#vi fic

Vi shakes her head, pink hair falling across her forehead. "Nah. My brain won't shut up tonight."

"Wanna talk about it?"

She's quiet for a long moment. I've learned that with Vi, silence doesn't mean she's shutting me out. It means she's building the words, stacking them like bricks until they form something she can hand to me without it crumbling.

"Just thinking about old stuff," she finally says. "Before."

I know what that means. Before me. Before she got out and all the chaos that followed. There's a whole chunk of Vi's life that she's only given me in fragments—small pieces she's deemed safe enough to share. I've never pushed. I just waited patiently.

"Anything specific?" I shift onto my side to face her fully, matching her position. The sheets rustle between us.

She laughs, but it's hollow. "Specific. Yeah. I guess you could say that." Her hand stops its tracing and rests flat on my shoulder. "Stillwater."

The word lands like a stone. I've heard the name, of course. Everyone in Zaun knows Stillwater Hold. The place where they send the ones they want to break. The place where they send the ones they want to forget.

"You don't have to—" I start.

"No, I want to." She cuts me off, not harshly, just firmly. "I want you to know. All of it."

I nod and settle deeper into my pillow, giving her my full attention. The room feels smaller now, more intimate, like we're the only two people in all of Zaun.

"I was fifteen when they threw me in there," Vi begins, her eyes fixed somewhere past me, into the past. "Fifteen, and I already had a record a mile long. But Stillwater... that was different. That was meant to be the end of me."

My chest tightens. Fifteen. When I was fifteen, I was stealing food to survive and getting into fights I couldn't win. But I never went to Stillwater. I was lucky.

"First thing they did was take everything," Vi continues, her voice dropping into a monotone. "My clothes, my dignity, my name. I wasn't Vi anymore. I was just a number."

Her jaw tightens, and I watch the muscle flex under her skin. She's not crying. Vi doesn't cry easily. But I can see the storm behind her eyes, the one she's been holding back for years.

"The guards... they had this thing they'd do. Called it 'orientation.'" She makes air quotes with her free hand. "They'd bring in the new ones, line us up, and pick one. Just one. To make an example of."

I feel my stomach drop. "Vi..."

"I was the pick." She says it flatly, like she's reading a report. "First day. They dragged me into a room, three of them, and they beat me until I couldn't stand. Broke two of my ribs. My left hand—" she holds it up, and I've seen the scars, the crooked knuckles that never healed right. "Told me that was how it was gonna be. That I was nothing. That I'd always be nothing."

My eyes are burning. I blink rapidly, trying to keep it together. This isn't about me. This is about her, about holding the space.

"I learned real fast," Vi goes on, "that crying made it worse. Begging made it worse. Fighting back made it worse—but at least that way, I got to feel like I was doing something." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "I fought back a lot."

"Of course you did," I whisper. Because that's who Vi is. Even when she's down, even when she's broken, she's still swinging.

"First year was the worst," she says. "I was small. Still growing. Not that it mattered, because the food was garbage, and I was always hungry. Always cold. The cells were damp, and the blankets were thin, and the sound of the doors slamming—" She stops, takes a breath before continuing:

"The guards, they had their favorites," Vi continues. "One in particular. Greasy bastard with a mustache and a ring on every finger. He'd find any reason. Any excuse. Looked at me wrong. Breathed too loud. Walked too fast. And he'd drag me to the isolation wing and just... let loose."

Her hand clenches on my shoulder, and I feel the tension radiating through her entire body. I want to reach out, to hold her, but I know better. Right now, she needs to get this out. She's been carrying it alone for so long.

"He broke my nose twice," she says. "I can still feel it sometimes. The crunch. The blood. The way it felt to swallow my own teeth. But I never gave him the satisfaction of screaming. Not once. I'd just lie there and stare at the ceiling and count the cracks until he got bored."

A tear slips down my cheek. I can't help it. The image of Vi—my Vi, my strong, resilient, beautiful Vi—as a terrified teenager, alone and beaten in that hellhole...

