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bakubrattt · 23 days ago

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Every Inch of You is Mine

-Zayne x Reader

Zayne doesn’t drink. Ever. But when another man dares to offer you a glass of wine at a friend’s wedding, something in him snaps. What begins as a flicker of jealousy ignites into a night of drunken devotion; worshipful, possessive, and fevered. With every thrust a confession, every kiss a promise, every filthy praise whispered into your skin a desperate declaration of dominance and ownership, he makes one truth devastatingly clear: Every. Inch. Of you. Is his.

word count: 26k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, roleplay, oral sex, worship, squirting, pet names, drunk Zayne, soft dom Zayne, possessive Zayne, Zayne talking dirty

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The ballroom shimmered with dim, amber light, golden reflections from the chandeliers glinting off the curves of wine glasses and polished silverware. Soft jazz hummed from a live quartet in the corner, mellowing into the air beneath the low murmur of a hundred conversations. Laughter spilled near the open bar, where bottles glittered behind crystal decanters and neatly arranged flutes. It was night outside, but the world inside was glitz and warmth and velvet shadows.

You swayed slightly in your heels, your navy-colored dress hugging your curves as you lifted your wine glass and stepped into Zayne’s space with a tipsy, teasing grin. There was a playful flush to your cheeks, your lashes heavy with mascara as you fluttered them up at him—like you knew the effect you had.

“One little sip,” you coaxed sweetly, swirling the ruby liquid in your glass. Your voice was low and lazy, drunk on more than just wine, “please? At least for the sake of being on vacation together…And at your friend’s wedding, no less?”

Zayne glanced down at the glass as if it were offering him nothing but trouble in a crystal stem. His green eyes—sharp, restrained, and knowing—lingered on yours, unamused by your persuasion but deeply patient nonetheless. The noise around him blurred; there were eyes everywhere, familiar faces in suits and gowns—people from the medical world who knew his name, his reputation. And here you were, his gorgeous, flushed girlfriend, asking him to bend.

He sighed, ever the composed one, always so careful. Not because he judged, but because he weighed every choice like it was surgery. The wine wasn’t temptation to him—it never was. There was no allure in intoxication, no romanticized rebellion. He didn’t need it. He had control. He liked control.

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Zayne asked quietly, his voice warm but skeptical, a dry little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in. His hand lifted to gently pat down a stray hair at your temple, fingers careful not to disturb your make up.

“Yes!” You insisted with a breathless laugh, as if the answer were obvious. You batted your lashes again, unabashedly leaning toward him, your perfume sweet and dizzying, like a bouquet of jasmines in bloom, “it is, actually.”

Zayne watched as you tipped your wine glass back again, the crimson liquid sliding past your lips in a way that made something tighten low in his stomach. His gaze flicked over the elegant tilt of your throat as you swallowed, then down to the flushed pink creeping over your cheeks, blooming like warmth beneath the surface. You were glowing—soft around the edges, eyes slightly glazed, lined in smokey shadow and mischief. Your gaze caught his, glittering with the kind of playful defiance that always seemed to undo him.

“I don’t think it’s working,” he said flatly, though there was a flicker of amused fondness in his eyes.

His fingers reached for the fine gold chain at your neck—the one he had given you last Christmas, delicate and understated, chosen because it reminded him of you. He adjusted it with care, his knuckles brushing over the hollow of your collarbone, then lingered there for just a second longer than necessary, tracing a lazy path over the delicate skin where your pulse fluttered.

“You’re quite warm now…” He murmured as if stating a diagnosis, his thumb ghosting the dip of your shoulder, “are you drunk already? Isn’t it a bit too early in the night for that?” He looked back up at you, expression unreadable, voice low, “you don’t need to get me drunk too to have your way with me, you know.”

You let out a peal of laughter, the sound light and wicked as you slapped your hand gently to his chest—more a flirtatious pat than anything else. He felt it through the pressed fabric of his matching navy suit, right over his heart.

“I wasn’t even trying to have my way with you!” You teased, feigning innocence.

Your fingers traced downward, finding the edge of his silk tie. It was deep blue, perfectly knotted—of course—and smooth beneath your fingertip as you dragged it slowly, deliberately, feeling the tension hum between your bodies.

“Besides…” You whispered as you stepped into his space, rising onto your toes in those tall heels. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your breath warmed his skin, “I know you don’t need any convincing, or alcohol at all, to get in bed with me.”

Zayne gave a low, amused chuckle as he leaned in again, his voice brushing hot over your ear in a velvet murmur, “neither do you. In fact,” he paused, letting the words drip like honey into your bloodstream, “I’d wager that if I whispered I wanted to steal you away to our room right now, you’d beat me there barefoot.”

You gasped in mock offense, scandalized as you leaned back, eyes wide, “are you calling me needy?”

“Not at all, love,” he smiled, head tilting slightly as his fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, drifting down the elegant slope of your neck, so light it was more a sensation than contact. It sent a tremble chasing down your spine that you couldn’t hide—not from him. He saw the flutter of your lashes, the telltale dilation of your pupils, and his lips curled slowly as he pulled back just enough to drink in your expression, “I’m calling you my insatiably irresistible, drunk little minx.”

You let out a giggle, swatting at his chest with playful defiance as he booped your cheek with one smug fingertip, “I’m not even drunk! I’m just…Enthusiastic. Whatever. I’m gonna go dance.”

“Without me?” Zayne’s hand slipped gently around your forearm, stilling your spinning momentum before you could make your grand escape. He kept his grip feather-light but firm, guiding you subtly toward the flow of people beginning to gather at the impromptu dance floor where soft amber light spilled in golden pools across the floor. Just before you could disappear into the crowd, he pulled you back slightly, his body warm and close behind you as he ducked down, lips barely grazing your ear, “if I see a single man approach you, I won’t hesitate to make a scene and embarrass you with my allegedly stiff dance moves.”

You laughed aloud at that, turning in his arms to face him, your palm pressing fondly over the center of his chest, “what, like some kind of territorial mating ritual so everyone knows I’m yours? Would you at least come dance with me when it’s a slow song? You’re better than I am…”

Zayne sighed through the curl of a smile, his large hands sliding with practiced familiarity down the satin slope of your waist until they came to rest on your hips, “if my memory serves me correctly, at the last wedding we attended, you said I danced like a robot that needed his joints oiled.”

“I was kidding!” You whined, full of dramatic apology as your arms tightened slightly around his shoulders, “please, babe? Just for the slow songs. You’re really good at the waltz.”

He let you sway him—just a little—his gaze heavy with affection. He relented, brushing a thumb over your hipbone through the fabric of your dress, “okay…I’ll waltz with you. On one condition.”

You tilted your head like a curious kitten, “hmm?”

“Try not to step on my toes this time,” he teased, squeezing your waist gently in retaliation for the memory.

“No promises,” You rolled your eyes, grinning as you leaned in to meet the kiss he dipped to place on your lips. It was sweet. Light. A promise of more. It left your heart drumming softly beneath your ribs as you parted with a sparkle still in your eyes.

As you turned to make your way through the crowd, heels clicking quickly across the smooth ballroom floor, the lights and flashes of color blurred in vibrant streaks at the edges of your vision. The air was warm with bodies and music, filled with the sharp scent of wine and cologne, laughter mingling with classical strings and low percussion pulsing from the speakers. The room spun gently—not in dizziness, but in that fuzzy, mellow way wine draped itself across your senses. You were light on your feet, smiling to yourself as you slipped between groups of glittering guests, half-drunk, half-dreaming.

Your hand instinctively lifted the wine glass you’d forgotten you were still holding, a soft ah! Of realization escaping you. A last sip slipped past your lips, dry and velvety, just enough to warm your chest. Before reaching the dance floor, you turned on a whim and detoured toward the bar, weaving toward its polished surface to leave the empty glass behind and free your hands—one hand for the music, and one, soon, for Zayne.

You squeezed through the thick swell of bodies, shoulders brushing yours, the murmurs and laughter of strangers ringing just above the bass of the music. Every step felt like you were navigating through a warm, fragrant fog of perfume, cologne, and expensive hairspray. You bumped into people here and there—some too distracted to notice, others too drunk to care—and figured, by the loose, swaying gait of half the room, that everyone was just as intoxicated as you were. Maybe more.

As you reached the bar and leaned over the polished edge to set your empty wine glass down, a particularly rough nudge from behind jarred you forward a step. Your palm caught the bar for balance as your brows pulled together, spinning around to see who’d jostled you. A man—tall and unsteady on his feet—caught himself by the bar’s corner just in time. In front of him, a woman in glittery heels stumbled, laughing and apologizing profusely as he helped steady her by the elbow, waving it off with a chuckle. You shook your head. Figures. Everyone was a fucking mess.

But then the man turned—and your breath caught.

“…Y/n?”

“…David?”

“Is that you??” You both said in unison, your voices lifting over the music in shared disbelief.

David. An old friend from high school. Your mind flashed to his younger self: lanky frame, the soft rounding of teenage boyhood, the acne scars he always tried to hide. But the man before you was almost unrecognizable. His jaw was more angular now, framed by a subtle stubble that made his features seem sharper. His skin had cleared, his shoulders had broadened, and he carried himself with a confidence that hadn’t existed back then.

You both laughed as he swooped in and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug. The scent of his cologne was unfamiliar—clean and woodsy. He patted your backside in the casual, overfamiliar way old friends sometimes forget they shouldn’t. Your breath hitched. Right—your dress. It was backless. The sudden touch against your exposed skin startled you more than anything, and you jolted slightly, instinctively stepping back out of the embrace. But it wasn’t malicious. Not from him. Just careless.

“Oh man, I haven’t seen you in forever!” He grinned, his voice warm and full of nostalgia.

“I know!” You grinned back, smoothing your hair, “how have you been? Where have you been?”

