. The sheer amount of yearning he does could put the poets to shame.

You are his muse; even when Gregory is creating something completely irrelevant to you, he’ll remember you; you are so infused with everything he makes. Because he has put you on this goddess-like pedestal, he doesn’t think he deserves you, which is why he’s so surprised when you agree to court him.

Gregory’s affection comes in bursts; some days he’ll be too nervous to look you in the eye, but other times he’s practically joined at your hip. He’s not the most talkative lover, but when his eyes flit through you, examining you closely with a blush stretched across his features, he appreciates you like you are art.

He plays the role of the gentleman in public, keeping his respectful distance, but he often seeks your comfort in the few moments you can sneak alone, laying his head on your lap as you brush through his two-toned hair and rambling uncharacteristically about the struggles of his role. He’s a non-conformist, and he often wished the society you lived in wasn’t so strict, so that you and him could act as wild and free as you did in the leather binding of his sketchbook.

[fict1onallyobsessed]

“It’s heavily implied that-”

I CANT LIVE ON IMPLICATIONS. GIVE ME ANSWERS RIOT, NOW!!!!!!!!!!

[seratopia]

vi x reader (fluff) - modern au ; around the house

→ she/her pronouns!

self-indulgent, personal headcannons i have for VI! suggestive and pervy! you've been warned!

an absolute BEAST if she sees you around the house in your loungewear. you won't be able to walk by the kitchen, do laundry, ANYTHING without her hand somewhere on your ass.

she especially loves when you wear just an oversized tee and underwear; goes apeshit if the shirt lifts and she catches a glimpse of your butt while you're doing something mundane like reach for a mug on a shelf.

It's a lazy Sunday at Vi's apartment, meaning that the both of you have most likely haphazardly thrown on each other's clothes as a slim effort at modesty.

Vi has on a raggedy black wifebeater, no bra of course, and some random pair of plaid boxers. You've thrown on a shirt you found on the floor, which you didn't know said, "BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN" until you looked in the mirror. Oh well.

Suspecting that Vi would probably be playing Call of Duty in her room or something, you frolick off to the kitchen, thinking you can just make yourself lunch and binge a Netflix show.

You were very wrong. She already started getting bored as soon as she entered the lobby, thinking too much about how she should be with you since you're at her flat anyway.

Discarding her headset to the side, Vi leaps off of her desk chair, excitedly wandering around the apartment to see if she could find you. And she does, finding you reaching up on a shelf for a bowl.

Her eyes aren't on you though, moreso on the literal SLIVER of ass that shows as the t-shirt lifts. You're standing on your tippy-toes too, since Vi purposefully puts the bowls on the top shelf for this exact reason.

Whilst stirring your ramen, you feel a rough palm slide up against where your thighs and ass meet, giving you a good squeeze. It's almost ignorable at this point, since she does it so often. Vi's all up on you, gently pinching your butt before sliding her palms up onto your waist. She pulls you into her as you stir up your ramen, aligning up her front to your back.

A kiss is pressed to your nape, before she leans her cheek on your shoulder. A whiny groan escapes her lips, where she squeezes your waist tight.

"Mmph, you're so cute... you know that?" She murmurs into your ear, like she can't handle it.

The airy giggle that escapes your lips almost has Vi's head spinning, in which she rests her chin on your shoulder to see what's on the stove.

"What'cha making?" She asks, and you affectionately place your hand on top of hers.

"Shin. You wanna share?" You answer, turning the stove off as steam starts to wafe from the pot.

You feel a nod against your shoulder. "Mhm."

౨ৎ ――

has these strangeeee cravings/struggle meals, mannerisms too. she grew up in prison for most of her teenage-to-adult life, so she had to get creative when it came to food she wanted to eat.

sometimes she'd crush up dry ramen noodles and sprinkle the flavoring packet as a snack, or dip plain bread in applesauce

she will eat ANYTHING, no complaints, she's seen the worst, probably has a stomach of steel

she eats so fast too, so quickly. like those reels about the girl taking her time to eat and the boyfriend finishing his meal in 20 seconds.

i reckon she eats alot too, either fast metabolism, or just that she burns alot of calories in general from being so active.

her body runs warm

DUDE she'll look at people weird too; i feel like she has a staring problem sometimes. if you're at a sephora or something she'll give you some space, but then stare at you from afar like some creep

(i dont know anything about prison)

Over the years of dating Vi, you're noticed the 'prison' behavior that never really washed out of her. She's opened up a lot to you about her experience in jail; what she was in for, how she felt, the types of thing she's had to do to get by. You treat the subject with upmost gentleness, something that Vi's never really used to as someone who's been traumatized her entire life.

You've started to see reoccurring comfort meals that she eats sometimes. Once, you asked Vi if she wanted anything from the supermarket while you out. She texted you; can u get me cheese ritz crackers.

It's almost like you knew Vi was up to something silly; when you came home with the crackers, she did a little, "oooh, yay!" before pressing a wet kiss to your cheek.

"Why'd you want these?" You asked, kicking off your shoes at the door.

She grabbed the packet from your hand, in which you notice a tender, nostalgic expression on her face as she peered at the packaging.

"Mac & cheese." She just said with a cheeky grin, heading over to the kitchen.

You watch as she would scrape the cheese filling off the crackers, put them into a bowl, and melt them down in the microwave with a bit of butter and milk. While that's happening, she'd boil a packet of instant noodles, and then dump the noodles into the 'sauce' and stir it up.

"Y'know, I made this a lot in jail. It's my favorite." She'd explain to you with a full mouth, groaning with every bite she took.

And now, sometimes you make it, just to make Vi happy.

౨ৎ ――

your first christmas with Vi was super cute. though Vi used to celebrate christmas in early childhood, she doesn't really remember it. christmas time during jail was just receiving small goody bags from charities; nothing heartfelt or meaningful.

vi almost doesn't know what to do with herself during christmas, especially when you're feeling all festive and making gentle decorations around the apartment.

she used to not care about holidays, but now she does, because you do <3

Knelt on the soft, carpeted floor of your apartment, you sit across from Vi. She has on these silly Christmas-themed pajama pants on that you gifted her mid-December, along with the hoodie she likes to sleep in the most. You're bundled up in warm pajamas, complete with a silly Santa hat on top of your head.