"Hey." Her voice softens, and her hand moves from my shoulder to my face, thumb brushing the tear away. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm right here."

"I know," I manage, but my voice cracks. "I know, I just—"

"I didn't tell you this to make you cry." She's almost smiling now. "I told you because I want you to understand. All of it. The good and the ugly."

I take a shaky breath. "Tell me more. Please. I want to hear it all."

She studies me for a moment, searching for something. Whatever she finds, she seems satisfied with.

"There was this one time," she says slowly, "maybe six months in. I'd gotten into it with another inmate. Not my fault—he was trying to take my food. I was protecting what was mine. But the guards didn't see it that way."

Her eyes go distant again.

"They put me in the box. That's what we called it. Solitary. A cell so small you couldn't even lie down all the way. No light. No sound. No nothing. Just you and your own head." She shudders. "I was in there for three weeks."

"Three weeks?" The words come out strangled.

"Three weeks," she confirms. "I started talking to myself. Making up stories. Pretending I was somewhere else. I'd imagine Powder—" she stops, and I see a flicker of that familiar pain, the one that's always there when she mentions her sister, "—I'd imagine she was there with me. Telling me jokes. Singing those awful little songs she used to make up. It was the only thing that kept me from losing it completely."

I reach for her hand, and she lets me. Our fingers interlace, and I feel the calluses, the scars, the history written in her skin.

"Then one day, the mustache guy showed up," Vi continues. "He dragged me out of the box, threw me on the floor, and told me I was being moved. To the general population again. But not before he got his 'goodbye' in."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"He beat me so bad I couldn't walk for a week. Another inmate had to help me to the bathroom. Some old guy. He was in for stealing from Piltover merchants. Could barely see out of one eye, but he had the gentlest hands. Changed my bandages. Made sure I ate." She squeezes my fingers. "There were good people in there too. People who kept each other alive."

"Did you ever..." I pause, not sure how to phrase it. "Did you ever think you wouldn't make it out?"

Vi's quiet for a long moment. The neon from outside shifts, painting her face in deep purple now.

"Yeah," she says softly. "A few times. That first year, mostly. And then after... after everything with Powder. After I'd been in there for a while and started to think maybe she'd forgotten me. Maybe everyone had." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I thought about just... giving up. Letting them win. Would've been easier."

"But you didn't."

"No," she agrees. "And I don't know why. I don't have some grand reason. I just... couldn't." She looks at me then, really looks, and I see the intensity there. "I guess I had to believe there was something worth surviving for. Even if I didn't know what it was yet."

The tears are falling freely now, and I don't bother to wipe them away. I don't care. She can see me cry. She's seen me at my worst, and she stayed.

"Vi..." I can barely get the word out.

"Hey..." She shifts closer, and suddenly her forehead is against mine, her breath warm on my lips. "I'm not telling you this to make you sad. I'm telling you because I trust you. Because you're the first person in years who's made me feel like maybe all that suffering was worth it."

"Me?" I whisper.

"Yeah." She pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's a vulnerability in her eyes I've never seen before. "You. Who else would sit here at three in the morning and listen to me talk about all this shit? Who else would look at me like I'm something worth keeping around, even after hearing the worst parts?"

I laugh, but it comes out watery. "Vi, you're the strongest person I've ever met. All that stuff you went through—it made you who you are. And who you are is someone I fell in love with."

She blinks, and I think I see the glimmer of moisture in her eyes too. But she's Vi, so she deflects with a smirk. "Fell in love with me, huh?"

"Shut up," I say, but I'm laughing now. "I'm trying to be sincere."

"Sorry, sorry." She grins, and it's genuine, lighting up her whole face. "Please, continue pouring your heart out to this big butch who definitely didn't just spend an hour trauma-dumping on you."

"You're such an ass."

I shove her shoulder, but she catches my hand and pulls me into her. We land in a tangle of limbs and sheets, and I end up with my head on her chest, listening to the steady thump of her heart. It's the most reassuring sound in the world—proof that she survived. Proof that she's here. Proof that I get to keep her.