You both slipped into an easy rhythm, the kind that only old familiarity could provide—no awkward small talk, just a slow unspooling of updates stitched with laughter. The two of you leaned slightly over the bar as you caught up in the muted golden glow of the ballroom lights, voices occasionally rising over the thrum of bass and laughter. Apparently, David had become a college professor over the years—at a school overseas with a big name, no less. You weren’t surprised. He’d always been sharp. Driven. The kind of kid who sat front row and took notes in a perfectly organized color-coded system.

You smiled, genuinely happy for him, “of course you did.”

And when you told him what you did now—that you’d become a Hunter—his brows shot up in impressed amusement. But again, no surprise. He looked at you like the puzzle had always been there; he just hadn’t realized the final piece would fit so…Perfectly.

“Let me get you a drink,” he offered with a smile that was both casual and eager.

“Oh, it’s okay,” you waved him off politely, lifting your hand with the grace of someone trying to avoid adding fuel to their fuzzy head, “I just finished a whole glass of wine, but thanks.”

“Aw, c’mon!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated protest, his voice teasing, light, “don’t tell me you’re a lightweight! One glass of wine is nothing.”

But you had three.

He leaned in just a bit, mischief in his grin, “look, it’s on me. If you can’t finish it, I’ll finish it for you. Deal?”

It sounded tempting. Especially with how warm and light the air felt around you, the soft sway of music, the glimmer of chandelier light dusting the tops of everyone’s heads like powdered gold.

“For old time’s sake,” he added, holding up a hand in mock surrender, “I’m just happy to bump into an old friend.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was easy, familiar, harmless. And besides, what was one more?

“…Okay, fine,” you relented with a smile, lifting a playful finger at him, “but just one. And make it quick!”

He flagged down the bartender with an easy flick of his hand, the overhead lights catching on his watch as he leaned slightly over the counter. You both exchanged playful protests over who would pay for yours, but he was quicker, sliding his card across the glossy bar top before you could even reach for yours. You clicked your tongue in defeat, shaking your head with a grin as he gave you a smug little shrug that hadn’t changed since high school.

While waiting, you both chatted more—his cadence still animated, his stories laced with that same self-assuredness you remembered from years ago. Eventually, the bartender returned with two neat glasses of wine, the ruby liquid glowing warmly under the ballroom lights as it swirled.

David lifted his glass and smiled, “to friendship?”

“To friendship,” you echoed, the clink of glass against glass clear and delicate between your fingers.

You brought the drink to your lips, hesitating. Your lips barely brushed the rim before you pulled away, grimacing at the dryness that tried to creep down your throat.

“I’m gonna sip at it,” you smiled sheepishly, swirling the wine in its glass, watching the garnet ripples catch the reflections of chandeliers above, “don’t wanna get too fucked up, you know?”

“And that’s why nobody’s driving,” he said, shrugging, “don’t be shy, I won’t make fun of you if you say something stupid.”

“I’m not that drunk,” you declared with emphasis, though your laugh betrayed you, soft and tipsy as it spilled from your lips.

The warm buzz of alcohol dulled the edges of the music, the chatter, and even your own thoughts. You leaned slightly against the bar without realizing it, one hand loosely curled around the half-full glass of wine you’d forgotten to keep sipping. The ballroom pulsed with life around you—distant laughter, clinking glasses, shoes scuffing against marble floors as couples spun lazily to the rhythm of whatever was playing now. The haze of your intoxication softened the room like gauze over a lens, and the vague recollection that you’d been on your way to dance barely flickered in your mind before fading again.

Catching up with David felt like a pocket of stillness in the blur. He hadn’t changed as much as you’d thought—not really. He still talked with that familiar cadence, still gestured with the same flicks of his fingers, still laughed a half-second before the punchline like he was always trying to charm the ending out of every sentence. For a moment, it felt like you were seventeen again, bumping into him between class periods, waving at him and his girlfriend as they held hands by the lockers.

Apparently, that chapter had ended not long after high school. You let him vent a little—more than a little, actually. His words started to stretch and meander, his tone growing heavier, tinged with an introspective bitterness that he seemed almost too eager to pour out. He talked about the break-up, about how it didn’t work out, about how he hadn’t really dated seriously since. You nodded, murmuring the occasional “that sucks” or “I’m sorry to hear that,” but your focus drifted.

You glanced vaguely around the crowded room, squinting toward where you thought your table had been. But it was too far, too busy, too disorienting in the swirl of bodies and dim lights. Zayne was probably deep in conversation with his colleagues. Doctors tended to talk like they were trying to solve the world’s problems all in one night, and you figured he hadn’t noticed your absence yet.

David kept talking. And talking. You smiled gently, sympathetically, even as unease crept up the back of your neck. It was starting to feel…Odd. The way he lingered on the subject of romance, the way his voice dropped into something almost confessional. It wasn’t inappropriate. Just…Off. Like there was something he was inching toward but hadn’t quite said. You waited for a lull, a breath, anything that would give you room to pivot the conversation.

“You know,” he said suddenly, eyes lingering a bit too long, “I’m really happy I ran into you. You were always a really cool friend growing up.”

Relief washed over you like a quick breeze, sweeping away the brief tension when he called you that.

“You too,” you grinned, giving him a light punch on the shoulder, playful and familiar.

“I was thinking…” David began, voice casual, almost too casual as he swirled the wine in his glass, “we should hang out sometime, yeah? There’s a ton I gotta catch you up on still. Not tonight, though, it’s way too loud in here.”

You gave a polite nod, the kind that didn’t mean yes, but didn’t risk seeming rude either. It was the kind of nod you gave acquaintances, people who belonged to an old world that no longer had any claim on you. He didn’t know your life now. Didn’t know Zayne. And frankly, you didn’t want to hang out with a man who wasn’t your boyfriend. Especially not a straight man you hadn’t spoken to in years. It wasn’t that David had said or done anything explicitly wrong. But there was a reason your stomach twisted. A reason your skin itched with discomfort that no amount of polite smiling could shake. You’d never fully trusted straight men. Not really. Not their timing. Not their friendliness. Not their sudden reappearances cloaked in nostalgia.

“Maybe we can have a coffee or something sometime,” he offered with a shrug, like it was casual. Harmless, “see if there’s anything there.”

For a moment, your wine-hazed mind blinked blank. Your thoughts paused on the wording, dull at first, then sharpening: anything there.

“Hm?” You tilted your head, unsure you’d heard right, or maybe just hoping you hadn’t.

“Get to know each other again,” he clarified, and there it was—that subtle lean-in, just a degree too familiar, too close for comfort, “get to know each other a little better. I’m interested in you. I always thought you were pretty, but I had a girlfriend back then…Now I can actually admit it.”

Eek. Everything came to a screeching halt. The air between you and David, once filled with casual nostalgia, now felt heavy—like a door had slammed shut behind you and locked from the outside. Your body stiffened instinctively, guard shooting straight up as your heart gave a dry thump of discomfort. Yikes. So much for a friendly catch-up. You blinked, mind scrambling to replay the conversation from the beginning—was this what he meant the whole time?

You’d genuinely thought this was just two old friends running into each other at a wedding, swapping memories and light laughter over drinks. But now, the laughter felt tainted. Retroactively dishonest. There was a quiet, creeping disappointment curling up in your chest—because you’d really believed it was genuine. You kind of wished he would’ve said something upfront, rather than wait until you’d accepted a drink. Now it just felt…Sleazy. Like being baited. Trapped. Like he’d dressed up the whole interaction in the safe costume of “friendship,” only to tear it off at the end.

“O-oh,” you stuttered, trying to keep your voice steady despite the chill crawling over your skin, “I have a boyfriend. Sorry…”

You watched his brow twitch ever so slightly—just enough to register. He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something clipped about it, restrained. Something like irritation behind the curve of his smile as he gestured at your nearly empty drink.

“My bad,” he said, his tone suddenly lighter, too light, “I assumed you were single when you accepted a drink from me.”

Your stomach turned. There it was. That quiet snap in the air that confirmed what you were afraid of: this had never been about friendship.

“…I thought this was just a friendly catch-up like you said,” you replied, voice lower now, the amusement drained from your tone as your expression shifted, more guarded, more real. Your gaze met his directly, and you didn’t blink, “right?”

Before David could even open his mouth to respond, you felt it—a shift in the air, a warm pressure at your side, followed by the grounding sound of a familiar voice that pulled you like a tether snapping back to safety.

“Love,” Zayne’s voice was velvety and firm, as he slid into the moment like it belonged to him—because it did. Without hesitation, he reached past you and plucked the half-full glass of wine from your hand, his fingers brushing yours as he added, almost lazily, “I said I didn’t want any.”

You blinked, stunned. The atmosphere around you seemed to freeze. Time slowed, bent around the gravity of what Zayne did next. He lifted the glass to his lips—fluid, composed, with the kind of casual command that felt utterly unreal. Your jaw went slack. Pigs were flying. Somewhere, the Earth tilted off its axis. Zayne Li, your rule-bound, teetotaler, rational-to-a-fault boyfriend—drank. And not just sipped. Downed it. In a single gulp. Like he’d done it a million times before.

But then you saw it—just a flicker, a betraying twitch at the corner of his lips, the barest wince he almost masked but didn’t quite. That was the truth. Zayne didn’t drink.

“But I’d rather me than you,” he said calmly, slipping his long fingers around the exposed small of your back with a touch so familiar it made you shiver.

In the next breath, he set the glass down on the bar with a soft clink, nudging your body into his orbit, gently but firmly moving you away from David and into him. His presence did the talking. It was territorial. Intentional. Possessive.

“You’re drunk. I don’t want you getting a hangover in the morning when we go somewhere for breakfast,” he added smoothly, “but I brought the IV infusion in case you need me to administer a quick treatment when we get ready to start the day…Together.”