Reaching underneath the decorated tree, you pull out a wrapped parcel, handing it to your girlfriend with a warm, excited smile. The way she looks at the present is so confused, so awkwardly cute. Hesitantly, she takes it in her hand.

"Is this for me?"

"Duh! Yes, you can open it." You say with a smile.

You watch as Vi peels back the layers of colorful wrapping paper with a tiny smile on her face, fighting the urge to pull your phone out and start recording like a proud parent.

A little gasp escapes your breath when Vi finally reveals the present; a black, cat-eared beanie you crocheted for her in secret weeks prior. The way her face utterly lights up has your heart melting inside. You realize how big this might be for her; one of her first real Christmases, one of her first real handmade gifts.

She peers up at you, with the beanie in her lap. "Did you make this?"

You nod. "Yeah, you wear beanies a lot so, I thought a kitty-cat one would be cute."

You watch as Vi's face starts to twist whilst looking down at the beanie, her eyebrows loosening while her chin starts to wrinkle just a little bit. She quickly sinks her head low, using the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe away at fat tears that dribble down her cheek.

At first you don't know how to handle it, until you shuffle closer to her on your knees, placing your hand on her knee. After sniffling a few times, she looks to you with reddened eyes, a quivering lip.

Setting the beanie aside onto the carpet, Vi hoists you closer to her with two palms by your sides. She wraps you up in a warm, tight bear hug, digging her cheek into the side of your neck with sniffles against your ear. Vi practically rings all the air out of you with her strong arms, but you tolerate it anyway because you know it's all love.

Smiling, you soothe her with a pat on her shoulder, trying your best to match her level of hug-strength. You then feel muffled words against your shoulder, before Vi sits up.

You can barely ask what she said before Vi tenderly pulls you into her with arms around your shoulders, pressing up her soft lips against yours. The tears on her cheek smear onto your face as Vi pokes and prods at your mouth with her lips, kissing you sweetly with the tiniest sobs in between.

When finished, she hugs you tight again, almost knocking you over onto the carpet.

"I love you." *sniffle* "I'll keep it forever."

౨ৎ ――

she's a thighs girl, through and through. you literally have to watch when you wear shorts or a skirt because she'll go apeshit like a pubescent teenaged boy.

does dumb in the head when you sit and your thighs squish up against the chair, ESPECIALLY if you sit on her lap.

likes to grope em up with her hands, or rest her head on them

sucking hickeys on them is fun too ;)))))))

"Vi, you really gotta stop doing this in public."

You say with as much of a serious tone as possible, crossing your arms whilst looking up at her. You're both towards the back of the Sephora, amidst searching for a specific perfume that you wanted to try.

Vi only replies with a cheeky smirk, crossing her own arms before trailing her eyes back down towards your thighs. She's insufferable.

"Doing whaaat?" She slyly asks, shifting her weight onto one side.

"Feeling me up like a perv, that's what!" You exclaim in fake annoyance, walking away from her and quickly busying yourself with one of the isles of lipgloss.

Vi makes light grabby hands as she chases after you, playfully whining while you test out a gloss color on the back of your hand.

"But you're so soffttttt-"

Your glare is enough to silence her, walking away like a kicked puppy to make odd mixtures with the makeup testers.

౨ৎ ――

she's such a goofy goober at heart <333

it's the small silly things that make you giggle the most; putting something odd on her head, staring at you with funny faces, mewing at you, tickling your sides; kid-like stuff.

and when you playfully roll your eyes, she'll just respond with the cheekiest, cat-got-the-cream kind of smile.

she'll go to great, weird lengths to hear you chuckle or laugh.

cackling with her is rare, but literal gold like i'm talking tears coming out the eyes, flip flopping like a fish while laughing, lightly hitting eachother on the arm, scream laughing.

Your girlfriend practically beckons you over to the Spencer's with a spring in her step. Letting her wave you over like an excited puppy, you step into the dark store, whilst Vi eagerly heads over to the t-shirt section. She has a thing for gag-gifts, like odd mugs or silly socks.

You let Vi loose like a child into a park, while you stare at the odd cups and lanyards. Browsing through the very extensive belt collection towards the back of the store, you notice a familiar head of pink hair out the corner of your eye.

"Babes, look!"

If she had a tail it'd be wagging right now, holding a wad of dark grey cloth in between both of her silver-ringed hands. With a sly smile on her face, unraveling the ball of cloth in her hand to put up a large shirt.

It says "two-seater" in the middle, one arrow pointing to the neck of the shirt, while the other points to the bottom of it.

You short, your eyes flickering from the big shirt to Vi's smug face.

"It's perfect for you." You say, and she eagerly nods, folding it over her forearm. She then gives you this silly look, like fluttering her lashes and peering at you with oddly pursed lips. She looks half like a baby that ate a lemon, half like a peasant begging for food.

She steps closer to you, holding the shirt and tugging on your sleeve.

"Can I wear it while you sit on my-"

You harshly hit her on the arm, in which Vi rubs where you hit with fake hurt.

"Shhh, people will hear!"

She stops you before you turn away towards the belts with a hand on your arm, goofily fluttering her eyelashes at you like it's actually going to work. She does that thing you like, ghosting her hand onto your side with a little squeeze.

"...."

The cashier gives you both a look when Vi hands them a few dollar bills, placing the shirt into a paper bag while scroll through your phone.

౨ৎ ――

extras:

knows how to do that thing where she presses her palm onto your lower tummy while finger-fucking you to make you cum faster

i see her at-home outfit as a band/silly tshirt with the sleeves torn off, plaid boxers, and mismatched fandom socks

sends you godawful memes when you text

never learned to spell properly; sometimes gets certain words wrong too and its a little funny

takes up the whole damn bed, snores, it's like she's having a seizure once she shuts eyes

your first impressions of her are flirty, nonchalant-ish???, and overall genuine. once your relationship gets deep, you start seeing how silly she is, her smaller flaws, how she actually acts around people she loves

© 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂.