"Thank you," I whisper into the fabric of her tank top. "For telling me."

"Thank you for listening." Her arms wrap around me, solid and warm. "I know it's heavy. But I wanted you to know. I don't want secrets between us."

We lie there in silence for a while. I can feel every breath she takes, the rise and fall of her chest beneath my cheek. Her fingers find their way into my hair, combing through it in a rhythm that's almost hypnotic.

"I could have been you," I say quietly. "If things had gone different. I was close. A few times."

"I know," she says. "That's part of why I love you. You get it. You get the whole... fighting-to-survive thing. The hunger. The fear. The anger. You don't look at me like I'm broken. You look at me like I'm just... me."

"Because you are," I say fiercely. "You're not broken, Vi. You're not what they tried to make you. You survived, and you built something new out of the pieces. That's not broken. That's remarkable."

She's quiet, and then I feel her breath hitch, just slightly. A tiny crack in the armor.

"Baby," she says, and her voice is rough.

"I'm serious," I say, propping myself up to look at her. Her eyes are bright, and I know she's holding back tears now. "I don't love you in spite of all that shit. I love you because of it. Because you went through hell and you came out the other side still capable of kindness. Still capable of love. Still capable of being soft with me when no one else gets to see that side of you."

A tear slips down her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away. "Fuck," she mutters. "This isn't—I wasn't trying to make you cry, and now I'm crying, and this is so stupid—"

"Vi." I cup her face in my hands, holding her gaze. "It's not stupid. It's real. You're real. And I'm not going anywhere."

She lets out a shaky breath, and then she's pulling me down into a kiss that tastes like salt and feels like a promise. Her lips are warm, insistent, and I pour everything I have into it—all my love, all my admiration, all my fierce, protective tenderness.

When we break apart, we're both breathing a little heavily.

"Okay," she says, her voice steadier now. "Okay. That was... good. That was really good."

"Yeah," I agree. "It was."

She grins, and it's like watching the sun come out. "So, uh, I guess I'm done with the whole 'traumatic backstory' part of the evening. You got anything to share? Try to top Stillwater, I dare you."

I laugh. "I don't think I can top Stillwater. But I could tell you about the time I stole a hextech battery and almost blew up a Piltover warehouse."

"Ooh, I'm listening."

I settle back against her chest, and she adjusts her arms around me. The neon outside has shifted again, now a soft pink that matches her hair.

"I was seventeen," I begin. "Dumb, hungry, and desperate. There was this job..."

She laughs, and the sound vibrates through her chest into my cheek. I feel her relax beneath me, the last of the tension draining away.

And I know that this is what surviving is for. This moment. This warmth. This love. The fact that I get to hold her, and she gets to hold me, and we're both still here, still fighting, still choosing each other every single day.

Outside, Zaun hums on. Inside, we breathe together. And that's enough. That's more than enough.

I was nervous. I didn't say it, but she knew. Vi always knew. She was stretched out on my bed, propped on her elbows, the muscles in her forearms carved and taut. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, striping her body in gold and shadow. She watched me with those blue-gray eyes, patient, unwavering. There was no pressure in her gaze, only invitation.

"You're thinking too loud," she said, her voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down my spine.

I laughed, short and breathless. "I'm always thinking."

"I know. It's one of the reasons why I love you."

The word landed like a punch to my sternum—good and solid. We hadn't said it much, but when we did, it was like signing a treaty. I crossed the room, my boots heavy on the hardwood. I stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down at her. She was all sharp angles and soft curves—a contradiction I wanted to map with my hands.

Being a service top wasn't a role I'd chosen—it was just what I felt pulling at me, even if I'd barely had the chance to prove it yet. I didn't have the vocabulary or the confidence down cold. I was still figuring out where to put my hands, how to read the room, when to push and when to pause. But what I did know was this: I didn't need to receive. Or maybe I didn't know how to ask yet. Either way, my pleasure was the echo of hers—and God, I wanted to hear that echo clearly. Her hitched breath, the arch of her back, the way her fingers twisted in sheets like she was holding on for dear life—those were the things I was aching to learn. I wanted to earn every gasp, every tremble, every surrender. Not because I was good at it yet. But because I wanted to be. For her.