Oh, that sly, calculating bastard. The message couldn’t have been clearer if he’d shouted it into a microphone: you were his. Not just romantically—intimately. Completely. The kind of love bound not only by desire but by duty. He wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was your doctor. Your protection. Your boundary. Your wall, and he wanted David to know it.

Zayne had been looking for you—wondering why you weren’t out on the dance floor when he’d gone to check. And when he saw you by the open bar, trapped in a conversation with another man, body language closed off, tension in your shoulders—you didn’t need to say a word. He understood. And in classic Zayne fashion, he didn’t confront with drama. He made a statement. Unshakable. Quietly devastating. Surgical. And sure, he’d probably regret drinking the wine later. It would hit his bloodstream like fire. But right then? Right then, it didn’t matter. Because in that moment, Zayne did exactly what he needed to do. He claimed you.

“She doesn’t metabolize alcohol well. Gets a bit mischievous. I just handle the aftercare,” Zayne replied with effortless composure, his voice smooth as satin, yet carrying a quiet authority that cut through the noise of the ballroom like a scalpel through silk. He extended his hand toward the other man, graceful and steady, the gesture formal yet layered in subtle dominance, “Zayne. I’m her boyfriend and her primary care physician…And you are? An old classmate, I presume?”

The way he said it—an old classmate—sounded less like an inquiry and more like a categorization. A label. Something filed away with zero importance. Zayne had always wielded his words like scalpels: careful, clinical, cutting. This wasn’t just a greeting. It was a boundary, delivered with charm.

David paused as he accepted the handshake. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered down, catching the Evol scars carved across Zayne’s pale knuckles and wrists—those faint, jagged reminders of a power too immense to fully control. The flash of discomfort that passed over David’s face didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the small, almost defensive lift of his chest.

“…Oh! David,” he replied, managing a nod, clearly trying to compose himself, “nice to meet you, Zayne. I’m an old friend from her childhood, we go wayyy back! So, how’d you two meet? You uh, break some code of ethics? Kidding, kidding!” His laughter was light, but forced, a bit too loud, his hands raised in mock surrender as if trying to disarm a landmine he just stepped on.

“Old friend from her childhood,” Zayne repeated, a sliver of amusement curling at the corners of his lips. He turned to you then, his hand gliding from your lower back, possessive but gentle, curling protectively around your hip, pulling you in close. You felt the warmth of him settle through the thin material of your dress, his quiet pride in the gesture humming through his touch, “we also go way back…”

“No way!” David exclaimed, his tone exaggerated, cheerful, strained, “did we all go to school together or something? I don’t really remember you, man.”

“No,” Zayne’s reply was crisp, yet unbothered, delivered with clinical precision, “if you were in the same grade as Y/n, I’m five years your senior.”

“Ahhh!” David let out a loud, drawn-out laugh, his tone smug as he nodded exaggeratedly, eyes squinting in a wink that turned your stomach. He leaned in, just a little too close, with that strange, frat-boy playfulness that had no place in your shared history—let alone in the moment, “I see you like ’em a little older, huh?”

The words were oil on water—unsettling, tone-deaf, and utterly transparent. You cringed. But before Zayne could land what you knew would’ve been a devastating verbal blow, you stepped in yourself.

“I really do,” you cut in sharply, your hand sliding instinctively over Zayne’s abdomen—warm through the fabric of his suit, familiar and grounding. You leaned in against his side, letting your weight rest there as a shield, a statement. The irritation in your voice was barely smothered by the playful sweetness you laced into your tone, a sweetness reserved only for him, “okay, I’m officially drunk, now…You wanna whisk me away and take advantage of me?”

Zayne exhaled through his nose in a sigh—not annoyed, just exasperated in that quiet, affectionate way only he could manage when it came to you. He knew you’d said it to scream even louder that you were his, and he gladly played along. He nodded once and began to guide you gently, a large hand secure at your lower back as he maneuvered you through the crowd.

“I promised you a dance, so at least allow me that first. I’m a gentleman,” he said, calm as ever. But his next words cut sharp and dry, cool as steel as he offered David an aloof, almost bored nod, “nice to meet you, Darren. Now, please excuse us.”

“It’s David!” The man called after the two of you, but it was too late. You were already moving away, heels clicking lightly over the polished ballroom floor as Zayne’s tall form shepherded you with effortless finesse.

God. Your insides buzzed—not just from the wine or the awkward confrontation, but from everything. From the way David made your skin crawl. From the way Zayne’s presence doused every bad feeling with a single steadying touch. From the lingering memory of that glass in Zayne’s hand—how smoothly, shockingly, he’d taken the drink straight from you and downed it. Even drunk, that detail stood out like a lighthouse in the storm. Zayne didn’t drink. Ever. Not willingly. Not for anything. And yet…He had. You didn’t even have time to question it. Because the look in his eye? The sharp line of his jaw, the cold calm of his tone, the tension in his hand as it cradled your waist? Zayne was on one.

“What a persistent, bothersome little man,” Zayne muttered, his voice low and tight like it was wrapped in a leash he was barely keeping on.

You could feel the frustration humming beneath his skin, pulsing under the warmth of his arm around you. It wasn’t often you saw Zayne rattled like this—he was the embodiment of composure, always. But a man pestering you? That was one of the rare triggers that flipped something primal in him. His protectiveness wasn’t loud or brutish. It was sharp like a scalpel, cold like ice.

He exhaled with quiet restraint, his jaw tight, “what did he want? Or rather, let me rephrase—what did he portray his intention to be, initially? Some friendly catch-up that he absolutely wasn’t using as a guise to try to court you?” There was dry venom in his voice, a flash of disdain that darkened his usually calm gaze, “I’d laugh, if I didn’t mind so much that someone tried to take advantage of your drunken state.”

“Honey, hold on a sec,” you interrupted gently, pressing your palm flat to his chest. His warmth grounded you instantly, even through the heavy buzz still melting your edges. You tugged him close enough that he had to dip his head to meet your eyes, and your gaze sharpened as you searched his face, “you just drank alcohol. You know that, right? Alcohol.”

He sighed, and his fingers reflexively curled around your wrist, protective even in this. His voice dropped lower, softer, only for you, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No no, don’t apologize,” you said quickly, thumb brushing against the fabric of his suit as you shook your head, still trying to fully compute what you had witnessed, “you know I don’t mind…I’m just surprised. You don’t drink. At all. Ever. What happened back there, anyway?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. If anything, they only grew more intense—more focused, more unreadably full, “I’m apologizing because I made a decision fueled by emotion instead of logic. I saw you drinking alcohol from another man. I didn’t think. I just acted…There could’ve been something in it. And you’re already drunk, on top of that.”

“How come you didn’t just put the glass away at the bar or something?” You asked, voice soft but laced with that pointed curiosity you always used when you were trying to pull the truth gently from Zayne without cornering him.

He blinked, looking genuinely caught off guard by the simplicity of the question, like it hadn’t even registered as a possibility until now, “I—…I don’t even know, honestly,” his brows drew together, faintly furrowed in reflection, “but you’re right. I should’ve just done that…I don’t know why I didn’t. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking.”

You nodded slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, observing him. That checked out. It wasn’t like Zayne to make decisions without deliberate thought, but that was the thing—you unraveled him. It was a kind of unraveling that didn’t come with chaos, but with raw, powerful instinct. And sometimes, even for a man as logical and self-contained as Zayne, instinct overrode reason.

You figured it was something deeper than his usual rational mind could explain. A primal flicker of ownership, maybe. A protective surge. Something older than logic. Something human. You’d always known you were the only thing capable of shaking his composure. And now there he was, shaken—not by fear, not by danger, but by the overwhelming cocktail of possessiveness, concern, and love. Even Zayne, with all his guarded elegance and restraint, wasn’t immune to that.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” you murmured, grounding your palm on his upper arm. The steady heat of his lean muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his sleeve comforted you. He was so warm. Always so warm, “you’re human. It’s okay. Besides…” You leaned in on your toes, brushing your lips close to his ear as you grinned against the shell of it, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper, “…We both already know what to expect when you’re drunk.”

He let out a low chuckle—one that curled at the edges with something warmer than amusement. The tips of his ears went red, visibly reddening in that way they only ever did when a particular memory hit him right between the ribs. And God, you knew exactly which one it was. That night. That infamous night, a couple years ago—when he’d gotten drunk off a single chocolate-infused candy, the alcohol melting past his near-zero tolerance and unshackling every boundary of restraint he had kept so tightly around himself. The way he’d carried you to bed that night still lingered in the way he sometimes kissed you with aching intensity, like he could remember exactly how it felt to give in after months of denial.

It was the night Zayne lost his virginity to you. And he had done it like a man starved. Reverent. Fervent. Desperate to worship every inch of you after denying himself for so long. His restraint hadn’t slipped—it had shattered. You saw it all flicker through him right then and there in the slight tension of his throat, in the way his hand twitched at his side before rising to loosen the knot of his tie, swallowing down the warmth that threatened to bloom lower than appropriate.

“We do?” Zayne asked, feigning innocence with that deceptively calm, velvet-smooth voice of his.

His body remained close, his breath warm against your temple as he cast a quick, discreet glance around the room. Ever the protective one, even in a space that buzzed with music, laughter, and the soft clinking of glass. It was loud, crowded, a blur of bodies in suits and satin, but he was still careful—still yours. Still making sure no wandering eyes or listening ears would catch what belonged only to him.

“Tell me,” he murmured low, the words warm against the shell of your ear.

“Oh, you know,” you purred, your voice syrupy and mock-innocent in that drunk, flirty way he adored. Your fingertips tiptoed up the silk of his tie, slow and teasing, until you were whispering right by his lips, “shoving books off of desks, lifting me up against the wall, pinning me on every surface you can find…”

A smile threatened the edge of his mouth, faint but undeniably fond—warmer than wine, sweeter than any memory in that ballroom. He didn’t hide the way your words affected him. The blush that started beneath his collar and crept all the way to his ears told on him.

