Ice

The contract on your kitchen counter is forty pages of sheer validation. It’s everything you’ve broken your body for since you were a kid kicking a deflated ball against a brick wall. It’s the Champions League. It’s London. It’s Arsenal.

Your agent had called you an hour ago, her voice vibrating with excitement through the speaker. “It’s a done deal. They met the wage demands, the bonuses are locked in, and Renée wants you in the squad by Monday. Congratulations, you’re a Gooner.”

You had screamed. You had cried a little. You had immediately sat down to stare at the digital copy of the contract, your thumb hovering over the signature line. It was a dream come true.

Until you did what any modern footballer does to celebrate: you opened instagram.

You wanted to see the announcement graphics, to scroll through the club’s recent match photos and picture yourself in the red and white kit. But as you tapped on the Arsenal Women’s official page, the very first post on their grid wasn’t a highlight reel of a top corner screamer.

It was a video of Alessia Russo walking into the London Colney training ground. And trotting happily at her heel, a customized Arsenal harness strapped around her chest, was a chocolate Labrador. The caption read: Win’s ready for the weekend. Are you?

Your heart didn’t just skip a beat, it dropped like a stone into the pit of your stomach.

The warmth in your chest instantly vanished, replaced by a familiar prickle of cold sweat on the back of your neck. Your thumb froze over the screen. You stared at the dog’s wagging tail, its open mouth, the way Lotte Wubben-Moy casually knelt down to let the animal lick her face in the next slide.

Your breathing grew shallow. Just looking at the screen, the phantom weight of a memory pulled you backward, dragging you three years into the past.

You’re twenty-one, playing abroad, and it’s a rainy Tuesday. You’re coming home from a grueling double session, your aching legs feeling heavy as you step off the metro. You walk up the concrete stairs, ready to hit the fresh air, but just as you reach the top step and look out onto the open station plaza, your breath hitches.

A massive dog, some kind of high drive mastiff mix, is pacing the concrete. It’s unleashed. A few meters away, a guy is staring lazily down at his phone, a heavy chain leash hanging uselessly from his hand, completely ignoring his animal.

Before you can even think to quietly step backward, the dog’s head snaps in your direction. It locks eyes with you. Its body goes dead still, muscles bunching under its coat, ears pinning flat against its skull.

Then, it charges.

Panic explodes in your chest. You turn on your heel and fly back down the concrete stairs, your exhausted legs screaming as you sprint for your life. In the distance, you hear the owner finally look up, his voice echoing frantically, “Hey! No! Stop! Come here!” but the dog completely ignores him.

You can hear the horrific, frantic scratching of its claws on the concrete steps right behind you, it’s gaining on you. You burst onto the platform, sprinting blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it nauseates you. By some miracle, a train is sitting at the platform. You throw your body through the closing doors, collapsing onto the metal floor just as the chimes ring.

A heavy thud echoes through the carriage as the dog slams against the outside of the door, barking viciously and scraping its paws against the windows as the train pulls away into the dark tunnel.

You lay on the floor of the train, sobbing, your hands shaking so violently you can’t even stand up. You never use that metro station again.

You blink, shaking yourself out of the memory, and look back down at your phone.

Win. Her name is Win. You’d heard about her, of course, the club dog bought to help boost morale and mental health around the training ground. A brilliant initiative. A beautiful animal.

And your absolute worst nightmare.

You look from the phone to the contract. You’re an elite athlete. You tackle aggressive forwards, you play in front of fifty-thousand screaming fans, and you survive grueling fitness tests. But right now, you’re completely paralysed by a labrador who lives at your future workplace.

Slowly, your trembling finger taps the signature line. You can’t turn down the biggest move of your career because of a dog. Your agent would think you’d lost your mind. The media would have a field day. You just have to be smart. You’ll memorise her schedule. You’ll take the long way around the facility. You’ll play the most intens game of hide-and-seek of your life.

You press sign.

Welcome to Arsenal, the confirmation screen reads.

You let out a shaky breath, whispering to the empty room, “Please stay on your leash.”

xxxxxxxxxxx

Solbha Realty Training Centre is beautiful. For any normal footballer, arriving here for their first official day of training is a moment of pure awe.

For you, it feels like stepping onto a minefield.

You grip the steering wheel of your car, staring through the windshield at the reception building. Your stomach is doing flips, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the tactical briefing Renée has scheduled for you at ten.

You kill the engine, take a deep breath, and grab your duffel bag. Eyes up, you tell yourself. Keep your ears open.