[pjsfvs]

sex postion hcs - enha legal line

paring : enhypen (legal line) x afab!reader

warnings/tags : dom/sub, submission, dominance, masochism, sadism, exhibitionism, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, deep penetration, soft sex, breeding, heavy kissing, teasing, wall sex, hair pulling, if i missed anything let me know!

summary : The Legal Line's favorite sex position headcanons

a/n : don't leave hate comments for me to see. if you don't like it just block me and leave.

HEESEUNG :

Standing / Against Wall

Heeseung is a nuisance with no shame. He craves for how you gasp and whine when forced up against the wall.

If you’re in public, hidden in an alleyway perhaps, he’ll tease and mock you for being too loud until your biting your lip to keep your sweet noises secret.

If you choose to be loud then he’ll hold his hand over your lips to muffle your moaning. He doesn’t actually want to get caught, but he’ll use it as an excuse to slip his fingers into your mouth and toy with your tongue. He’ll twitch deliciously inside you if you suck them greedily.

“He-heeseung ..” you panted heavily, your legs shook with anticipation and arousal at the situation he’d got you in. Your chest was pressed up against the rough wall of the alley you’d both ducked down, your lovers' hands gripped at your hips as he pulled you back against his thick cock. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air leaving nothing to the imagination.

His lips hovered at your neck, delicately brushing over your tender skin. You could feel the devilish smile he wore before he parted his mouth and lay firm kisses and nibbling bites. “Ah!” You cried out, shivers shooting through your spine.

You continued to tremble and gasp under his assaulting lips, heat blooming under the bites. He drew his tongue over the marks, before he pressed soft kisses up your neck until his lips rested at your ear.

“Shh..” he hushed, his breath tickling your reddened ear. “The sidewalk is barely a few steps away.” He reminded you with a mocking grin. You could still hear the chatter of Seoul citizens going about their evening. The thrill had you shaking, your needy cunt dripping at the idea of being caught in such an indecent position.

“Unless you want us to be caught?” He purposefully nipped at your ear lobe causing you to gasp audibly, your hips jerking back against his. He moaned unabashed as you tightened around him, his breath hot against your skin. His hold on you tightened, his nails digging into your skin almost painfully.

“Aaa.. n-no-!” You moaned, your desperate voice betraying your words. You were certain he was be able feel the heat from your cheeks. His deep groans only turned you on more and his pace never faltered, his cock reaching deep inside your eager cunt.

“Mm.. then you’re going have to try and be more quiet.” He chuckled, his voice deep and husky, laced in heavy arousal. With unrelenting purpose he thrust into your seeping cunt with long deep strokes, each one drawing out your gasping breath.

You quivered at the feeling, your arms braced against the wall shaking, you wondered how you were even supposed to be quiet when he teased you so relentlessly.

JAY :

Face Down, Ass Up

Jay is a no-nonsense guy, so when you’re in the bedroom with your rather arrogant lover he’ll desire nothing more than for you to be on the bed presenting yourself to him.

He loves to be in control, will thread his fingers into your hair and press your face down against the bed.

All the while his other hand roughly grips your hip, holding you in place as he takes you from behind.

You pressed your cheek against the soft bedding below you, your hands fisting the quilt as you kept your behind raised up. Completely naked and legs spread you shook with need; you could feel your slick leak out of your displayed cunt. A sharp inhale from you lover was all you heard before the bed creaked and dipped as Jay knelt on the edge.

A furious blush coated your cheeks, you chewed your lip in arousal and embarrassment. He needn’t say anything, you knew just how he wanted you. But today he seemed to desire a bit more from you. “Ah-!” You gasped as he gripped your hips in both hands, then dragged you down the bed until you were at the edge.

He made no noise as he stood again. You kept the same position as before, your head resting against the cover. His hands never left you they dipped from your hips, pinching and squeezing your behind, before eventually stopping at your twitching cunt.

“Always so ready for me.” He laughed mockingly, spreading your cunts lips with his fingers. He rubbed the area with unusual tenderness, watching as you trembled and leaked for deeper attention. He snorted a laugh, then wasted no time he plunged his lithe fingers inside you. Gasping moans were forced from your lips. Your cunt squelched and seeped with embarrassing lewdness as he sank his fingers in and out of you.

“Jay..” you whined, rocking your hips to meet his movements. He curled his fingers in response, stroking and toying your gummy walls. “Aaa.. please..” you moaned into the sheets. You spread your legs wider, trying to accommodate his thrusting fingers, which caused your position to lower.

His other hand trailed from your behind, smoothing over your hips and then tucking back under your body. He pressed the palm of his hand against your lower stomach, forcing you to keep your ass raised. Whimpering needly you raised your head and looked over your shoulder as best you could, his intense gaze pinned yours almost immediately.

“So disobedient today.” He scowled, moving his hand from your stomach to grasp your hair. He tugged harshly, pulling your head back. “Mngh-!” You cried out weakly at the tugging pain. “Keep your head down.” He ordered, then forced your head back down against the sheets.

“Haa..” you whined, feeling warm frustrated tears prick the corner of your eyes. His fingers never stopped their relentless thrusting into your core, you felt a fiery ache building up inside you. “Please..” you begged, voice slightly muffled.

“You’ll get what you want when I give it to you, doll.” He clicked his tongue and scowled at your disruptive movements. You curled your feet over the edge of the bed and released a hot shaky breath. You knew it was going be a long night of him edging you into utter submission.

JAKE :

Missionary

Jake is a romantic man, and he loves nothing more than to hold you in his arms whilst your making love.

He definitely whispers sweet nothings into your ear and presses soft kisses and delicate bites against your neck while you cling to him desperately.

He’ll eat up every little moan and whine that slips pass your lips with a searing kiss.

Chests pressed firmly together, Jake had you pinned to the bed, your slick cunt stuffed full of his cock. You threw your arms around his shoulders and met his lips in a deep kiss.

Your tongues fought for dominance even though you never win the match. He groaned each time your lips parted, and you whined softly at the separation.

“Jakey..” you panted and raised your legs, wrapping them loosely around the back of his thighs. This granted him easier access to your aching core, his thick cock reaching deep inside you, pulling delighted gasps from your lips.

“Ah-!” You cried out, throwing your head against the plush pillows. His hips smacked against yours, the erotic sound of skin slapping against skin filling the bedroom.