He took your hand gently, bringing it up to his lips with a kiss that burned soft and reverent over your knuckles, “I become a little…Unhinged, don’t I?”

“Just a tad,” you laughed, winking, letting him pull you closer. Your arms draped naturally over his broad shoulders, fingers locking behind his neck while his palm found the small of your back, spreading wide to anchor you to him, “but I’ll take that any day over mister weirdo over there…”

The warmth in Zayne’s green eyes cooled just slightly at the reminder, not from jealousy, but from vigilance. That instinct of his to shield, to claim, to protect. Couples around you swayed beneath soft lighting and strings of delicate music—the slow, late-hour songs meant for lingering and intimacy. And so you two danced like the rest of them, bodies pressed together in easy rhythm, hips brushing in time as you nestled into the familiar strength of his frame.

“What happened, anyway?” Zayne asked quietly near your ear, his lips brushing your skin, eyes flickering over your shoulder to scan the crowd again, every nerve on alert.

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, thankful the man was gone, his shadow already fading into the sea of sequined gowns and tuxedos under the ballroom’s string-lit haze. The music pulsed faintly beneath your feet, but Zayne was the only rhythm that mattered—his presence firm and grounding around you as you moved in your own slow, private orbit.

“He was someone I was friends with back in high school…” You explained, lips pursed in frustration as you leaned your weight into Zayne’s embrace, letting the warmth of his chest soothe your nerves, “never saw him as anything more than that, but I guess he thought ordering me a drink I declined and me politely taking a sip meant something more.”

You felt him back up to see you, his gaze meeting yours with silent encouragement. Go on, it said. You leaned your temple against his collarbone, cheek flushed from more than just wine.

“He said he thought me accepting his drink meant I was single,” you exhaled, averting your gaze slightly as you confessed, “but I thought it was just a friendly catch up and that he was being polite! I swear…”

Zayne let out a soft, soundless laugh through his nose. You felt it, the gentle puff of air ghosting against your hair as his chest rose and fell against you.

“What??” You huffed, eyes narrowing with mock indignation as you gave his shoulder a light smack, “am I missing something?? Care to diagnose my obliviousness, Doctor Zayne?”

He tilted his head slightly, that smug little smile playing over his lips as if he found your outrage charming—like he always did when you got all flustered and defensive. His voice was velvet and low when he finally responded, “you have quite the chronic case of childlike innocence.”

You pouted, that exaggerated frown coming out as your brows furrowed.

But his next words softened the blow, quiet and loving, “I’m afraid the only cure is having me intervene sometimes.”

Your head cocked with a brow arched, curiosity washing over your flushed features as your body relaxed deeper into his hold. The ballroom blurred around you—nothing but sound and color and the safety of him. Zayne. His emerald eyes always held that same warmth when he looked at you, that adoring, reverent softness like you were something he still couldn’t believe belonged to him.

“Unfortunately,” he added with a tinge of resignation, “you can never assume a man is just being polite and friendly.”

“Then how do I know?” You murmured, brows knitting with genuine frustration.

“You don’t, I’m afraid.”

You sighed hopelessly, deflating into him as if there were no fight left in you. But he caught you without pause, his arms strong and sure as they pulled you in closer. The music around you wasn’t slow enough—but you danced anyway, or something like it, swaying in your own little universe as laughter and music spun around you like the snow globe of a memory in the making. His body was the constant. His heartbeat, the metronome you trusted.

“Do you remember the first time we ran into each other outside of Akso Hospital after I was assigned to be your doctor?” Zayne’s voice came soft but vivid, painting a memory with practiced precision, gently guiding your thoughts through the haze of wine, “at that restaurant. I was having lunch and you just so happened to walk in.”

“Oh, I remember…” You laughed, light and warm, nostalgia bubbling in your chest as you squeezed his shoulder playfully. The stiff fabric of his suit dipped slightly under your fingers, “you hardly spoke a word to me back then…I thought you must have hated me. Why?”

“Do you remember what I said to you before we parted ways?” His eyes searched your face as he coaxed the recollection from you.

You squinted slightly, brows knitting in concentration, drunk mind foggy as you worked to untangle the memory, “…We were talking about how that one pet store used to be a bookstore, right? At least I think.”

“Yes,” he murmured with that familiar patience, the one that always held a quiet affection. His hand gave your waist a gentle squeeze, the heat of his palm soaking through your dress. Then he leaned in, brushing close to your ear as his other hand trailed up, fingers delicately guiding yours down from around his neck. He held your hand instead, his larger one completely enveloping yours, leading you into a slow step you hadn’t even realized you’d taken. You were dancing now. Truly dancing, “and then I told you that we should stop by together next time?”

“Mhmm?” You smiled up at him, eyes glazed with warmth and fondness, your chest fluttering like the very first time.

“I wasn’t being polite,” he said it plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world, “I was courting you.”

Your giggle was soft and breathy, curling up like a sigh as your cheeks warmed further—not from the alcohol this time, but from the quiet reverence in his voice. You followed his gentle lead with ease, steps syncing into his without thought, “well sure, but you gave me a choice! You didn’t just spring it on me mid-conversation. Actually, you were being very polite with me…You gave me the choice and left me with it without any kind of pressure to see you again outside of just being my doctor…”

“Of course I did,” Zayne said with a low smile, his eyes glowing with quiet pride at your recollection, “I’d much rather be up front than be sneaky about my intentions. But my point is, would you have known what my intentions were? Would you have known for sure if I was being polite, or if I had an interest in you?”

You fell quiet for a beat, thoughtful, your brows pulling inward as you chewed softly on the inside of your cheek. Zayne’s question echoed in your mind like a bell ringing down a long hallway, pulling your memory back to that afternoon—the sunlight over his table at the café, how stiff he’d seemed, how little he’d said.

“…Maybe not?” You admitted after a moment, blinking slowly, gaze softened with recollection, “hell, I was surprised you even wanted to see me again. If anything…I thought maybe you were just being polite, at first. So, no.”

“Then why did you accept?” Zayne asked, the question almost too gentle to sound like one. His hand warmed over the curve of your hip, thumb tracing idle lines through the fabric of your dress, “were you really being that gracious to a man out of politeness? Obligation? Guilt? Or, perhaps…” The way his voice dipped on that last word teased at something deeper—something mutual that had been quietly burning between the two of you from the very start.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. A giggle escaped before you could contain it, airy and unguarded, “…Because I always thought you were cute. Ever since we were kids.”

Zayne’s brow arched, lips curling into a little smile at your answer, “and if you didn’t?”

“Then maybe not,” you laughed with shameless honesty, letting out a playfully dramatic sigh, “oh, I see where I messed up…”

“Don’t think of it as messing up. You didn’t know any better,” he said, voice hushed as he shook his head, fingers tightening ever so slightly where they rested at your waist. His jaw shifted, a flicker of irritation passing his usually even features, “not all men are up front about their intentions. Some don’t know where they stand with you and might need to gauge you. Some might try to be sneaky and hide behind friendliness…”

His eyes flicked briefly over his shoulder—back toward the bar. You followed the shift in his gaze and felt his entire body subtly reposition, putting himself squarely between you and that direction. The gesture was automatic, protective. His hand slid from your waist to a more possessive grip over the bend of your hip, grounding you closer against him as he steered you subtly away from the noise and crowd.

“Don’t accept anything if you’re alone,” he murmured, each word deliberate, calm but serious, “don’t accept invites that don’t include others. Don’t let anyone pay for anything. And if they do because they can’t take no for an answer, don’t feel obligated to accept what they give you. There is always a risk that a man might have ulterior motives.”

He looked down at you then, eyes softening just slightly, voice dipping low—measured, cautious, but full of care.

“Notice that I say risk, not guarantee,” he stressed, “but it’s better to be suspicious than trusting in certain scenarios.”

You nodded, taking in his guidance, his words threading through the gentle haze of wine that softened the edges of your world. Your body drifted closer to him like a tide drawn to the moon, that effortless gravitational pull of his presence—steady, warm, familiar. Without thought, you pressed lightly into him, letting his broad frame take you in, your movements unconscious as his hands tightened instinctively around your waist, holding you like something precious. Something his.

You knew men. Knew their tendencies to smile with one face while hiding intentions behind another. Sneaky. Conniving. The kind of cunning that lingered in sidelong glances and loaded generosity. Not all men—but always a man. Always a risk. Yet…Zayne was a man, too. And still, with him, none of that dread existed. He made you feel like the only untouchable thing in the world. You could trust your back turned to him. You could trust the way his hands slid over your body—never possessive in greed, but protective in reverence. Zayne was like a kind wolf, watching over a rabbit not to consume her, but because he loved her. Because he couldn’t fathom the thought of sinking his teeth into what he held dear.

“You know a lot for a guy who’s only had one girlfriend at the ripe age of twenty-nine,” you teased, your voice a flirtatious murmur as your fingers found their way along the lapel of his jacket, playfully tugging.

“I’m a man. I know how men work,” he replied, eyes gleaming, the soft scratch of his fingertips teasing your hip in a way that made your spine tingle, “next time a man tries to buy you a drink after you decline, tell him you’ll give it to your husband—um, boyfriend,” he corrected, a little too quickly.

You caught it. That slight slip. The way it came out just a breath too naturally. The way his voice tipped with a slur, subtle but there. You laughed and leaned back just enough to catch the bloom of color spreading across his cheeks, that flustered pink that stained him like a secret only you knew. He looked away instantly, as if hiding the heat would keep you from teasing him, but it only endeared him more. His adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow as he tried to recover with dignity.

“And before you accuse me of being drunk,” he said, the moment your lips parted in preparation to do just that, “I’m not drunk.”