The reception area is quiet, the air smelling faintly of expensive coffee and freshly cut grass. The receptionist gives you a warm smile, handing you your digital security fob. “Welcome to Arsenal,” she says brightly. “Renée and the girls are already down in the tactical room. Just head straight down the main corridor, take a left past the medical department, and it’s the second door on your right.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the frantic beating of your pulse.

You take the security fob and start walking. You don’t look like a nervous wreck. To anyone passing by, you look like a confident, focused new signing: shoulders back, chin up, kit bag slung casually over one shoulder. But internally, your senses are dialed up to eleven. Every squeak of a sneaker on the polished floor makes you flinch. Every distant sound is filtered through a single question: Is that a bark?

You make the left turn past the medical room, your eyes scanning the floor ahead. No food bowls, no stray squeaky toys. So far, so good.

You reach the tactical room, slip inside, and the sudden wave of noise and warmth hits you. The entire squad is already there, scattered across the rows of tiered seating.

“Look who it is!” Chloe Kelly’s voice booms over the chatter.

Within seconds, you’re enveloped in a whirlwind of greetings. Leah Williamson gives you a welcoming hug, Lotte Wubben-Moy offers a warm smile, and Alessia Russo taps the empty seat right next to her. The atmosphere is instantly comforting, a reminder of exactly why you wanted to join this club. These women are elite, but they treat you like family from day one.

“Glad you made it through London traffic,” Alessia jokes, leaning back in her chair as Renée walks up to the tactical board at the front of the room.

“Barely,” you laugh, finally letting your shoulders drop. You slide into the seat, placing your duffel bag by your feet. For the next forty five minutes, you actually manage to forget about your phobia. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of football: analysing passing lanes, understanding the pressing triggers, visualizing how you’re going to fit into the midfield.

But just as Renée wraps up the meeting, drawing a final arrow on the whiteboard, the handle of the tactical room door clicks.

Your entire body locks up instantly. The laughter dying in your throat.

The door pushes open, and a staff member steps in holding a stack of papers. But you aren’t looking at the papers. Your eyes are glued to the floor. Trotting in right beside the staff member’s legs, tail wagging in a circle, is the chocolate ;abrador.

Win.

“Oh, look who came to say good morning!” Daphne coos from the row behind you.

The room instantly erupts into a chorus of high pitched greetings and clicking fingers. Win, fully aware of her status as the Arsenal darling, trots happily toward the front row, her claws clicking softly against the hard floor.

The sound rings in your ears like a countdown timer. The exact same suffocating weight from the metro stairs slams into your chest. Your lungs refuse to expand. Your hands grip the edge of your seat so tightly your knuckles turn white. You can feel the urge to run, to scramble over the chairs and bolt out the back door, but you are physically glued to the spot by sheer terror.

Win pauses, sniffing at Lotte’s boots, and then her dark eyes shift. She looks straight at you.

To the dog, you’re just a new friend to greet. She takes two happy steps in your direction.

“Hey, girl,” Alessia says softly, reaching down to scratch Win behind the ears just as the dog gets within two feet of your legs.

That movement saves you. With Win temporarily distracted by Alessia’s hand, you force your legs to move. You stand up abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turn toward you, but you’re too panicked to care.

“I… I need to use the restroom before we head out to the pitch,” you choke out, aiming a tight, completely fake smile at Renée.

“Go ahead,” Renée nods, already turning back to her notes. “Pitch one in five minutes.”

You don’t walk out of the room, you practically sprint. You grab your bag, bypass Win by a wide berth, and slip through the door before the dog can even turn her head.

Once you’re out in the hallway, you lean your back against the wall, taking deep breaths. Your heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and your hands are noticeably shaking.

You pull out your phone, opening the digital map of the training ground that the club sent you in your welcome email. You stare at the layout of the corridors, the gym, the canteen, and the pitches.

You’re going to have to memorise every single alternative route. You’re going to have to become a ghost in this building. Because if anyone finds out that a dog makes the club’s newest star signing want to cry, you’ll never live it down.

xxx

You learn the layout of the training grounds faster than you’ve ever learned a tactical system.

Within two weeks, you have the entire facility mapped out in your head based on probability metrics. The main corridor past the media room? High risk, Win likes to nap outside the press officer’s door. The pathway leading to the main pitches? Medium risk, depends entirely on whether Leah or Kim Little is holding her leash. The back hallway near the laundry room? Low risk. Pristine. Safe.

You become a master of the ‘Ghost Protocol’. You are always the first to arrive in the dressing room and the last to leave, ensuring you never get caught in the hallway bottlenecks where Win usually roams. If you hear the distinctive click click click of claws on the linoleum, you instantly pivot, pretending you forgot your water bottle or needed to check something with the kit manager.