“y/n..” he groaned deeply, one of his hands held your hip whilst the other threaded into your hair allowing him to tilt your head and pull your lips back to his. He greedily swallowed each moan and blissful gasp that escaped you with a primal eagerness.

Your mind soon felt hazy as your breath was truly being stolen from your lungs and the deep ache building in your core was almost ready to burst, eventually he pulled back to allow you to breath.

His thrusts became languid as he committed the sight of you below him to memory. Your eyes hazy with pleasure, lips swollen and parted tantalizingly as you panted below him, trying to catch your breath.

You quivered under him, his teasingly slow pace baiting a needy whine from your throat for him. He groaned hotly at the sound, unable to withhold himself as he dove back in for another all-consuming kiss. Then he finally increased his pace again as he thrust into you quickly, your bodies pressed flush together.

SUNGHOON :

Riding

Since I find Sunghoon to be rather aloof you’ll have to be the one to initiate intimacy most of the time. He’s unsure, so prefers positions where you’re leading.

Particularly likes to watch you as you whine and moan on top of him. Your hands pressed against his firm chest, or maybe entwined with his, as you cutely bounce on his cock.

Will grasp your hips with bruising strength when he’s close, he starts to lose himself to the pleasure and can be unintentionally a little rough. Not that you mind of course~

You moan softly as you sink down onto Sunghoon’s cock. He lay flat on his back on your shared bed, a bright blush coating his cheeks and his lips parted in a silent gasp. You grasp his hands, entwining your fingers together, as you take him entirely.

“Haa..” he moans softly at the feeling, his hands gripping yours back. His flustered blush sinks deeper, travelling down his neck. He looks up at you, his gaze full of heat, as you straddle his hips.

“Mm..” you sigh breathily, tilting your head back slightly as you relish in the full feeling, his cock filling your tight cunt snugly. “Hoon..” you blush as you meet his hot gaze, causing him glance away nervously.

“Sorry..” he mutters sheepishly, as if he shouldn’t have been staring, and drew his bottom lip into his mouth.

“Ah.. no.. Sunghoon..” you trip over your words, your blush brightening at his cuteness. “I want you to keep your gaze on me..” you wet your lips, then pursed them in a small pout.

“O-ok..” He mumbled, his eyes flicking back to you, his cheeks still alight. You gave his hands a comforting squeeze as you rose to you knees, stopping when only the tip of his cock remained inside you.

“Aah..” you both moaned together as you sunk back down and repeated your movements. Drawing him out and then pushing back down, slowly increasing the rhythm each time.

“y/n..” he gasped in pleasure as you rode him, your cunt squeezing him pleasurably and your breasts bouncing at each thrust. He clutched your hands back and thrust up to meet your movements, soon gaining more confidence.

SUNOO :

Prone Bone

(For those of you that don’t know this position, it’s basically missionary but the person underneath faces the bed and not their partner.)

Sunoo is usually portrayed as a cute guy with a ton of aegyo and If I'm being honest. I feel like he's the worst when it comes to sex. He would definitely like any position it's just, he just loves how the position gives him easy access to your slick cunt, he can just thrust his hips down against yours and bury himself deep inside you. I’ve got a massive HC that Sunoo is a breeder, and this is a good position for that.

Sunoo loves to feel your body against his whilst your having sex, he won’t admit it but having you restrained under his weight is a huge turn on.

He’ll cage your head between his arms, his lips pressed against your neck as he marks you as his own because even though everyone knows you’re a couple no one will dare to try and steal you away if you walk around with his love bites decorating your neck. He gets jealous quite easily, so your neck will never be bare.

“O-oh!” you gasped as Sunoo pulled out of you suddenly and flipped you over with ease, your naked chest pushed down against the bed. Your cheek rest on the soft pillow as you tried to watch him from the corner of your hazy, half-lidded eyes.

“S-Sunoo..” you whine his name as he lines the tip of his cock back up with your sloppy cunt. You had both been at it for hours already and you’d lost count of the number of times he’d made you come undone. Your neck stung pleasantly from the multiple hickeys and bite marks he’d decorated you with.

You weren’t even sure how many times he’d cum inside you this evening, you’d long since lost count of that too. Your body ached from all the different positions he’d pushed, bent and held you in. All while telling you how much he wanted to breed you, that he wouldn’t be satisfied until you’d both cum in each new position.

“Haa..” you whined weakly as he sunk back into you. Each time he pulled back his seed leaks passed your messy cunt’s lips, your stomach felt bloated from how much he’d filled you up already. “Sunoo..” you couldn’t even string a sentence together; your mind was numb with pleasure.

“This morning..” He groaned hotly and pressed his body down against your back, pinning you to the sheets. His arms were braced either side of the pillow as he made sure he wasn’t crushing you under his weight. “I didn’t want to leave the bed, I wanted to abandon all my duties..” He smack his hips down against yours, immediately setting a deepb, slow pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.. thinking about all the different ways I would breed you..” he moaned unashamedly, his lips pressed up against your ear and he spilled his dirty thoughts to you.

“Ah-!” You cried out as he gave one harsh, deep thrust that buried the tip of his cock against your cervix. “Sunoo..” you gasped, pressing your forehead against the pillow as he stopped thrusting and remained buried inside you.

“Mmn.. more.. ” You whimpered while wriggling your hips against his to try encourage him to move again.

“Fuck.. y/n..” he groaned hotly, you're begging and moaning of his name had his cock pulsing for you. His hands fisted the bed sheets, his weight felt lighter on your back as he started fucking into you quicker.

“Sunoo..” you panted heavily; your bulging stomach was being pressed against the bed. “Haa..” you moaned softly and chewed your bottom lip; you wondered if it would just come gushing out when he was done.

JUNGWON :

Spooning

He’s got easy access to your neck, so get ready for plenty of kisses and love bites. Plus those tantalising lips can whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he slowly fucks between your thighs.

I’m rolling with the idea, get ready to try and be quiet as he teases you relentlessly in a room full of sleeping band mates~ you’ll have to bite your lip quite hard to hold back the moans he’ll tempt from your lips.

“W-Won’..” you whisper softly, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth, your eyes screwed shut. “We-.. we can’t..” your voice was barely audible as you try and keep your delicate moans from escaping passed your lips. You quiver in his gentle hold as he embraces you from behind, spooning you in your shared bunk in the room.