“You sure?” You smirked, head tilting just so with affection and mischief, catching his hand in yours as you reversed your steps for a moment, guiding him just to watch him falter, “your wife disagrees.”

You barely had time to enjoy your little victory before he reclaimed control of the rhythm, effortlessly shifting the lead back into his hands. His movements were smooth, sure, like muscle memory written in devotion. He lifted your hand in his, spun you gently beneath it, then pulled you close again with that same ease that always made your heart skip a beat.

“My wife is drunk,” he replied, half a smile tugging at his lips as he let you move in the space between his arms again, “and has no idea what she’s on about.”

“Am not!” You swatted at his chest with a light flick of your hand, warmth blooming in your cheeks that had nothing to do with the wine. You met his gaze again and were caught, stilled, by that look—green eyes soft, adoring, and laced with the teasing gleam of a man who loved you with every fiber of his being.

He began to slowly coax you into a spin beneath the lift of his arm, the warmth of his palm brushing yours, his voice dipped in calm amusement, “she’s three whole drinks in, and—”

“—Three and a half, after that creep!” You interjected, your heels clicking softly against the ballroom floor as you spun for him. Your dress flared gently around your legs, shimmering in the golden light as you made the turn, your movements light but clumsy with intoxicated energy.

“Three and a half,” Zayne repeated with a sigh, his voice exasperated but full of fondness as he pulled you close again the moment your balance wobbled. His arms caught you like they always did—certain, protective, steady, “and entirely hopeless, but she’s somehow managing to do the waltz with me without stepping on my toes, this time. I’m impressed…”

“Maybe because I’m totally fine, Doctor Zay—yeep!” You squealed, breath catching in your throat as your heel caught in the glide and you stumbled forward.

Your body jolted against Zayne’s chest with a soft thump, arms clutching at him instinctively as your stomach did a wild flip. It took a second for your world to still, your breath unfreezing only once you were upright and secure again—anchored in his arms. And then you felt it. Oh no. The solid, unforgiving feel of his polished shoe under yours. You froze, eyes wide with mortification, before you quickly—immediately—stepped off it, heat rushing to your cheeks as you dared to peek up at him.

“…Nevermind,” Zayne sighed, but he was smiling despite himself. He leaned in, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with delicate fingers before letting them trace a soft, warm path down your face, “it appears I spoke too soon. My wife is entirely hopeless.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and blushing, as you let your forehead tip briefly against his chest. The two of you resumed your dancing—if it could even be called that anymore. You weren’t graceful. You never had been. Your steps were light, your footing uncertain, your rhythm uneven. But Zayne didn’t seem to care in the slightest. If anything, he cherished it. Cherished you. Your spirit. Your joy. The way you poured every ounce of yourself into loving him without reserve.

Zayne was the contrast to your chaos. Measured. Controlled. Methodical. He moved like he’d been born to follow a rhythm, to lead a dance, to stay two steps ahead. Always the anchor. Always the one who kept you from spinning too far off into the world. He held you like he was counting your heartbeat, like your every breath mattered. Every slip of your heel was met with a guiding hand, a soft tug back to center. Always there. Always watching. Watching the curve of your smile, the flush in your cheeks, the flutter of your lashes every time you giggled. And when he wasn’t watching you, he was watching your step—each turn, each sway—just to make sure you didn’t fall.

He spun you again, slower this time. More deliberate. His hand never leaving yours. And when he brought you back to him, he didn’t stop at polite closeness. He brought you in—really in—pressing your body to his chest as he inhaled the scent of your hair, the sweetness of you mixed with the subtle linger of wine.

You felt his palm slide lower behind you, gliding with smooth intent down your spine, until the long stretch of his fingers splayed wide across the small of your open back—so low they hovered just above where your behind began with a raised curve. You shivered at the contact. At the possessiveness in his touch. It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t showy. It was subtle, warm, and unrestrained—Zayne’s quiet brand of intensity radiating out through the heat of his hand, pressing straight through the fine fabric of your dress and into your skin.

Your whole body bloomed with heat. A flush that started in your chest and rippled outward in waves of butterflies. Your breath caught, clutched in your lungs like it didn’t want to escape. The intimacy of his grip—the claim in it, the wordless mine—made your fingers instinctively tighten around the hand still holding yours. His other arm pulled you along gently, continuing the dance as though none of this was happening, as if he weren’t absolutely undoing you just with the way he touched you. And God, did you melt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed with a depth of awe that softened the edges of every syllable. His voice was low, reverent, the words laced with a kind of tender ache—as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, let alone his, “people can’t seem to take their eyes off of you, I notice…”

You let out a warm, wine-loose laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, “maybe because they all know you, Zaynie,” you slurred playfully, voice warm and teasing, “the infamous, highly intimidating, super strict and scary Doctor Zayne, canoodling with his girlfriend on the—”

“—Wife,” he interrupted, quiet but firm.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even boldness. It was certainty. Zayne said it like a fact already carved into the timeline of his life—like it had always been that way. Like he couldn’t possibly think of you as anything else. There was something about the way he held you a little tighter after saying it, the way his hand curved around your waist, like he was anchoring himself to that word. To you.

It caught you off guard, melted through your drunken haze. Not because he said it, but because of how real it felt—how easy it was to believe. How deeply sincere it sounded. Like in that moment, with the lights low and music blurring softly through the ballroom, you weren’t two people imagining the future…You were already there. Already his wife. Already back from a honeymoon in the country you’d once dreamily talked about together. Already wearing the exact dream ring he asked you to describe that night in bed, tracing the curve of your hand like he was etching it into memory.

“…Wife,” you whispered under your breath, more to yourself than him, the word tasting sweet and dizzy on your tongue.

A tender, intoxicated smile curled your lips as you leaned in to breathe him in—his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat where your bodies pressed together. You closed your eyes as the music dipped into something slower, softer, almost reverent. And for just a breath of time, you let yourself believe you were already Mrs. Li.

“Part of me enjoys it,” Zayne confessed, voice hushed against the swell of music and chatter, low enough that the words felt like they were meant for your skin more than your ears, “part of me…Wishes I was the only person in this room with eyes. That no one else could see you. Just me. That only I was special.”

Your heart fluttered at the confession, tender and vulnerable in the way only Zayne could be when his guard melted a little—when the quiet storm inside him softened under the warmth of wine and love. You looked up at him through your lashes, drunk on him more than anything else.

“You are special,” you smiled, fingertips grazing along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the way it tensed and then relaxed beneath your touch, “this whole room might as well just be us two, in my eyes. I’m blind to everyone else…”

And that—those words, that look in your eyes—was what Zayne lived for. That was love, the kind that rooted itself deep in his soul and took up residence there with sacred weight. The kind that was quiet and colossal all at once. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to be known. It just was. He was seen. Chosen. Not despite the crowd, but because of it. In a ballroom filled with gazes, laughter, music, temptation—you picked him. Still. Always. In every room. And it made him ache with the beauty of it.

Because to Zayne, loving you was a kind of worship. And being loved back by you—being the one you reached for, leaned on, twirled toward in your softest, drunkest smile—that was fulfillment in its purest form. That was the reward. That was what made every ounce of his restraint worth it, every inch of his devotion meaningful. You could have anyone. You were surrounded by anyone. Yet you saw only him. Wanted only him. And to Zayne, that was the divine. To be the one you chose again and again, when you had the whole world? That was everything.

His breath caressed your ear as he crooned down closer, the scent of wine and warmth and something deeply him curling in the space between your skin and his. He slid his hand from your clasp, wrapping it behind your back with the other, arms circling you fully now, enveloping you in the kind of embrace that left no part of you untouched. He held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, like his hands had been made just for your waist and nothing else.

“Say you’re mine,” he murmured, low and reverent, almost a plea.

You tilted your head back to look at him, to catch the softness in his emerald eyes, and you smiled. It was tender, tinged with affection and the kind of endearment that came only from knowing someone so wholly.

“I’m yours, Zayne,” you whispered, and the sincerity in your voice curled around his heart like a vow.

He exhaled a deep, shuddered breath that seemed to come from his very soul, sinking you closer into his hold, like letting you go even an inch would make the whole world unravel. He wasn’t thinking about the ballroom anymore, or the music, or the sea of eyes. Just you. His warmth. Your heartbeat against his chest. You felt the security of it—the way you were cradled like something irreplaceable, and it sent a flurry of butterflies through your chest, left your cheeks pink and your throat tight with affection.

But then you leaned in, brushing your lips against the shell of his flushed ear, your voice hushed and sultry with mischief and meaning, “I wouldn’t want anyone here to be blind…”

Zayne froze slightly, lips parting as your breath ghosted against him.

“I want them all to be able to see me,” you whispered, “you know why?”

His voice was a hush, a catch of air, “why?”

“Because that way,” you murmured, your lips brushing his skin like a kiss, “all of them can see that I’m yours.”

Zayne’s soul swelled to the brim. Your words echoed through him like a sacred vow, like a key fitting into every lock that ever rattled with uncertainty inside his chest. For so long, he’d carried that quiet war within himself—the reverent urge to keep you hidden and safe in the depths of his arms, where only he could reach you, and the deeper, hungrier pride of wanting the world to know. To see. To understand that you were the center of his gravity. And suddenly, in the warmth of your whisper, in the way you curled against him in this room full of eyes and noise, Zayne understood he didn’t have to choose between the two. There was no conflict. No more tension. He could treasure you in the open, wear the bond like a badge across his chest.

He looked around—not with anxiety, not with hesitation, but with clarity. The ballroom buzzed with conversation and music and light, all of it washing out into a blur. To Zayne, it may as well have been static. Because you were all he saw. Pressed so delicately against his chest, your cheek tucked into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to fuse the two of you into one. You smiled like a secret that belonged only to him, glowing with intoxication and affection. And there he was—holding you, openly, in front of every colleague, every man and woman who’d ever known him as the cold, intimidating, stoic Doctor Zayne. Their vision of him cracked at the seams as he revealed what you had always known: that underneath the white coat and surgical precision was a man capable of worship. Of love so blinding, it eclipsed the world around him.