On the pitch, you’re flying. Your chemistry with the girls is instant. You’re tracking back, linking up with the frontline, and pulling the strings in midfield like you’ve been her for years.

But off the pitch, the strain is starting to show. And the Arsenal locker room is far too observant for your own good.

It starts on a Thursday after a grueling double session. You’re sitting in the canteen, ravenous, happily piling pasta onto your plate alongside Steph and Caitlin. The vibe is relaxed, the room filled with the clatter of cutlery and easy laughter.

“Honestly, the jetlag from the international break is still killing me,” Caitlin groans, leaning her chin on her hand. “I feel like a zombie.”

“You always look like a zombie, Foordy,” Steph teases, making you laugh into your water glass.

For a second, you let your guard down. You take a bite of your food, completely relaxed.

Then, you feel it.

It’s a subtle shift in the air under the table. A soft pressure against the fabric of your training pants, followed by a heavy, warm exhale against your bare ankle.

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.

Every muscle in your body locks into stone. The noise of the canteen instantly fades into static, replaced by the frantic thudding of your own heart. No, no, no, please no.

Slowly, agonisingly, you glance down between your knees.

There she is. Win is sitting squarely under the table, her big brown eyes looking up at you with pure, hopeful curiosity. Her tail gives a soft thump thump against the leg of your chair. She smells your pasta. She wants a handout.

Panic, cold and sharp, paralyses your lungs. The exact same suffocating feeling from the metro station slams into your chest. You can’t breathe. Your hands begin to tremble so violently that the fork slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against your plate.

“Whoops, clumsy,” Caitlin chuckles, reaching down. “Oh, hey Win! When did you get under here?”

As Caitlin leans down to pet her, Win shifts, her wet nose accidentally brushing directly against your shin.

That’s your breaking point.

You stand up so fast your chair screeches violently against the floor, nearly tipping backward. Steph and Caitlin both jump, startled by the sudden noise.

“Whoa, you good?” Steph asks, her brow furrowing as she looks up at you.

Your face is completely drained of color. Your chest is heaving, your vision narrowing at the edges. You look down at Win, who is now looking up at you with confusion, her ears slightly back.

“I, I forgot,” you stammer, your voice tight, high, and unrecognizable. “I forgot I have an appointment with the physio. Right now. I have to go.”

“But you haven't even finished your-” Caitlin starts.

“Sorry, got to go!”

You abandon your full plate, snatch up your phone, and practically sprint out of the canteen. You don’t look back. You burst through the double doors into the quiet hallway, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You duck into an empty storage closet, pulling the door shut until it clicks, and slide your back down the wall into the darkness.

You press your palms over your eyes, trying to force your heart to stop racing. Get a grip, you tell yourself angrily. You’re a professional athlete. You can’t keep living like a fugitive in your own training ground.

Meanwhile, back in the canteen, Steph and Caitlin are staring at the empty doorway.

“That was... weird, right?” Caitlin asks, looking down at Win, who has now rested her chin sadly on Caitlin’s shoe. “She looked like she'd seen a ghost.”

Steph doesn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drift from your abandoned plate, down to the floor where Win is sitting, and then back to the door. A tiny, speculative frown creases her forehead.

“Yeah,” Steph murmurs, her mind ticking over a dozen different strange instances over the last two weeks. The abrupt u-turns in the hallway. The sudden stiffness in the team photos. “Extremely weird.”

xxxxx

It happens on a Thursday morning, a few days after the canteen incident. You’re sitting on the treatment table in the medical room, casually scrolling through your phone while the physio straps your ankle. You feel good. Training went perfectly, you managed to dodge Win by taking the laundry room route twice, and you’re finally starting to feel like you have a handle on this.

You open TikTok, and the very first video on your for you page is a fan edit. The sound over it is a suspenseful true-crime audio track. The text flashing across the screen reads: is arsenals new midfielder beefing with Win? the evidence is loud 💀

Your thumb freezes. Your stomach drops.

You tap the screen, your heart rate spiking as the video plays. It’s a compilation.

The first clip is from the club’s official Behind the Scenes youtube vlog from your first week. The camera is focused on Daphne laughing in the hallway. But in the background, clear as day, you can be seen walking toward them. The moment Win trots into the frame from a side room, you make a sharp, aggressive 180° turn, pulling your hood up and walking briskly in the absolute opposite direction.

The second clip is a zoomed in, slowed down snippet from the team photo day. The entire squad is smiling, arms around each other. Win is sitting at the very front, right in the center. The camera pans to you, standing on the far right flank. Your smile is completely frozen, your body stiff as a board, and your eyes are locked onto the dog with a look of sheer, unadulterated panic.