“We never get any time alone in the dorm..” he sighed softly, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck. His hands were tucked under your top, his smooth palms cupping your breasts as he rolled your perked nipples between his fingers. “And I'm sick of quickies..” his silvery voice sent heat flooding to your core, your entire face heating up.

“B-but..” you shudder as he trails one hand down your stomach, slipping into your trousers and into your panties. “Mmn-!” You chomp down on your lip to muffle your gasps as his fingers circle your opening.

“Shh, y/n..” he whispers into your ear, his teeth grazing the tender cartilage. He chuckled quietly as you whine, his fingers parting your folds and sinking into your dripping wet cunt. You continue to bite your lip, holding in your moans as he pumps and scissors his fingers in you, your hips following his lead.

You’d been craving him too and you really did have no private time in the dorm, or anywhere for that matter. Your drenched cunt gave away just how much you desired him. You bit your lip and decided the risk was more than worth it, all you wanted right now was your lovers cock stuffed inside you.

“Y-you..” you stammer quietly, his other hand still playing with your breast. He grins against your ear, biting it and causing you to jolt as it sends sparks down your body. “A-ah..” a weak moan escapes you as he continues to tease you all over.

“You’ll wake them up..” he warns you as he trails his lips down the side of your face, ignoring your lips and resting in your neck. He sucks your sensitive skin, drawing back only to return to the same spot and nip the area.

“Mmn!” You cry out, then freeze in place. A sleepy murmur from someone else in the room sets your heart racing. Your body shakes in Jungwon’s hold, yet he continues his advances as pulls his soaked fingers out of your cunt and pushes your panties down to your knees.

“W-Won’..” you whine his name, you couldn’t stand his teasing anymore. “M-more..” you whisper, shaking your hips back against his bulge. He inhales sharply, then releases a gentle laugh. While he tugs down his own boxers, freeing himself and lining his cock up with your seeping cunt from behind, he finally releases your breast and holds his hand in front of your mouth.

“Suck.” He whispered hotly and you do just that, taking his first two fingers into your mouth as he holds your face still. He sinks into you little by little then drags his hips back, only to thrusts back into you slowly again, drawing out each and every thrust into your aching cunt.

“Mmph..” you moan around his fingers. His free hand tucks around your body and returns to your cunt, easily finding your clit. Your orgasm was building too quickly, the coil in your stomach almost ready to burst. You knew he wouldn’t want to end this so quickly, so you were most certainly in for an incredibly long and torturous night at the hands of your teasing lover.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

if it's okay, can i please request something for arcane? vi with a gf who nicknames her "peaches" and vi thinks it's sweet until she realises it's a references to her HOLY MOLY D U M P T R U C K HOOOO BOY of an ass

Requests for arcane are back once more with season two trailer dropping!!!

Big Booty Reader

It’s very funny if you thought she wasn’t gonna touch your butt bro

Vi was in prison since she was 15, and now she’s like 22-23

She has NEVER had a girlfriend before

Much less one as beautiful and big bootied as you

Is she supposed to NOT touch that every chance she gets?

The nickname peaches probably started off as some joke when she saw the emoji being used to reference butts

And since you have a very big butt, it’s perfect!

Until it became her practical and everyday name for you

If you thought it was cute, light hearted and nice, she did not have the heart to tell you that it stemmed from your ass

Cause you probably thought it was because you’re sweet or something of that nature

Nope! It’s ya butt

You’d have to pry it out of her, or figure t out yourself by putting two and two together

You were probably very peeved, but still she does not stop calling you peaches

Cause still she does love the nickname even if it’s of your butt

And god does she love your ass

She loves holding it, touching it, smacking it, laying on it or just watching it bro

She love love loves how it looks in outfits

Especially skirts or jeans or short shorts

She just loves how she can see small peeks of it

She loves having a hand on your ass

And copping feels when nobody is looking

Even when someone is looking she probably doesn’t care

She can’t resist!

Even when y’all are laying down she has a hand on it, squeezing it every now and then

It’s her guilty pleasure at this point guys

She’s never had a girlfriend before, and never will stop

Is she supposed to not touch you or something?

She worked to bag you, let her have her moment!

[nolovelingers]

hi omg i loved ur hcs for ethan landry as ur bf <333 do you think you could write something like that, but for tate langdon, please?

TATE LANGDON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧

ೄྀ࿐ requested ! ˊˎ-

headcanons — // cw ! : dark themes ,, obsessive tendencies,, nsfw !! similar to ethans i try to keep these as realistic as my silly little mind is able to think !! very toxic relationship 🌀 talk of self harm & smoking

——————————————————————————

 SFW !!

TATE LANGDON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . is like meeting someone who’s not like anyone you’ve ever met. there are no duplicates, copies or a person even remotely similar to the dark eyed boy.

there’s always been something about his odd personality that has a strange charm to it. he’s always held himself up to his own standards and even back before the entire westfield high situation he’s been very picky about his living style and the people he surrounds himself with.

so therefore when he met you, the stilled silence to his violent tornado, it was as if everything else in the world dimmed and the spotlight shone to you.

he would never leave you alone. not when you move rooms, not if you try to have people over, not when you stormed into the backyard and sat under the flickering moon as you desperately grasped for alone time. not even when you go to the bathroom.

the second he came into your life and you allowed him to, privacy no longer existed. the only time he would ever leave was if he had his own emergency to partake to or if your guardian(s) were around.

at first it was cute, you couldn’t really deny the fact that having a boyfriend so attached to the hip and dependent made your heart flutter in some sort of way. but you quickly learned that even as dreamy as it sounds it’s not all that great.

if you run to the bathroom and lock yourself inside the langdon boy is fast to follow suite, confused on where or what you were running from until he watched you shut the restroom door and he slid his back against it; knees brought up to his chest as he patiently waited for you to come back out. and trust me, he will wait. doesn’t matter if it’s hours or even half of the day. he won’t move an inch.

you hardly invite friends over but the few times you do you’re fast to regret it. you tell him your friends coming over, hoping he’ll take the hint to leave, and he’ll only blankly stare at you; face devoid of any emotion as he mutters a gentle ‘oh’ before returning to looking through your collections of whatever it is you have an abundance of. maybe books, cd’s, vinyls, comics, posters, crystals/rocks, stuffed animals, funky socks or a hoard of animal bones; there’s nothing in your room tate hasnt gotten his hands on.