His lips brushed your ear, “please, say it again,” he breathed.

You smiled sweetly, teasing as always—your voice thick with wine and affection, “you say it.”

He didn’t hesitate, “I’m yours, Y/n. Completely.”

You pulled back just enough to tilt your face to his, eyes gleaming with that soft glow only you had, a quiet dare in your expression, “no,” you whispered, eyes locking with his, “tell me that I’m yours.”

He stilled, the moment expanding between your bodies like a heartbeat held in suspension. Then his hand lifted from your waist, strong and warm and trembling with something soft as it cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your heated cheek, reverent. Your breath hitched—just a little—at the tenderness of it.

And Zayne, with all the stillness of a man who had found his entire world in one single moment, looked into your eyes and said, low and sure, “you’re mine. All mine.”

Your heart clenched with adrenaline. Love, lust—God, who could tell the difference anymore? The way he said it, claimed you with that low, possessive whisper—it sent a white-hot rush through your body so intense it almost knocked the air from your lungs. And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was molten; brief but thorough, like he poured all his soul into the brush of his lips against yours. It wasn’t greedy. It wasn’t rushed. It was reverent, full of want, full of something primal and protective. You were stunned by how much you felt it, how much you melted into it, dizzy and stunned even in your drunken haze. And when he pulled back, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning forward again, on your toes, craving another—but then your body registered something. Hard. Pressed against you. Oh…Oh God.

Your eyes flew open slightly. That. You felt that.

You damn near forgot what turned Zayne on the most—it was never just your body. It was you. Your voice. Your loyalty. The way you loved him. Worshipped him. Belonged to him. It was the words, the devotion, the way you whispered that you were his. That’s what did it. That’s what always undid him.

“Zayne,” you giggled, a little startled, smacking his chest with the flat of your palm, trying to steady both of you.

But before you could say anything else, he was already leaning in again, his voice low, firm, warm against your ear.

“Let’s go back to our room,” he said, velvet-drenched urgency curling into every syllable, “can you walk?”

“Huh?” You blinked, your mind needing a full second to catch up to his words. Then you saw it—that look in his eyes. That razor-sharp, utterly focused glint that only appeared when he was in this kind of mood. Serious. Desperate. Determined, “y-yeah, but I’m drunk and in heels, so—”

“—I know,” he murmured with a tender edge of amusement, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. His hand trailed to your jaw, then swept down along your neck.

You shivered. It was all he said. He didn’t need to say more. Not with the way his arm linked into yours and his pace pulled you forward, like you were both tethered, like the gravity between you was the only thing keeping your legs from turning to wine-soaked jelly. You clung to him—not just because your steps were unsteady, but because your whole body felt like it was floating somewhere between the chandeliers and the alcohol humming through your blood. You could barely tell where the room ended and his warmth began.

The music blurred behind you as he carved a path through the crowd. You didn’t even notice if anyone spoke to you—if they waved, or smiled, or gave a double-take at the infamously poised Doctor Zayne storming through the ballroom with his girlfriend glued to his side. He didn’t break stride. His eyes were straight ahead, unreadable, determined. Whatever looks people gave were instantly silenced by his expression. You giggled faintly, drunk and dazed and dizzy, head swimming with every step. God, the floor didn’t feel flat. Or maybe your heels were just too high. Or maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was him.

The hallway hit you like a breath of air—a cold slap of reality against your burning skin. It was quieter, so much quieter. Still bright, but everything felt a little out of focus. Your stomach tipped slightly with the shift in light, the absence of music, the way your footsteps suddenly echoed like they were trying to catch up to you.

“Wait—” you began, one foot faltering behind the other.

You didn’t even get the chance to steady yourself. Zayne caught the hesitation before the wobble, his hand already sliding to your elbow, other curling around your back. And then he bent, wrapping your arm behind his neck. Your world tilted as he swept you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. Your stomach flipped. You gasped—more of a squeal, really—your arms snapping tight around his neck as your heels lifted from the tile and dangled midair.

Lord. Even alcohol couldn’t get in that man’s way. It was like it only fueled him—gave him sharper vision, harder purpose, heat in his blood that burned straight through the haze. His grip was secure, his arms steady, like you weighed nothing in his hands. He moved like he did in the hospital—calm in emergency, sure in chaos, decisive with every motion. That same clinical precision bled into the way he carried you now, like the world might have fallen apart if he slowed down, like he was beelining for the O.R. and you were the only patient who mattered.

“Babe,” you whisper-shouted into the crook of his neck, trying not to burst into laughter when you caught the amused eyes of a stumbling couple leaning against a hallway wall, “slow down, Zayne! What’s the rush??”

“Every second passing between us and that hotel room is a second that I wish would burn in hell,” he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes flashing, voice tight with restraint.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat, not sure if you were more flustered by the confession or the heat pouring off of him. That man was on fire—skin hot, jaw taut, arms tense around you like he was physically holding himself back from whatever sinful thoughts had taken hold of him. The hallway blurred as he turned a corner, those impossibly long legs of his devouring distance like he’d kill time itself if he could.

You couldn’t even respond. You were too busy trying not to combust. By the time you reached the elevators, your entire body was flushed, not just from the wine but from being wrapped up in the storm that was Zayne with a little alcohol in his blood and too much love in his heart. He set you down carefully, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to part from the heat of your body, his hand still glued to your back, thumb grazing the bare strip of your spine exposed by your dress.

He was burning. Literally and figuratively. You felt the feverish hum of his body where it pressed into yours, saw the slight sheen on his brow, the tension in his shoulders as he rolled them like his suit was suffocating him. His hand slid lower without him noticing, fingertips stroking absent circles into the curve of your waist as he stared at the elevator doors like he could will them open faster. He sighed. Sharp. Controlled. Then tapped the up arrow again, just for good measure.

“Watch your step,” he said the moment the elevator dinged, already reaching to take your hand, his voice low and still somehow composed despite the fact that you could feel how unraveled he was beneath it.

He didn’t even glance at your face. He was staring down at your heels, hyper-focused, like watching every step you took might spare his already-fraying sanity one more thread. You stepped inside. He followed. And when the doors slid shut, it was just you and him, and the suffocating silence of restraint. He was just as impatient—if not more—as he stabbed the button for your floor, then immediately hit the one to close the doors. His movements were sharp, controlled, but barely concealing the storm gathering in his chest.

“Honey, relax,” you laughed, breath warm with wine as your fingers grazed his arm, “God, you’re so intense—”

The moment the elevator doors sealed shut, Zayne surged forward, pinning you between the cool, mirrored wall and the scorching heat of his body. His palms found your wrists and lifted them, securing them above your head like a promise he wasn’t asking permission to fulfill. And then—his mouth. Crashing onto yours. No hesitation. No warning. Just heat and hunger and need tangled in his kiss.

You gasped against him, your heart stuttering, a jolt of adrenaline crashing through your drunken haze. And then you felt it—him. The thick press of an erection between you, unforgiving and urgent through the tailored lines of his slacks. He pulsed against you, like every heartbeat was demanding more.

His kiss tasted like wine and want. His body, overheated and electric, trembled faintly with restraint he was quickly losing. Your knees buckled at the intensity of it—the smell of his cologne, the thrum in his chest, the way his tongue stole your breath. You were dizzy. Lightheaded. Your brain sloshed with wine and euphoria and lust. You weren’t ready. And yet, you were starving for him.

You slipped a wrist free from his grasp and hooked your fingers around his tie, yanking him down with a suddenness that made Zayne dip at the knees. You knew exactly where this was going. The moment was charged, inevitable. He responded in kind, lifting you clean off the floor with ease, pinning you back against the mirrored wall of the elevator as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. Your dress hitched high, sliding up without care, without shame. All you wanted was to keep tasting his tongue, keep feeling his breath break against yours, to be swallowed whole in the fire of his need.

The only thing that pulled him off of you—the only thing that made him let you breathe—was the sharp ding of the elevator doors sliding open. What followed was a blur. A fevered, head-spinning blur. Your vision swayed and pulsed as Zayne carried you out into the hallway with the same urgency he had outside of the ballroom. You clung to him, arms looped around his neck, watching the corridor pass behind him in streaks of gold and shadow. His strides were long, driven, purposeful—like he was moving through a crisis at the hospital.

You remembered the room: far corner, low foot traffic, quieter walls. Zayne had requested it himself. Yet in his haze, he veered toward the wrong side of the hallway.

“Other side,” you slurred against his heated ear, your fingers threading into his hair with lazy affection, “it’s the room behind you, sweetie…”

Zayne let out a low huff at himself and pivoted smoothly, “right.”

He never put you down. Not even when he reached the door. He only hitched one of your thighs higher around his waist, holding you tighter against him like his body had no interest in letting you go. With one hand still braced beneath your bum, the other fumbled into his pocket, blindly searching until you heard the muted beep of the keycard and the click of the lock disengaging. The door swung open—then shut behind you with a soft, final thud that echoed like a heartbeat in the quiet.

The silence was thick. Comforting. Sacred. A smile curled at the corners of your lips, breath catching in your throat as the hush of privacy wrapped around you both at last. No guests. No champagne flutes. No music. Just Zayne, flushed and focused and full of intent. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause to adjust his footing. He carried you across the threshold with unrelenting purpose and headed straight for the bed. With a low grunt of effort and a sigh like he’d been holding his lungs hostage all night, he collapsed forward onto the mattress with you still in his arms. You went with him, a tangle of limbs and heat, the both of you tumbling into the center of the bed like gravity had given up.

His shoes thudded to the floor with two careless kicks—quick, impatient—and then he was kissing you again, mouth finding yours with a sigh that sounded less like relief and more like need. Like he’d been holding his breath since the second he saw you in that dress, and only now could finally inhale.