The final clip is a screen recording of a recent live stream. Emily Fox was doing a Q&A in the media room, and in the background, you peeked your head through the glass door, spotted Win sleeping on the rug, and instantly vanished.

The caption of the tiktok reads: someone tell her Win doesn’t bite 😭 she looks like she’s fighting for her life in every clip.

The video has three hundred thousand views. The top comment, with twenty thousand likes, says: wait... is she actually terrified of the club dog? LMFAO no way.

“Hey, you alright?” the physio asks, noticing the sudden tension in your leg. “Your calf muscle just went rock hard.”

“Yeah,” you choke out, quickly locking your phone and shoving it screen down onto the table. “Just... a cramp. Im fine.

You aren’t fine. You leave the medical room with your head spinning. If the fans have noticed, then the media is going to catch on. The next time you do a post match interview, some journalist is going to ask you about it, and you're going to look ridiculous.

You walk toward the locker room, desperate to grab your keys and go home to hide. But as you push the heavy door open, the room goes completely silent.

The entire squad is gathered around the central island. Leah is holding a phone, and Kim, Alessia, and Mariona are leaning over her shoulder.

When you step inside, they all look up at you.

Leah has an expression that is a mix of intense sympathy and mild amusement. Mariona looks like she’s trying (and failing) not to burst out laughing.

“Hey,” Leah says softly, stepping away from the group and walking over to you. She holds up her own phone. It’s the exact same TikTok video. “So... the girls and I were just looking at something. Do you want to tell us why you’ve been treating our chocolate lab like she’s a dangerous predator?”

Your face burns a furious, bright red. You look at the floor, your hands clenching into fists inside your jacket pockets. The humiliation is overwhelming. You’re an international footballer, a marquee signing, and you’re about to have to admit your biggest weakness to your captain.

“I’m not beefing with her,” you mutter, your voice barely audible.

“Then what is it?” Kim asks gently, her tone completely devoid of judgment as she steps forward. “If something’s wrong, you can tell us.”

You take a deep breath, the suffocating feeling returning to your chest just from thinking about it.

“I’m scared of dogs,” you confess, the words tasting like lead. “Like, really, really scared. I had a bad experience a few years ago at a metro station, and I just... I freeze. I can’t breathe around them. I’ve been trying to avoid Win since my first day here because I didn't want everyone to think I was crazy.”

The room is silent for a beat. You brace yourself for the jokes, the teasing, the typical locker room banter.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, Leah lets out a soft sigh, stepping closer and dropping a comforting hand onto your shoulder. “Oh, you idiot,” she says, her voice full of genuine affection. “Why didn’t you just tell us?”

You blink, completely caught off guard. You look up from the floor, expecting to see mocking smirks, but instead, you’re met with a wall of fiercely protective expressions.

“Wait, so that’s why you ran out of the canteen the other day?” Caitlin asks, her jaw dropping as the pieces finally click into place. “Oh my god, I felt so bad! I thought you hated my storytelling.”

“No!” you say quickly, a sheepish smile finally breaking through your embarrassment. “No, Win touched my leg under the table. I thought my heart was going to explode.”

“You should have said something on day one,” Kim says, her captain’s persona instantly locking into place. She crosses her arms, already calculating a solution. “We would have made sure she was kept in the media lounge or on a leash when you were around. Arsenal is supposed to be your safe space, not a horror movie.”

“Honestly, we’re the idiots for not noticing sooner,” Leah murmurs, her hand still grounding you with a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder. “But don’t worry about the internet, okay? Fans make edits out of everything. We’ll handle the squad, and we’ll handle Win.”

“How are you going to handle Win?” you ask, looking around the room skeptical. “She literally has a security pass to this building.”

Mariona steps forward with a wicked, mischievous grin. “Simple. You’re looking at your new personal security. From now on, no one lets Win near you. We’ll scout the hallways ahead of you like Secret Service agents.”

You let out a genuine, breathless laugh, the heavy weight that has been crushing your chest for the last month finally evaporating.

True to their word, the Arsenal Women’s Football Club turns into a well-oiled, anti-dog defense unit by the very next morning.

You arrive for training on Friday, and before you can even step out of your car, your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Alessia in the team group chat.

Less: The eagle is landing. I repeat, Win is currently in the media room eating a tennis ball. Coast is clear.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you walk into the building. When you reach the main corridor, Olivua is standing near the analysis room, leaning casually against the wall. As you pass, she gives you a dramatic nod and shifts her position to walk slightly ahead of you, scanning the intersecting hallways like a bodyguard.