even after you alert him of the approaching company unless you plan on shoving him out or repeatedly asking him to leave he doesn’t plan on going anywhere. he’s terrible at reading social cues and you have to spell out the simplest things for him.

he’s quick to judge your friends, not one of them is good enough for you in his mind and he’ll be sure to voice that. sometimes even straight to their face; with a blank expression and no emotion behind his eyes. it doesn’t matter how close or how long you’ve known someone, could even be your whole life, they’re not good for you like he is.

he often says the most terrible and disgusting things about them to your face, judging you heavily for the people you hang around and making you feel insecure.

he is definitely the type to drive wedges in between all of your relationships. just with your friends at first but as the relationship furthers he begins to do the same to your family too.

obviously he can’t leave the house but if there was ever a time you ranted about someone you dislike, hurt your feelings or overall anything spoken poorly about them he would remember it till halloween and carefully map out their murder. i mean, you wanted them to die right? why else would you tell him about it?

tate is extremely oblivious to your emotions. he loves you so much and it’s clear to him you must be meant for each other. so no matter how you feel back, reciprocated or not tate would assume you liked him too. he refuses to be in the friend zone and throws a hissy fit if you ever even try.

as we all known he’s one of the prettiest criers out there and this is very useful when it comes to manipulating. he knows you have a weak spot for seeing his tears and now anytime you try to lecture him, kick him out or he feels as though you’re not understanding his (rather malicious) side of the story the tears are quick to fall. but the tricky thing here is that they are always real tears of sadness and regret; it’s just as though he’s reprogrammed himself to cry at any minor inconvenience.

his favorite cuddle position is spooning and he often likes to be the little spoon. no one in his life has ever cared for him enough (or at least in his eyes they haven’t), and when you have your arms securely around him, pulling him into you; it’s like heaven on earth. he feels so safe, warm and comforted. there are of course days where the rolls switch but there’s really no denying he prefers to be the one being spooned.

id definitely say he’s a sort of pathological liar and even when he doesn’t mean for it to happen lies fall from his mouth as easy as tears stream from his eyes. it could be about the stupidest shit or it could be actually serious as he tries to work his way out of a situation he’s actually at fault for.

this makes it really hard to trust him, because it’s eerily scary how easy it is for him to lie straight to your face with even blinking, or come up with excuses on the spot. i know people like to claim they’re usually good at picking up when people are lying to them but with tate it’s a huge challenge. he’s unnaturally good at it and doesn’t hesitate.

it’s not easy to pick up on his fibs in the moment but there are a few times you’re able to realize later on; as his stories don’t add up or he forgot his lie in the first place and comes up with a completely different one when asked the same question from before.

and even then once he gets caught; deny deny deny. you’re the one in the wrong for accusing him of something like that when he just has a poor memory and suddenly you’re the bad guy for pointing fingers even though you’re the one with evidence and he just throws out empty accusations.

if you smoke i think he’d love to break into your stash a lot, he didn’t use weed before his death but once you introduce him i see him as a sort of mini-stoner. he’ll use your stuff without even asking. he kind of contradicts himself in that way because for the most part when he was still living he thought people who smoked or drank were stupid, ruining their body. he looked down on them. when you’re dead though you cant really destroy your body and though he still doesn’t like drinking he’ll indulge in smoking.

if you do any sort of after school activity or club he’ll encourage you to quit, telling you how it’s all stupid and a waste of time that you could be spending together. if you refuse he’ll try to sabotage it for you the best he can while being confined to the house. maybe sending a nasty email to your teacher/coach or by ruining a uniform or equipment you use.

there’s definitely times when he’s asked you to drop out of highschool to which you immediately declined and there’s not really much else he could do about this nuisance.

langdon will put you onto his likes and interests, music or movies he has a taste for. he’ll try the stuff you like as well but he’s quick to judge and doesn’t do second thoughts or tries. if he doesn’t like it he won’t even pretend to and will harsh out negative reviews before you turn it off. and then he’ll act confused on why you suddenly stopped it but he’s very glad you did. he couldn’t stand it.

and because of this when you’re hanging out it’s all about what tate wants to do. the music he wants to play. the things he wants to talk about and the films he wants to watch.

jealousy is a major problem for him and the mention of really anyone, but especially if it’s a guy, will have his blood pumping and his head spinning.

to him, he only has you. it should be the same way around, he absolutely hates that you have and know other people that aren’t just him.

tw? — if you ever try to leave him he goes all out and puts on the most dramatic show you’ve literally ever seen. throwing himself against walls, screaming and crying his eyes out, burying his head in his knees and clutching at his hair while begging and pleading for you to stay. he doesn’t get angry at all but turns more pathetic and desperate as he clings onto you. lots of “ill do better”, “you can’t leave me”, “tell me what I did wrong” and “you’re all I have”’s leaving his lips. if this doesn’t work he’ll harm himself in front of you, smashing his head against the wall or even using a sharp tool to cut into his arm while only asking one thing. “is this what you want?”

tw? — it’s a very draining relationship and can impact your mental space a lot. if you self harm he will catch you eventually, whether it’s while in the act or the scars/scabs from after. he’ll grab your arm (not assuming that’s where you sh, just so he has a grip on you), asking you how you could be so selfish (which is his way of caring) and then asking you to cut him instead anytime you wanted to hurt yourself. this is obviously off putting and drives a wedge between you for a while, which he will trap you back by guilting you and apologizing. (even though he was completely serious when asking and still is.)

the blonde haired boy lives for your validation. he’s constantly asking for reassurance and pestering you with loads of questions. whether if it’s if you like his outfit to if you still had feelings for him or not.

he’s a huge listener than he is a talker and could sit for hours, happily criss crossed and a toothless and content smile on his face while you go on about every little detail of your day.

he’s definitely asked you to do his eyeliner before but would rather die (again) than have anything else applied to his skin. it would cripple his masculinity.

overall he’s very touchy, craving for any contact he can get with you. resting his head on your shoulder, holding hands, his hand on your thigh or pinkies intwined. he always has to be touching you in some way.