“I can’t relax…” He murmured against your mouth, voice frayed and uneven as his body settled between your thighs. Your knees rose instinctively, cradling him, heat meeting heat. He groaned softly, the sound pressed into your lips before pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark. Half-lidded, glossy from alcohol, but honed with pure hunger—that Zayne kind of hunger, deep and deliberate, as if his entire world had narrowed down to the lines of your body beneath him.

“Not when I need you all to myself,” he whispered, forehead resting briefly against yours, his hips pressing forward with slow, aching insistence, “it’s too much…”

Your fingers were already buried in his suit, clutching at the lapels like they were the only thing anchoring you. You tugged with clumsy urgency, drunk on the kiss, on him, on the electric friction of too many layers between you. His mouth chased yours—kiss after kiss, messy, breathless, tongues clashing—and still, somehow, not enough.

“What’s too much?” You breathed, lips brushing his jaw, your hands sliding beneath the lapels now, pushing at the shoulders of his suit, “tell me.”

He kissed down your jaw, slow and open-mouthed, as though the answer lived there.

“My addiction,” he said into your skin, the words thick with restraint and reverence.

“To?” You asked, dazed, as you fumbled at his buttons, your vision tilting slightly as the ceiling spun above you—wine and lust dancing in your veins, every part of you already aching to be uncovered.

He exhaled like the truth physically pained him, “you…”

He said it simply. Like it was a fact. Like it had always been a fact. His lips pressed to your neck, warm and unsteady. His suit fell to the floor with a whisper of fabric and the soft thud of weight, and then he was back—hands framing your face, mouth claiming yours again, more certain, more starved. He was everywhere. His mouth trailed fire down your throat, slipping between words and kisses, reverent as a worshiper at the altar of your skin.

The straps of your dress slid down your shoulders one by one under his insistent touch, guided by lips too eager to wait, too gentle to rip. He kissed every inch he uncovered—jaw, collarbone, the soft arch where your neck met your shoulder—feverish and unhurried, as though the ache in him could only be quieted by the shape of your body beneath his mouth.

“You look divine in this dress,” he murmured between wet, worshipful kisses, his voice thick with arousal and admiration, “you look divine in anything…”

A sudden nip at your skin made you gasp, breath hitching.

“But this dress…” His mouth dragged upward, lips brushing your ear, the scent of wine and want on his breath as his hand tucked your hair behind your ear with tender clumsiness, “is unfortunately in my way right now, isn’t it?”

You could hear the strain in his voice, the rasp of tension woven into every syllable—restraint barely clinging to its place as his hands slid between the curve of your back and the mattress, fumbling to find the hidden zipper. His fingers roamed blindly, desperate and imprecise, while you reached for the knot of his tie, loosening it from around his throat, letting it fall as your fingers skimmed the heat radiating from his hard chest.

“I’m afraid,” he breathed, kissing slowly down the column of your neck again, “it’ll have to come off…”

Where was the damn zipper? Zayne was growing frustrated, his fingers slipping fruitlessly against the back of your dress as if the whole thing were conspiring to stay on you. You could feel his breath huffing against your collarbone, warm and quick, his kisses becoming distracted, less coordinated as he let his mouth wander instead—down the slope of your clavicle, across the top swell of your breasts. He was starving. Unfocused. So overcome by the nearness of your skin that the zipper might as well have been invisible.

You giggled beneath him, the sound spilling out light and breathless as you gave his shoulder a nudge—just enough to pull his attention, or maybe half of it. He didn’t stop kissing you, but he let you slip your hands to the buttons of his dress shirt, working them loose one by one, halfway down the line of his chest.

“Here,” you said, tapping lightly against his now-bared skin, your voice honeyed with laughter and drunken boldness, “let me help you deflower me, then.”

The word lingered in the air, featherlight and ridiculous, and Zayne froze against you for half a breath—long enough for amusement to twitch at the corner of his mouth, then dissolve into something warmer. Deeper. He let out a small, helpless sigh, as if physically trying to resist his own urge to keep kissing your breasts, then finally, reluctantly, helped you sit up. His hands were warm on your back, guiding, steadying. He couldn’t stop touching you. Wouldn’t. And as soon as you were upright, he leaned in again, eyes hooded and glazed, lips parting to fall into another kiss—But you stopped him.

Your palm pressed against his chest, your pout gently exaggerated as you looked up at him through lashes half-lowered and pointed down toward your feet, “Zaynie…”

His breath hitched. The sound of your voice, softened like that, like a spoiled plea, made his entire body go still.

“You’re so drunk you forgot I still have my heels on…” You whined, dragging out the last word just enough to make it sweet, “you don’t want them touching the bed, right?”

Zayne blinked absentmindedly. His head tipped back slightly as he ran his hand slowly through his heated scalp, dragging it to the nape of his neck with embarrassment and residual want, “…I didn’t even—oh.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, still giggling at his expression, at the disoriented frustration melting from his face. You slid your knee between his thighs with a slow, deliberate nudge. The movement ground up against the tension at his groin, and he exhaled, the sound low and strained as your knee brushed over the unmistakable heat pressing against the front of his slacks. You rubbed slow, playful circles along the inside of his thigh, your voice turning syrupy.

“Can you take them off for me, please?” you asked, the words pitched just right, teasing and tender, “I’m wayyy too drunk, and you’re better with your hands than I am…”

He sighed—like the last thread of his composure had been gently, lovingly severed by that one line. His hand slid down your thigh, fingers splaying, lingering. And then, without a word, he started to move. Zayne slid off the bed in one smooth, unhurried motion, his hands finding your calves and pulling you gently toward the edge as he sank down to his knees on the floor. The moment he kneeled before you on the carpet, something deep inside you twisted with heat.

There was something devastating about seeing him like that—on his knees for you, not in desperation, but in quiet, deliberate devotion. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t begging. He was serving. And even then, with his shirt half-unbuttoned and his breath still shaky from the taste of you on his tongue, he handled your body like it was something sacred. Despite the wine in his veins, the flush in his cheeks, the hunger in his eyes—his touch was steady. Careful. Loving. That paradox—of restraint wrapped around wild desire—was what did it. That was what always did it. Not the overt, not the vulgar. It was the reverence. The way Zayne could make the simple act of taking off your shoes feel like a holy ritual.

You ached. God, you ached. His fingers, long and elegant, traced down your calf in a slow stroke, like he needed to feel every inch of you on his way to the buckle. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee—soft, slow, reverent. A sound—half whimper, half breath—escaped you as your hand instinctively slipped into his hair, threading through the silky strands like it was the only way to ground yourself. He let one of his knees rise, propping your foot in his lap.

“Do you like them?” You asked, your voice lower than intended, your head tipping slightly to the side. You watched him intently, barely breathing as his fingers found the delicate clasp and began to work it loose. Your stomach fluttered—something warm and tense blooming there—as he worshipped you in that quiet, focused way of his.

“I love your legs,” he murmured, almost absentmindedly, as though the words simply slipped out in response to the truth of your body under his hands. His lips brushed over your skin again, and you felt the goosebumps rise beneath them. He smiled faintly at the sensation, at the way your body responded to even the softest part of his mouth. God, the thrill that gave him. Feeling you react. Knowing that even like that—drunk, shirt halfway unbuttoned, knees pressing into cheap hotel carpet—he could still undo you. You let out a breathy laugh, voice light with affection as he slipped the strap loose.

“I was talking about my shoes,” you teased, eyes glinting down at him.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, his hands paused at your ankle like he’d just remembered where he was. That look on his face—equal parts dazed affection and single-minded focus—sent something hot and syrupy flooding through your chest.

“That depends,” he said slowly, voice weighted and just slightly slurred, each word draped in velvet.

He slipped the shoe off with deliberate care, like it might bruise you if he wasn’t gentle enough. Setting it aside, he cradled your bare foot in both hands, letting it rest in his palm while his fingers curved around the arch. You curled your toes unconsciously, the small pop of joints cracking in the quiet room somehow obscene in its satisfaction. Zayne raised an eyebrow, watching with clinical curiosity, like he was examining the aftermath of a trauma.

“Did they leave your feet sore?” He asked, turning your foot ever so slightly in his hand, his thumb already sliding to your sole as if to answer the question himself.

You opened your mouth to protest—no, of course not, they were fine—but then his thumbs pressed in. Right at the base of your arch, strong and slow, circling up into the softest pressure point with the precision of a man who knew how to take the human body apart piece by piece if he wanted to. Your voice failed you. Your breath escaped in a helpless, trembling sigh.

“A-apparently,” you managed, eyes fluttering as his thumbs worked in slow spirals along the curve of your foot, up toward the ball, pressing just deep enough to unravel something inside you. The tension drained out of you like water from a glass. One of his hands slid up the back of your ankle, pinching and rolling the muscle in firm, practiced pulses, and then—

“Oh my God,” you moaned, flopping backward onto the bed with dramatic flair, one arm flung over your eyes as your foot remained cradled in his lap, “yes, yes!”

Zayne chuckled softly beneath you. A real laugh—low and fond—as he pressed into the arch again, wringing out another gasp from your mouth.

“They killed my feet, yes!” You cried out with mock despair, grinning through the haze of pure pleasure, “ooh, I think I need a doctor…”

“Then I hate your shoes,” he said flatly, as though it were a medical diagnosis, not a declaration.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, kissed the top of your foot—soft, lingering—and then slowly, almost regretfully, lowered it to the floor.

“Why?!” You demanded, shooting upright in protest.

The room spun slightly with the motion and you reached for your head, blinking as your balance tilted beneath the wine and laughter. Zayne was already reaching for your other foot, his touch gentle but hasty as he sought the second clasp.

“Because they caused you discomfort,” he said simply, never looking up, his fingers slipping beneath the strap with care, “I don’t like anything that hurts you. Sorry.”