It becomes a hilarious routine. If Win wanders toward the dressing room, Lotte instantly swoops in, distracting the dog with a treat and leading her in the opposite direction before you can even catch a glimpse of a wagging tail. If you need to go to the medical room, Kyra walks a few paces ahead of you, acting as a human shield.

The best part? The fans notice the shift.

A week later, you’re scrolling through tiktok again. The same fan account that made the original edit posts a new compilation.

This time, the video is set to upbeat music. The first clip shows the team arriving at the stadium. Win is on her leash, but Leah is explicitly walking between you and the dog, her arm wrapped securely around your shoulders while pointing your attention toward the fans in the stands. The next clip shows a training ground vlog where Alessia noticeably steps in front of a camera to block Win from your view, giving the cameraman a pointed look.

The text on the screen reads: update: the girls found the tiktoks. they are officially shielding her from Win at all costs. look at how protective they are! 🥺❤️

He had not, however, accounted for the fact that Zoey has powers. That was only his first mistake, one that his agents learned very quickly after trying to tranq her and instead she threw a couch at three of the human agents.

The second?

Rumi.

Rumi, who upon hearing what she guessed was a wall coming down came flying out of Mira’s room (this is early in their knowing the real Rumi instead of villain Rumi, so she didn’t trust her sleeping in the room with Zoey) and spotted the too familiar symbols of Gwi-ma.

So, something I don’t think I mentioned last time, Rumi’s powers were altered in a way by the lightning. She’s able to do bigger things now, like making shields or armor, but can’t make more complex stuff with her strings like swords.

All that to say, when she sees what’s happening she ends up using a series of walls to pin the agents and then suffocate them by lack of oxygen.

Rumi and Zoey end up finding the orders on one of their devices, specifying taking Zoey alive to use as a hostage before disposing of her once they controlled Solar Flare, or more specifically Mira. Rumi, seeing this, says they need to get to a safer location. When Zoey questions her on where would be safer then their own home, Rumi begrudgingly admits she knows one place on a farm a half hour by foot from the city.

They end up traveling on the road, Rumi carrying most of the stuff while Zoey carry’s a technically too heavy bag, but still light enough to play it off to Rumi. Rumi, still shaken from seeing the people she just escaped come after Zoey, doesn’t question how she was able to throw the couch or carry such heavy items.

Zoey texts Mira on the way, saying their apartments kinda wrecked and that she should get her stuff and meet them at the city’s edge. Mira assumes Rumi somehow stole Zoey’s phone, kidnapped her, killed her, or is somehow otherwise at fault.

So, when she sees the two of them idly chatting at the city edge, she doesn’t hesitate to slam into Rumi with more than enough force to bury her in concrete.

Now, in previous fights a hit like that would hurt, sure. Mira’s basically hitting her with the force of a building put into the size of her fist. But that was when Rumi reinforced her skin, muscles, and bones with her threads. (One of the few benefits of the chip was the intense amount of control over her powers she had, a skill she lost since the chip was fried and removed.)

Rumi isn’t killed by the hit, but it hurts her badly enough that she has a concussion and can’t see or hear very well. Mira tries to demand answers, and is shocked when Zoey punches her in the face to get her off of Rumi.

As Mira recovers from the impressive punch (seriously, what is this girl eating that’s not junk food that lets her hit this hard???) Zoey carefully helps Rumi stand. Rumi cannot, in fact, stay standing, and collapses immediately when Zoey lets go. Zoey manages to catch her, picking her up in a piggy back and carefully resting Rumi’s chin on her shoulder.

Zoey tells Mira with curt words that men wearing the same symbol as the chip in Rumi’s head came to try and kidnap her, and if not for Rumi they would’ve taken her. Mira, now feeling somewhat guilty, asks if Rumi’s alright. Rumi opens her eyes when she hears her name, one pupil blown wide and the other incredibly dilated.

Mira knows what a concussion looks like, and winces. She asks Zoey where Rumi was taking them, to which Zoey shows her the address Rumi had written on her arm in case they needed to separate. Mira asks if Rumi’s actually explained where it was, to which Zoey says no.

At that, Mira gives her a skeptical look, which Zoey rolls her eyes at. She says that if Rumi really wasn’t on their side now, she would’ve let the men take her to get to Mira. Mira tries to argue that it could’ve been a way to gain their trust, which Zoey doesn’t actually have an argument for.

Finally, she asks if Mira knows anywhere else they could go that they wouldn’t need to pay for. Mira tries to think of anywhere, but she knows the Saja boys are infiltrating her parents company so they can’t let her into their base. With a sigh, she says she doesn’t. After a pointed look from the younger woman Mira let out a sigh, nodding in acquiescence.