I unbuckled my belt slowly, letting the leather slide through the loops. Vi's eyes tracked the movement. Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. I'd been dreaming of this for weeks—the weight of the harness, the cool silicone against my skin, the way it would make me feel like I was exactly where I belonged: between her thighs, serving her.

"You sure?" I asked, because I had to.

She reached up and grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling me down until my forehead touched hers. "I've never been more sure of anything."

That was all I needed.

I stripped off my shirt, then my jeans—slowly, partly stalling. My fingers fumbled with the buttons. The harness was already waiting on the nightstand, a thing of black leather and polished buckles. I picked it up. Heavier than I expected—or maybe that was just my hands shaking. Beneath the nerves, something stirred. Not dominance. I hadn't earned that. But devotion? Yes. Clumsy, desperate, trembling devotion. The kind that tripped over itself, just to get it right for her.

Vi sat up, her own shirt falling from her shoulders. She was all lean muscle and soft skin, a thin scar running along her ribs from a childhood accident she'd never talked about. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to kiss every inch of her.

I took her hand and pressed my lips to her knuckles, one by one. Her breath stuttered.

"Tell me what you want," I murmured against her skin, with a confidence I wasn't sure was real.

"I want to feel you," she said. "All of you."

I nodded. That was the blueprint. I'd build the rest as we went.

I stepped into the harness and cinched it tight. I attached the dildo—medium, curved, not too intimidating—and the silicone was cool against my belly. I took a moment to adjust, to settle into the weight of it. It wasn't about me; it never was. But it transformed me. My spine straightened, my shoulders rolled back. I wasn't confident—not yet—but I was ready. Or ready enough.

Vi lay back, and I crawled onto the bed, bracketing her hips with my knees. I leaned down, my hands braced on either side of her head. She smelled like sandalwood and sweat. Her neck was exposed, vulnerable, and I lowered my mouth to that pulse point, feeling it hammer against my tongue.

"You're so beautiful," I whispered.

She laughed, a throaty sound. "You're biased."

"I'm accurate."

I took my time. This wasn't a race. I kissed the hollow of her throat, the dip of her collarbone, the soft skin beneath her breast. Her nipples were dark, pebbled, and I circled one with my tongue, then the other, while my hand traced the ridge of her hip. She shuddered. Her fingers threaded through my short hair, pulling me closer.

I moved lower, dragging my lips down the flat plane of her stomach. She was already wet—I could smell it, that heady, musky scent that made my mouth water. But I didn't go there yet. I kissed the inside of her thigh, the sensitive skin behind her knee. She twitched, a laugh escaping her.

And I smiled. I filed it away, another piece of her I'd exploit later. But then, I was building. Every kiss was a brick. Every sigh was mortar. I wanted her to feel worshipped.

Finally, I settled between her legs. She was spread open for me, pink and glistening. My warm breath touched her clit and she arched her hips, humming.

I rewarded her with a slow, flat lick—bottom to top. She tasted like salt and honey. I moaned without meaning to, and the vibration made her gasp. I lapped at her like I was starving, like she was the only thing keeping me alive. Her fingers twisted the sheets. Her thighs tightened around my ears. Her low moans were delicious—I almost lost it myself, just from the sound.

"There," she panted. "Right there."

I worked her with my mouth, building a rhythm, letting her ride my face. She was so close—I could feel the flutter of her muscles, the quickening of her breath. But I pulled back just before she crested.

She whimpered in protest. I crawled up her body, the strap-on brushing against her thigh. I was dripping with her, my chin slick.

"Not yet," I said. "I want to be inside you."

Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She nodded, biting her lip.