recommending books and songs are one of his all time favorite things to do and he does expect you to read or listen to all of his suggestions. he’ll ask you about it a few days later after initially suggesting it and will get upset if you still haven’t looked into it.

tate hardly gets angry, he’s very sensitive as we all know and most of the time it ends in his hysterical sobs; but when the fire inside him lights it’s terrifying.

if you weren’t the one to make him angry you’d usually be okay, he’d rant about it to you while you played with his hair; describing all of the horrendous ways he wanted to see the person or thing he’s mad at crash and burn. if he’s angry at you it’s like he moves on his own, putting you in a chokehold and slamming you against the wall, yelling and pointing fingers at you. pushing items off your desks/dressers/shelf’s and you make him go away; scared of him hurting you. he wouldn’t, not intentionally, but it was a very scary sight to see.

of course within hours he’d return, tears streaming down his face and begging on his knees for your forgiveness, arms latched around your legs as he sobbed into them and refused to let go until you forgave him.

as much as he loves you and wants you to be together forever, he would never purposefully go to the extent of killing you in the house so you could stay with him forever at the age you are. it sucks, he knows it sucks, but he does have a boundary set for that. he doesn’t want you stuck there for the rest of your life. he’s just hoping you’ll stay in that house with him willingly anyway. he’d let you go after crying his heart out for days, but he’d never let you forget him or move on. and being honest; he would probably start to regret the decision.

his love for you goes beyond words, it consumes him completely. he knows now his purpose. the day he died in that house and the years that passed waiting up to the day he met you.

he was made for loving you, in his own sick way. you are his entire heart.

NSFW !!

tate is a switch in the bedroom, but he’s so easy to dominate which makes him lead towards being more submissive. of course he’ll be in his dominant moods, there’s no doubt, but it’s laughable how easy it is to take control back over him.

he loves to overstimulate you, fucking you or relentlessly giving you head for hours, not giving you rest inbetween as you beg for him to stop through shattered moans.

(if you’re a female) — we all know about his mommy issues and he definitely incorporates that into the bedroom in some ways.

(if you’re a female) — he’s a tits man rather than ass and anytime you’re going at it your shirt has to be off, he doesn’t care what size breasts you have all he wants is to attach his mouth around your nipples and tease them with his tongue, sucking lightly before leaving hickeys all over them.

(if you’re a female) — he has the best fuck me eyes the worlds ever seen and when he’s bottoming he can’t stop himself from calling you ‘mama’.

he’s very kinky, and he has put on the infamous leather suit before to fuck you. it makes him feel more powerful, like he’s in control.

when he’s topping he’ll have one hand pinning one of your arms above your hand while using his other to interlace your fingers, crying into your neck with all the pleasure he’s feeling.

he’s not the greatest on cleaning up afterwords but he always snuggles you, cuddling up to you in a ball and resting his head soundly on your chest as his breathing slows and he drifts off.

but the most important thing to know — tate is godly at sex. he doesn’t have the most experience in the world but he definitely wasn’t a virgin by the time you met and he knows what he’s doing.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ a/n : thank you sm for requesting , made my day !! i hope that this is to your liking, i appreciate the compliment ab my ethan headcanon i tried my best <33. my inbox is open to all !!

started 08.06.23. finished 08.07.23.

©️nolovelingers 2023

[justaz]

merlin told arthur his favorite color was the color of the sky during sunset when it shifted into a deep violet. arthur gets a tunic made in that exact shade. its the best thing merlin owns. arthur was hoping that would mean he’d wear it almost everyday but merlin almost never wears it. the only time he does wear it is when royals come to visit (which isn’t all that often). arthur “subtly” asks about it and merlin is like “it’s the best thing i own. i’m not gonna dirty it mucking out the stables or serving rowdy knights wine while they splatter food on it” and arthur is like “why not wear it when nobles come to visit? look at least a little presentable for them” (cough nice save). merlin doesn’t see the point in it bc nobles don’t care about him at best, view him as less than human at worst.

arthur really just wants to see his boyfriend servant in the tunic he had made for him (bonus points for sending a message that merlin is his. not that merlin seems to notice. man is too much of an idiot). merlin wants to preserve his favorite tunic and gift from his boyfriend king.

[megalomaniacz]

toxic pitfighter vi please please please

TOXIC PITFIGHTER VI HEADCANONS:

everybody cheered!!! these were actually fun and easy if u want more lemme knoww

PUNCHES WALLS

hates when anyone calls her violet.

had a one night stand with you and you stuck around which she didn’t expect so now you’re “together”

can beat the shit out of any fucking body

one time an opponent brought a knife and you got in the ring to try to stop things from escalating and she got angry at you for embarrassing her :(

loves emotionless thoughtless quickies

only fucks after a match

gets mad when she sees you smile in the general direction of anyone. “who the fuck is that? oh stop lying is that another one of your ‘friends’? oh i’m so sure you’re veryyyy close!”

her socks got holes in them. EVERY PAIR.

loves dark liquor

has you saved in her phone as “nice ass” or “great tits”

you asked when she was gonna finally take you on a date and she laughed at you SO HARD she started legitimately crying and losing her breath. you never asked again

will cuddle with you once every 3 and a half weeks if the weather is right

comes home at 3am? and just crashes on the couch, throw up down her chest and everything

tattoos herself!! she learned a bit while imprisoned and is working on a cute sketch for you so y’all can match

will AND HAS punched the shit out of people who hit on you. she don’t give a fuck if it’s somebody uncle

phone case and screen protector so fucked up it’ll cut your fingers

listens to dad rock

loves fight club

can eat a whole turkey just by herself

never shuts up about her gains

[redroses07]

said what i said

[lvrstrsh]

some alternate universe where jayce and vi are passed out drunk together, absolutely going through it & wallowing in self-pity bc viktor is mad at jayce and caitlyn is mad at vi.

literally jayce and vi: 'my wife is mad at me. i hope i die.'

[inu-chan-san]

This exchange was kind of fruity, not gonna lie

[officialundertakersmoocher]

may i pls request a scenario with violet and afab reader where he’s drawing them nude and then smut ensues?