Mira picks them both up, carrying them to the farm. It’s a few miles outside the city, light still on within. The sign out front says “Ryu Residence, wherein the Ryus reside.”

There’s four hand prints on it, three of them clearly adults but the smallest one, a purple print, is that of a child. The trio make their way to the door, eyeing the light in the kitchen signaling someone awake despite the late hour.

Mira knocks on the door carefully, concerned that whoever owns it might be different from the people who Rumi was thinking. After a few moments the door opens, a severe looking woman with a streak of silver in her hair examining the three of them. When her eyes land on Rumi they widen in shock.

She hesitates, before nodding once, gesturing for them to get inside. Mira and Zoey share a glance before stepping inside, eyes wandering unintentionally. Photos cover the walls of three women and a small child, one with black hair done up in a tight braid that looks oddly familiar.

They’re led into the living room, where two other women are sitting reading books. Upon their entrance the two look up, one with a raised eyebrow and the other with narrowed eyes.

Both of their expressions turned to shock when they landed on Rumi. They stood as one, the shorter one with her hair done in a tight braid telling them to put her on the couch. Zoey doesn’t bother asking questions, having already guessed what this place is, and puts her down. The woman who greeted them slips past, using a flashlight to check Rumi’s pupils with a click of her tongue.

Mira, having had enough of this weird reaction to what had been her greatest enemy a few weeks ago, demands to know who they are to Rumi.

They share a glance, with door-greeter nodding. The other two nod in answer before turning back to Rumi, carefully examining her neck and head.

Door-greeter walks over, hands on her hips. “My name is Celine, those are my wives Miyeong and Poppy. Now,” the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen as she examined the two young women who brought back the missing part of their hearts, “why does our daughter have a concussion, and where has she been the last fifteen years?”

—

With the spare key, you slip inside the apartment and shut the door behind you. You expected a mess — a dirty kitchen, maybe some torn pillows — but, no. It’s relatively clean, save for a box of protein bars and empty chinese takeout on the counter.

You’re just about done kicking your shoes off by the entrance before the door at the end of the hallway creaks open. That one leads to her bedroom.

“Vi?” Again, you call out her name and hope for an answer. Nothing. You advance forward, guided by the sunlight that still streams in through the windows. “Listen, baby, I know you don’t want me here because you fear you’ll hurt me, but I—”

Ah.

Vi stops under the arch of the hallway. She’s slightly hunched over, and even then, damn near touches the wood above her. She’s stripped down to her boxers and binding tape. That’s not something you haven’t seen before.

The rest of her is.

Not only has she gained over a foot in height, but also what looks like to be at least twenty kilograms of pure muscle in weight. She’s never been one to shave, but the hair — or, fur, rather — at the base of her navel that travels south is much, much thicker. More pink tufts have sprouted along her shoulders. Longer sideburns.

Though Vi has yet to speak, you can still see the outline of the thick and sharp fangs that have grown within her mouth. Her ears, flattened to the sides of her head and pointed. It’s a mystery to how she can even comfortably get off, considering the length and sharpness of those claws.

“I told you not to come,” The words leave Vi in a rasp as she strolls forward. In spite of her new size, she makes little to no sound as she comes to stand before you. Honestly, her size is almost absurd, but you can already imagine yourself under her; squished down onto the bed, hips raised, and her mouth over your throat as she fucks you from behind into the mattress. Will you even be able to take all of her? “And still, you—”

She doesn’t manage to finish her sentence. Vi leans down, splaying one of her broad palms over the small of your back to press you against her frame. Her nose brushes over your throat, and she groans loudly. You don’t know what she’s just caught a whiff of, but it makes her entire spine shudder.

“You’re wet,” Vi states, voice thick. Her other hand travels down your torso, claws catching on the delicate cashmere of your sweater, until she cups you through your jeans. Gods, are her hands big. At least twelve inches, no doubt. Bigger than the length of your fucking skull. You gasp against her ear as the heel of her palm applies pressure against your clothed clit, steadying yourself by grasping onto her broad shoulders. “I won’t be myself in this state. You understand that, right?”

You do.

It’s not hard to see just how much Vi’s pulling herself together here. Her jaw’s clenched so tight it’s a wonder her molars haven’t cracked. There’s tension in her muscles you can feel with every shift under your fingers.

“I do.”

That’s all Vi needs before she’s lifting you up into her arms without so much of a grunt. Her mouth seals over yours just as your thighs hook around her waist, and her lips eagerly part to meet your tongue halfway. She mutters an apology when the tip of your tongue catches on the pointed end of a fang, though eventually moves to feast on your throat instead.