I reached for the lube—maybe too much, but better safe than sorry. I slicked the silicone, warming it between my fingers, trying to remember everything I'd read, watched, imagined. Vi watched me, and I couldn't tell if she was mesmerized or just waiting for me to figure it out. I positioned myself, the tip pressing against her entrance, and my heart was hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it. Her legs hooked around my waist, and I thought, Okay. Here goes. Don't mess this up.

"Ready?" I whispered.

"Fuck yes."

I pushed in slowly. An inch. Two. Her mouth fell open, a silent O of pleasure. I stopped when I was halfway, giving her time to adjust. Her inner walls clenched around me, hot and tight. I swore I felt it in my own body—the pressure, the fullness. I closed my eyes, breathing through the phantom sensation.

"Okay?" I managed.

"More," she demanded.

So I gave her more. I sank in to the hilt, the harness pressing flush against her. She groaned—low, long—and I felt it echo through me. I held still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting myself feel every inch of this. Then I moved. Slow at first, testing. But something clicked—a rhythm I hadn't planned, but my body knew.

Slow thrusts. Deep. I angled my hips, searching for that spot I'd read about, and when I found it, she clawed at my back.

"Fuck—right there—don't stop—"

I didn't. I found a pace—steady, sure. Every roll of my hips asked the same thing: Like this? Right here? Her answers came in moans, in nails biting my shoulders, in the way she lifted to meet me. And I read every one of them. I wasn't guessing anymore. I was learning her in real time—and I was starting to feel like I actually belonged there.

I bent down to kiss her, swallowing her moans like they were mine to keep. Her tongue met mine, and I kissed her deeper, fiercer. I reached between us, thumb finding her clit, circling in time with my thrusts—and I had the rhythm now, I felt it. Her body tensed. Her legs started to shake. And I couldn't help it—I smiled against her mouth. Not because I was smug. Because I was there, doing this, and she was responding, and God, I wanted to see her fall apart. I wanted to catch every piece.

"I'm close," she gasped against my lips.

"Let go," I purred. "I've got you."

Her orgasm crashed through her like a wave. She arched off the bed, a keening cry ripping from her throat. I felt the spasms around me, rhythmic and pulsing, and I pushed deeper, riding her through it. She clenched and released, clenched and released, and I watched her face twist in ecstasy—the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

When she finally collapsed, limp and trembling, I pulled out slowly. She whimpered at the loss. I unfastened the harness and tossed it aside, then gathered her in my arms, pulling her against my chest. Her skin was damp. Her heart hammered against my ribs.

I was still hard... not physically, but something deeper. A bone-deep ache of satisfaction.

"That was…" she trailed off, breathless.

"Good?" I offered, voice smaller than I meant it to be. I was still catching my breath, still half-floating on what had just happened, but suddenly I needed to hear it—needed to know I hadn't just imagined the whole thing. My eyes searched hers, hungry for a sign, a nod, anything.

She laughed, a watery sound. "It was perfect."

I kissed her forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth—like I was tracing the shape of her approval. My reward was that smile. That rare, unguarded curve of her lips. My chest swelled. I buried my face in her neck and breathed her in.

"I love you," I said, and it was easier than I'd thought.

She looked up at me, those gray eyes soft and shining. "I know. I love you too."

We lay there as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the room in shades of amber and rose. She was curled into my side, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. I was still buzzing, a low hum of contentment.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

I didn’t think much of it. Vi tells me I’m beautiful all the time. I still don’t believe her—I probably never will—but I’ve learned to accept it the way you accept the sun rising. It just happens. It’s just true, even if I can’t see it myself.

But then she kissed me again. On the jaw, this time. Soft and lingering.

And then again. The corner of my mouth.

And then she stole my coffee and took a sip and handed it back with a smile that said I’m not done with you.

That was at 8:13 in the morning. By noon, she’d kissed me twelve times.

I know because I started counting.

The first few were innocent enough. The kind of kisses we exchange without thinking—a peck on the lips while passing in the hallway, a quick press of her mouth to my temple while I was answering emails. Normal. Domestic. The background radiation of our marriage.