An Artistic Craving

yall i am so sorry for the extended break, and I hope this meets your expectations 😭

Warnings: NSFW, Nudity, +18, Slightly OOC

• • •

"Stay still, okay?"

"But, Vi, it's so embarrassing..." You attempt to cover your assets which have been shamefully exposed to his eyes in the dimly lit study room.

"Don't think of it that way... It's just a study." You tried not to ask many questions, after all, he was more versed in the arts than you were.

It was lucky that you two happened to catch this moment alone, unchaperoned. Vi, actually very uncharacteristically, was the one to insist that he needed you as a model to finish this study to complete a project he was working on for his upcoming art exam.

After all, you two had been seeing each other for a long time now and were not only comfortable enough to do such a thing, but you also just happened to owe him a favor.

This is how you ended up in such a position for your lover, spewn on a dark purple couch in a private study room near the Purple House dorms. You knew that Gregory was too shy to say so, but there are many books on campus filled with similar references free for his use. He just wanted to spend time with you in an intimate setting such as this one.

You caught him stealing glances at you every once in a while, and he could sense your growing discomfort from staying still for so long.

He left his sketchbook behind momentarily to kneel down beside you and suddenly the room felt more quiet. Your eyes locked as he gently adjusts the position of your hand, placing it under your head in a graceful fashion.

He tilts his head and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face as if to get a better view.

He tried to back away to retreat to his seat, but was caught by your hand pulling him back. He sat confused for a moment but could tell your eyes were asking him to stay.

You move yourself upwards to face him and pull him into a kiss. His lips are soft and welcoming and he eventually moves to grab your waist.

You slowly move him onto the couch with you, straddling his waist. He begins to become shy from this now suddenly risqué moment and pulls away from your lips.

"Love, I don't know if we should..." You could feel the deep heat resonating from his cheeks, so you asked him softly, "Would you like me to stop...?"

"Please no..."

You just barely hear him mutter this, but his hot breath on your neck shows you how desperate he has become.

Before you know it, there are clothes being dragged away and thrown about the room, never finding the motivation to tear your lips apart from one another. You both are stuck in an agonizing dance, waiting for the moment that you both can be as close as you desire.

The room has reached a stillness as the dim candlelight bounces off of skin, and hot breath stills in the air. You are both frozen in time, taking in the moment for the first time now, and as you do, you notice that you've never really seen your lover in such a passionate way as this.

In this position, he's kneeling his body over yours and bowing his head in a shy manor. From the silence you hear him speak softly, asking, "Is this what you want, for sure?" And you have seemingly been too caught up in your own thoughts to notice the lingering question prodding in-between your thighs. You suddenly feel a harsh flush invading your cheeks and a needy wetness in the very same place that he finds his attention.

You turn your head to avoid the embarrassment of facing him as you answer his looming question.

Your voice shakes more than you intended it to, more out of anticipation than anything else. "Yes, of course, p-please keep going, my love-"

However, he catches you off guard by lowing his head down to your thighs. His proximity meant you could feel his breath tickle your skin and it invigorated you.

He softly grazed your folds with his fingers, and slowly exploring your body until he reached the most sensitive parts of you. The moment he grazed your clit, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan, which is exactly what pushed him to continue despite feeling his own uncertainty.

He follows the sounds of your sweet moans, touching you and exploring your body in ways that neither of you have experienced before. Before long you find yourself growing more in need of his touch, pulling his hands and guiding him to kiss you. You both are grasping for each others touch and cursing into the silence of this empty room when the tension reaches an all-time high. You find yourself guiding his cock lower as a sign that you are ready (or maybe as a sign that you can't wait much longer now).

He follows your lead, pushing himself slowly across your folds, letting out a sigh as he feels the warmth of your pussy against his skin. He has one hand behind your head as a comforting act as he slowly guides himself between your thighs. He watches your expression change to a grimace of pain, almost stopping himself, but instead he caresses your face in an attempt to sooth your pain. You start to adjust yourself and whisper for him to keep going, and after a few moments the pain starts to replace itself with great pleasure.

You can't help the moans that escape your lips as you grasp onto him, likely leaving scratch marks on his upper back.

However, he doesn't mind this one bit. He can only focus on this heavenly feeling that seemed to blur his vision and tingle at his senses. The pleasure became overwhelming before you could comprehend it and it feels like heaven.

The sounds that filled the room should have alerted the others of the acts you both were sharing tonight, and maybe, just maybe, you should have been more worried, but neither of you could have the gut to care. Not tonight, not when it just feels so good and your vision had started bleeding white as your bodies worked in tandem with one another. 

It felt like hours before you had found yourselves cuddling under a stray blanket, skin-to-skin and feeling on top of the world. There was peace settled in the air and you held each other and shared this perfect moment.

"Did you enjoy it?" Violet asked timidly while he stroked stray pieces of hair out of your face.

"Oh course, Darling. I've never felt closer to you than how we were tonight." You looked at him so softly and left a soft peck on his lips.

"Well, thats good, because... I didn't really get to finish my painting. We may have to do this again tomorrow night..." He wouldn't meet your eyes, but you knew that if you could see them, they would have a glint of excitement in them that you only see when he looks at you.

"Well, I suppose we would have to then- For your studies, of course."

• Epilogue • Tea Time •

"So, It couldn't have been just me who heard some oddly bizarre noises coming from the art studio on the west end last night..." Edgar mused to the other prefects as he took a mischievous sip.

"Oh, how I wonder what that could have possibly been coming from..." The sound of a breaking pencil could be heard only if he listened so intently.

"Oh, I heard it, alright." Greenhill pipped in, sounding more than mildly annoyed as he completed his afternoon stretch. "Some people really need to be more considerate of the fact that some of us need to study at such late hours."

"Well, maybe some people should consider that not everyone wants to hear the sound of your 2 hour long training routine at 12am either..." Bluewer rolled his eyes, obviously not knowing what the others were exactly referring to.

"Well, In just thinking that maybe when the professors discover a certain pair of undergarments left in said art studio on the west end, they may have to cancel class this morning. If you know what I mean..." Edgar takes an extended sip of his tea and watched as Gregory excuses himself, dropping his sketchbook and seemingly headed towards the west end.

"Well, that answers that." Edgar mutters with a smirk.