Vi stumbles backwards until she finally makes it into the bedroom, and though at the peak of her rut, is still mindful of how she throws you onto the bed. The bed is what’s a mess.

Piles of pillows against the headboard that follow in a semi-circle along the crumbled sheets. It’s mostly extra blankets that work as a cushion, though you do catch view of an oddly familiar pair of panties you’d lost months ago in the corner.

Vi’s hands land on your hips, snapping you out of your thoughts. A groan vibrates in her throat as she raises your lower half in the air, connecting your clothed cunt with her own hidden, but very evident, arousal. It’s almost painful, considering you’re in your jeans, but Vi makes quick work of them soon enough.

Her claws catch on your thigh from how quickly she rips the denim down your legs, and Vi soothes the sting with a lick and kiss before moving on to your sweater next. She splays her palm over your belly, muttering something you can’t quite catch under her breath.

“What’s with the…?” You trail off with a breath, leaning back against the mound of pillows and blankets. “This.”

“It’s a nest,” Vi answers as she lowers herself, nuzzling her cheek over your neck before her mouth latches onto the skin. You can’t suppress a moan as she nips and suckles the sensitive flesh, and your hands find their natural placement on her head when she pushes your bralette up to expose your breasts into the air. “Instinct, I guess. More comfortable. Good place for future pups.”

“Future what?” You echo.

Vi groans, perhaps at the sound of those words coming from your mouth, and gives a nod. She rips your bralette in half with ease, the fabric giving away under the strength. You want to snap at her for it, but really, the sight of her thick and veiny forearms are awfully distracting.

“Pups,” Vi hums into your skin, briefly lapping at one of your breasts before scooting backwards to work her way down your body. Her hands slide down your sides until they cup your hips once more, and she squeezes until the soft flesh yields between every gap of her fingers. “I’d give you a whole litter. Keep you here, safe and sound…”

You know it’s just her hormones and instincts talking — probably — and choose to indulge her. You’re not completely lost to the anatomy of a werewolf in rut.

"And you'd do that, how? Knotting me?"

Teasing Vi in this state is probably not the smartest move.

Her pointed ears flick once before she rips your panties with both hands. The torn fabric is tossed over her shoulder, and you yelp as she stands on her knees and lifts your entire lower half up. Your feet fall to the sides, leaving your cunt exposed. Much like Vi had guessed earlier, you're already wet, but that's not enough for her.

She lowers her head between your legs and spits over your mound. You shudder with a grunt, feeling as the warm glob rolls past the hood of your clit to run down to your entrance. Vi's gaze doesn't meet yours just yet, and she instead looks from her fingers to your sex. Back, and forth.

A deep whine echoes from her throat as she shakes her head.

"Finger yourself," Vi orders, glancing down at you. Her claws dig into the meat of your hips, drawing some blood. "Work yourself open for me."

"Like this?" You gesture down at yourself with one hand, a huff following suit. It's not the most comfortable of positions for you to touch your damn self.

"Like this."

But you won't argue.

You trail your dominant hand down, reaching over with your middle and ring finger to slide down to your entrance. Vi watches with rapt attention as you lubricate your fingers with the mix of her spit and your slick, and she groans in satisfaction as one of your fingers disappears into your warmth.

Maybe you don’t get as much pleasure from fingering yourself as you would from Vi doing it, but the psychological aspect of being ordered and watched is another different thing. Vi usually speaks filth and praise into your ear when you two fuck, but it seems like she can’t get anything beyond grunts and whines out. Her pupils expand as you add yet another finger, leaving only slim ring of her grey irises visible.

“Add another one,” She rasps, curling her hands tighter around your hips. “You’ll need it.”

You don’t have to look down to know Vi’s not just being cocky about her size. The outline of her dick beneath those boxers is a little intimidating, honestly. She’s fucked you with big straps before, yeah, but she’s never fucked you in this form.

Her hands appear to be twelve inches now.

Lord knows what’s going on down there.

So you do as told, sinking a third digit into your cunt. The stretch aches, but this time, Vi aids by keeping your hips elevated with one hand and raising her free one to suck her thumb into her mouth. Then, she lowers it to rub circles over your clit. You relax around yourself little by little, worked up by your fingers, Vi’s thumb on your clit, and the sound of her desperate little pants the longer you finger yourself for.

You're already feeling that climb. The warmth that begins to pool and curl deep in your belly, the flush that begins to run down to your fingertips, and the itch you're eager to tear to have that orgasm.

But, Vi rips that feeling by pulling her thumb away.

"Fuck you, Vi.." You hiss, dropping your head back onto the mountain of pillows with a groan. You pull your fingers out with a grunt, and before you can wipe them clean on the sheets, Vi does the job by leaning down and taking them into your mouth.