But by the third one, I noticed something different. The way her hand lingered on my hip. The way her thumb traced small circles against my waistband. The way she pulled back slowly, like leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Vi,” I said, looking up from my laptop.

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being something.”

She just smiled and walked away, and I watched her go, and I felt something warm coil low in my stomach.

By the sixth kiss, I was distracted.

She cornered me in the laundry room. I was folding towels—boring, domestic, completely unsexy—and she pushed the basket aside and backed me against the dryer. Her hands slid up my chest. Her mouth found mine. And this kiss wasn’t innocent. This kiss had teeth. This kiss had tongue. This kiss lasted long enough for the dryer to finish its cycle and beep at us plaintively.

When she pulled back, I was breathless.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“You looked hot, folding towels.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

She kissed me again, quick, and then she was gone, and I was left standing in the laundry room with a pile of unfolded towels and a heartbeat that wouldn’t slow down.

By the ninth kiss, I was starting to lose my mind.

She caught me in the kitchen while I was making lunch. Her arms wrapped around me from behind, her hips pressing against mine, her mouth hot on the side of my neck. She sucked lightly—just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make me gasp.

“Violet.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m trying to make a sandwich.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

She wasn’t. But she also wasn’t helping. Her hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, fingers splaying wide. Her thumbs traced the waistband of my jeans. Her mouth never left my neck.

I dropped the knife. It clattered against the counter.

“We have plans today,” I said, my voice embarrassingly unsteady.

“We have time.”

“Powder is coming over later.”

“Not for hours.”

She turned me around, pinned me against the counter, and kissed me like she was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Her tongue slid against mine, slow and deliberate, and I made a sound—a stupid, desperate sound—and she swallowed it like it was exactly what she wanted to hear.

When she pulled back, her pupils were blown. Her lips were wet. She looked at me with that dark, hungry expression that I know so well.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

She grinned. “Is it working?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. She could see it on my face.

By the twelfth kiss, I broke.

We were in the bedroom. I don’t remember how we got there. One minute I was putting away laundry, and the next she was pushing me onto the bed, crawling over me, her thighs straddling my hips, her hands pinning my wrists above my head.

“You’ve been doing this all day,” I said, my voice rough.

“I know.”

“Why?”

She leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because every time I looked at you, I wanted to take you apart. Because you’re fucking beautiful, and I’m tired of pretending I have any self-control.”

That was it. That was the moment.

I flipped us over.

After that, it wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t the slow, careful lovemaking we do when we have time and intention and candlelight. This was something else. Something hungrier. Something that had been building since she first kissed my shoulder at 8:13 in the morning.

I pinned her down. Her hands above her head, my fingers laced through hers. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hips bucking up to meet mine.

“You wanted this,” I said, low against her throat. “All day. You wanted this.”

“Yeah.”

“You could have just said something.”

“This was more fun.”

I bit her collarbone. Hard. She arched beneath me, gasping, and I felt her nails dig into the backs of my hands.

“You’re so mean,” she breathed.

“You love it.”

“I love you. Now fucking do something about it.”

I took her shirt off. Then her sport bra. Then her jeans, her underwear, everything, until she was bare beneath me and the afternoon light was painting stripes across her skin. I took my time looking at her—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her stomach tightened when I dragged my fingers down it, the slick heat between her legs that made my mouth water.

“Babe.” Her voice was wrecked already. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. But I wanted to hear her say it.

I trailed my fingers lower. Slid through her—slowly, so slowly—and watched her eyes fall shut and her mouth fall open and her hips lift off the bed

“Like that?” I asked.

“Yes... Fuck, yes.”

I didn’t make her wait long. I couldn’t. Not when she was like this—needy and desperate and looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I slid two fingers inside her, and she cried out—loud, unashamed, the kind of sound that would have embarrassed her in our early days but now just made me want more. I curled my fingers, found the spot I knew by heart, and pressed.

“God...” she gasped.

I fucked her with my fingers, hard and fast, the way she likes when she’s like this. My thumb found her clit, pressing in tight circles, and she bucked beneath me, her hands fisting in the sheets, her breath coming in short, broken moans.