"Hm?" Vi croons, the grin that curls the corners of her lips making the fangs behind them peak out. "Do you want to say that again?"

She doesn't give you much time to answer before she's pushing her boxers down. Vi hisses as her length is freed, pink brows furrowing as it slaps against her stomach. She's painfully hard, the pink head — which goes a bit past her belly button — weeps with pre. There's the knot at the base, not yet swollen to it's full potential, but still there.

But before you can appreciate her bare self, she's rolling you over onto your belly. You raise your head, but Vi's right hand is quick to snap out and press itself flat between your shoulder blades. You're left with no choice but to keep your cheek squished to the sheets, and are just barely able to peek over your shoulder. Her free hand grasps your hip, lifting it so that your spine forms a comfortable arch.

"Look at you," Vi grunts, giving a pat to your hip as a silent order to remain in position. She lets go, if only to grasp herself and align the tip of her cock over your entrance. You breathe out against the bedding as she pushes in barely over an inch, then withdraws. "S'eager for me... I'll have you stuffed full soon enough."

She makes quick on that promise with a swift, smooth roll of her hips forward. A choked whine spills from your lips as she stretches you open, curling your fingers into the sheets to ease every intake of air and relax around her further. But Vi's huge— there's so much of her, and she's yet to sheathe herself inside fully. The hand on your upper back slides down to instead splay over your tummy, fingers spread to press up against the soft flesh just as Vi's hips meet your backside.

She's in, fully and entirely, and you're thankful she's giving you a few seconds to get used to the slight burnt of the stretch. Her fingertips press against the bulge beneath the fat, and you shudder as her breath suddenly ghosts over your neck when Vi bows forward.

"Do you feel that? Feel me?" There's a certain level of mirth in her tone, amplified by the chuckle that follows when you groan as her hips draw back a few inches, then snap back forward just as quickly. "Made to take me, I swear it..."

That's the last Vi says before she begins to fuck you properly.

Every roll of her hips is calculated— firm and rough yet perfectly angled to hit that sweet spot within you. The sheer bulk of her body keeps you pinned beneath her with no ability to move. You can only take, and take, and take, gasping against the sheets as the head of her cock kisses your cervix every so often, and her fingers keep pressing against the bulge her size forms. Saliva drips from her mouth down onto your shoulder, and you choke on your breath slightly as Vi's tongue laps it up.

Her hand over your belly slides down, middle and ring finger reaching over to rub circles on your clit. She matches the speed of her thrusts with every caress against the bud of nerves, and Vi chuckles against your ear when your hips begin to eagerly meet hers. It's overstimulating, almost, given that you're still somewhat sensitive from that denied orgasm from earlier. But Vi cares not.

You can feel that warmth building up all over again— quicker now, with much more intensity. Vi can tell, as she quits alternating the speed of her thrusts and keeps her pace even.

"Can feel— you squeezing me already. Eager for me to fill you, is that it?" Vi grunts against your ear. Her throat's a little drier now, and there's the occasional hiccup between her words; she's close herself, obviously. "I'll stuff you full, baby. Knot you to keep it alllll in there, keep your womb warm and—"

She cuts herself off with a groan, driven by instinct to instead seal her mouth over your right shoulder with a firm bite. You cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain as your orgasm crashes over you, torn between the sweet flush of warmth it brings from head to toe, and the ache and burn her fangs cause by plunging into your flesh. Vi shudders as your blood hits her tongue, and she's quick to soothe the bite with her tongue before focusing on her own pleasure. Her thrusts are a little more clumsy now, quick and rough. She mutters against your shoulder, though given her teeth are still imbedded into your skin, leaves her words intelligible. You're sensitive, yet can still feel your cunt flutter around her cock in spasms to keep her going. It doesn't take long for Vi to meet her own end, and she comes with a deep groan against your shoulder.

Her knot forces its way in, earning a whimper from your throat at the extra and final stretch your walls are forced to accommodate. Vi's cock pulses, releasing thick and warm ropes of her seed into you. None of it leaks, not with the plug her knot acts as, settling deep in your womb— much like she had promised. It's a full minute before she ceases the slow rut of her hips and stills completely, and finally, she releases your shoulder and leans back to sit up on her knees.

It's an uncomfortable position, the one you two will be stuck in for a long while, so Vi settles for at least lowering your hips so that your stomach meets the mattress. Her thumb traces the indents of her teeth, wiping away the blood that still drips.

"We'll be here a while," She states, drawing a deep breath into her lungs before leaning down again. She exhales against your cheek and nuzzles her own over it, causing a slight shiver from you. "So get comfortable."