“You’re so wet,” I said. It wasn’t an observation. It was worship.

“Because of you,” she said. “Always because of you.”

She came first. Hard, shuddering, her whole body tightening around my fingers, my name torn out of her like a prayer. I watched her face—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes stayed locked on mine even as she fell apart.

“Fuck,” she whispered, when she could breathe again. “Fuck.”

“We’re not done.”

She laughed—breathless, broken. “I didn’t think we were.”

I pulled my fingers out slowly, and she whimpered at the loss. Then I shifted, settled between her legs, and lowered my mouth to her.

She screamed.

Not loudly—we have neighbors, and Powder was coming over later, and somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that we should probably be quiet. But the scream was there, muffled by her own hand clapped over her mouth, her hips bucking against my face.

I held her down with one arm across her hips and ate her like she was the last meal I’d ever have. My tongue on her clit, my fingers back inside her, the taste of her flooding my mouth. She was so wet, so warm, so mine.

“Baby,” she sobbed. “Baby, I’m going to—I can’t—please—”

I doubled down. Sucked hard. Curled my fingers deeper. And she came again, this one longer, harder, her whole body convulsing, her thighs clamping around my head, her hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and holding on like she was drowning.

I stayed there until she stopped shaking. Until her grip loosened. Until her breathing slowed from gasps to sighs.

Then I crawled up her body and kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

“Good?” I asked.

“You know it was,” she murmured.

“I know.”

She pushed me onto my back then. Her turn. Her mouth found my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. Her hands were everywhere—pushing up my shirt, yanking down my pants, sliding between my legs with an urgency that made me whimper.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” she said against my skin. “Do you know that? Every time you smiled. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me with those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“Your eyes. The ones that make me want to climb inside you and never leave.”

I laughed, but it turned into a moan when her fingers found me. I was already so wet, so ready, and she knew exactly what to do. Two fingers, then three. Her thumb on my clit. Her mouth on my nipple, sucking hard.

“Vi...”

“I’ve got you.”

She fucked me with her fingers the way I’d fucked her—hard, fast, relentless. Her palm slapped against my clit with every thrust, and the sound was obscene, wet and rhythmic, filling the room. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. All I could do was hold on to her shoulders and let her take me apart.

“Come for me,” she said. Not a request. A command.

And I did. I came so hard I saw stars, my back arching off the bed, a string of nonsense falling from my lips. She didn’t stop. She kept going, kept fucking me through it, until I was oversensitive and shaking and begging her to stop.

She stopped. Kissed my forehead. Pulled her fingers out slowly and sucked them clean, watching me with dark, satisfied eyes.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” she said.

“You’re so dirty.”

“You love it.”

I pulled her down and kissed her. Soft this time. Tender. The storm had passed, and now there was only the quiet aftermath—the slowing heartbeats, the cooling skin, the way she fit against my side like she’d been made to be there.

We lay there for a while, tangled in sweaty sheets, not speaking. The afternoon light had shifted, gone gold and long. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. In a few hours, Powder would ring the doorbell, and we’d put on clean clothes and act like normal people who hadn’t spent the better part of an hour fucking each other senseless.

But that was later. Right now, there was only this. Vi’s hand on my chest. Her breath warm against my neck. The weight of her leg thrown over mine.

“So,” she said eventually. “Today was good.”

I laughed. “Today was something.”

“I told you you looked attractive.”

“You say that every day.”

“Today I meant it extra.”

I turned my head to look at her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. There was a red mark on her collarbone where I’d bitten her. She looked wrecked and happy and thoroughly loved.

“I love you,” I said.

She kissed my shoulder. “I love you too. Even when you pretend not to know how hot you are.”

“I don’t pretend. I genuinely don’t see it.”

“That’s what makes it so hot.”

I groaned. She laughed. And then she kissed me again—soft, sweet, nothing like the desperate kisses from before.

But I felt the promise in it.

Later. There would be more later.

There was always more with Vi.

And I wouldn’t have it other way.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