You laughed softly, helplessly—God, this sweet, silly man.

He looked so serious, so gently offended on your behalf, as if your shoes had committed a personal crime. Your gaze lingered on him as he bent back over your foot, undoing the final buckle with care, his brows drawn in focus. You watched him through lowered lashes, letting your amusement curl over your lips in a quiet, indulgent smile.

He had no idea what you were about to do to him. While he tended to the strap, your other leg stretched languidly, toes pointed like a dancer, and found their mark—his inner thigh. Warm. Firm. Solid. The sudden contact earned you a breath—sharp, startled. His fingers froze on the clasp. Zayne gasped softly. The smile deepened at your mouth, slow and coy, as you dragged your toes—slow, featherlight—across the unmistakable shape straining beneath the fabric of his slacks.

“I could say the same about your pants,” you murmured, all sweetened innocence, the kind that was anything but pure. You pouted as you spoke, tilting your head, “they look so…Tight.”

He exhaled—shaky, uneven. His gaze flicked up briefly, torn between the strap he was meant to finish unfastening and the seduction playing out against his lap. You could see it on his face: the internal war between indulging in that moment and succumbing entirely to it. Part of him wanted to let you tease him to hell and back—to watch you smirk and press and pout. But the other part…The other part was ready to break. Ready to take. He realized it too, in that second—what you were doing. What you always did. Toying with him. Baiting him. Coaxing out that careful, dominant fire you loved to see consume him. A breath escaped him, half a laugh, half a sigh of defeat.

“My pants?” He repeated flatly, eyes narrowing as he lifted his head to look at you properly.

But you beat him to it. Your toes trailed up his neck, beneath his chin, lifting it with mocking gentleness, and his head tipped back with your touch. His hand rose to catch your ankle, gripping it without thinking, the feel of your skin against his palm a visceral thing. He frowned—but not in anger. It was the look he always gave you when you were two seconds from pushing him over the edge.

It made your stomach clench, made the ache between your legs pulse with want. God, how you loved teasing Zayne. Loved pushing just far enough to see that restraint slip. Loved toying with a man who could—and would—make you pay for every second of it later.

“They look so tight,” you whispered, your voice like sugar dissolving in heat, “suffocating your poor cock like that…”

Your last shoe finally slipped free, landing somewhere behind him, forgotten. Your newly bare foot slid slowly, deliberately, to press down over the hard line of him with unspoken promise. Carefully. Even drunk, your motions were tender, almost reverent, and yet wicked all the same.

“Can it even breathe, Zayne?” You asked, smiling like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him as you squished your toes over that warm, throbbing mass.

You fucking minx. That look on his face—low-lidded, jaw tight, lips parted just barely around a breath he didn’t realize he was holding—lasted only a second before it shifted. The glare that followed wasn’t anger. It was something far more dangerous: resolve. He grabbed your knees, large hands curling over them with purpose, and pried them apart in one swift motion—disarming you in an instant. Your feet slipped from him, falling useless as your legs parted and he rose up between them, fluid and commanding.

Oh. Oh my. Zayne, looming before you like a storm held together only by the thin fabric of his slacks and the throb of his restraint, was devastating. His shirt hung open down his chest, exposing the firm lines of his torso, the tension in his abdomen carved into hard, controlled breath. His cock—full, heavy, aching—strained beneath his pants, hanging thick and low and directly in front of your face. You stared. Of course you did. And of course—he noticed.

Shit. Was it really that easy for him to turn the tables? To break your little game apart with nothing but a shift of his posture and a look from under those lashes? Goddamn it. Of course it was. This was Zayne. And with him, control wasn’t something he had to take—it was something he was born holding. Just as natural for him as your need to test it, to tiptoe toward his limits like a spark daring a powder keg. And yet—he always managed to put you right back in your place. Every. Single. Time.

“Can it?” He murmured, arching a brow down at you.

His hand rose, two fingers catching your chin, tilting your gaze upward to meet the weight of his. His thumb swept slowly over your lower lip—silent and firm—and you felt it all the way between your thighs. The heat of him. The authority. He took a single step forward. The bulge in his slacks shifted as he moved, dragging your eyes back to it—bold, defined, shamelessly outlined against the seam of his thigh.

“Why don’t you check for me?” He said softly.

Your heart skipped. Then raced. Your core pulsed so hard it made your knees ache. And God, he knew it. He could see it in your face. Your eyes, wide and breathless. Your chest, rising too fast. Your mouth, parting helplessly beneath the pressure of his thumb. But you smiled anyway. Because he’d let you go first—for once. And even if it was just another extension of his control, that tiny window of permission made you ache.

Your fingers reached forward, delicate at first, tracing the waistband of his slacks. He worked on the last of his shirt buttons as you hooked your fingers into the closure and began to undo it slowly, dragging down the zipper with a sound that felt obscene in the quiet of the room. His dress shirt slid from his broad shoulders, the white fabric whispering against his skin before he shrugged it off entirely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without care. The lines of him—broad chest, sculpted waist, flushed skin glowing faintly under the low light—left you drooling in your mouth.

Then, with devastating gentleness, he ran his hand through your hair. Not urgently. Not impatiently. Just enough to push it back behind your ears, tucking it away from your face in a motion that told you everything he wanted next. No words needed.

“Oh, is Doctor Zayne gonna teach me how to perform a check-up?” You asked with a smirk, your voice light but syrupy with intent as you began easing his slacks down his legs.

You took your time. Your nails raked along the smooth plane of his quads as you dragged the material lower, your touch featherlight but precise—tracing the outline of every firm muscle, every twitch beneath his skin. His breath caught—just a hair—and when your hand cupped his cock through his briefs, kneading the heavy heat of him with teasing reverence, his composure finally cracked.

Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose, a low sound drawn from somewhere deeper than just arousal. His hand shot out, steadying himself on your shoulder, fingers curling into your skin as if to anchor the moment.

“I’ll walk you through every step,” he murmured, voice rough and slow with restraint, “but first…”

He took a step back, just enough to reclaim the space between you, then gently took the very hand you’d used to toy with him and brought it close, kissed the backs of your fingers—soft, delicate, guiding your forward.

“I need you to be in the proper position,” he said, “on your knees.”

The words rippled through you like a shiver made of silk and heat. There was no bark in his voice. No demand. Just that quiet, iron certainty that never failed to turn your spine to honey. You obeyed immediately. Sliding off the bed, your bare knees kissed the cool surface of the hotel carpet, the world narrowing to the smell of his skin, the warmth of his thighs, the slight tremble in your hands as you steadied yourself. Zayne guided you down carefully, watching you with a gaze so focused it made your breath catch. His palm brushed back your hair again, fingers sweeping it away from your face, curling it behind your ears with the same tenderness you’d felt earlier—only now, it was purposeful. Controlled.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise alone made your stomach tighten, “next…”

He tilted your chin up, summoning your gaze with a light pressure beneath your jaw, his thumb brushing across your lower lip as you looked up at him, dazed and aching.

“I want you to eliminate any obstructions between you and the patient.”

Oh God. In any other context, you would’ve laughed. Would’ve cracked some joke about him being terminally in character, even while drunk. He sounded so clinical, so convincing—like he was dictating procedure in the middle of a sterile exam room, not standing half-naked in a dim hotel suite with his cock straining against cotton just inches from your mouth. But the way he said it…That tone. Low. Measured. Completely immersed in the fantasy. He wasn’t half playing—he was all in, as he always was. And that, somehow, turned you on even more. It wasn’t just the role-play. It was the way he wanted to excite you. The way he imagined with you. How deeply he enjoyed creating these moments, building them from your shared language of want.

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid them beneath the waistband of his briefs. The elastic fought you for a breath before giving way, and you peeled them down his hips slowly, reverently, watching as his cock—thick, flushed, heavy with need—sprung free from the tight confines. It bounced up, brushing across your chin, hot and firm and so close you could feel the heat radiating from it. Your mouth watered. Your breath hitched. You leaned in, thoughtless, about to drag your tongue across the length of him—But Zayne’s hand was suddenly in your hair.

He caught you gently but with absolute control, gripping the roots at the nape of your neck and tilting your head back just enough to pull your attention up. His other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding it out of reach. The denial made your thighs clench, your breath stutter. His gaze dropped to you—stern, focused, burning.

“Your impatience will cost you,” he said, voice calm but edged in warning.

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him, lips parted and trembling with restraint.

“I didn’t say to begin the examination yet, did I?” He continued, thumbing your cheek, “are we getting ahead of ourselves without any direction, here?”

You’d almost forgotten about his reputation. Among his students. His residents. The hushed stories in Akso Hospital’s halls. That blend of fear and awe that followed him like the tail of a comet. The way even the boldest trainees lowered their eyes when he walked into the room. His exacting standards. That voice—cool, crisp, clinical—capable of eviscerating someone without ever raising a decibel. You’d seen it in passing, sitting quietly at his lectures or waiting for him at the back of the auditorium, pretending to be nothing more than a supportive partner when inside, you’d been watching him the way one might watch a fire through glass: spellbound. Slightly afraid.

But this? Now, kneeling in front of him, undone, saliva thickening behind your teeth, your pulse beating loud in your ears as his hand held the weight of your attention—Now, you understood what they meant. You weren’t just seeing the sharp edge of Doctor Zayne anymore. You were experiencing him. And fuck, it was doing something to you. The authority in his voice. The chill of his restraint. How, even drunk, he moved and spoke like someone who expected his directions to be followed—not questioned. Your body trembled. And still, your voice was soft. Submissive. Almost reverent.

“No, Doctor Zayne,” you said, shaking your head as much as you could in his grasp under your chin. Your mouth watered shamelessly around his thumb as it poked in between your lips, your breath shallow with need.

You watched his green eyes flick down to your throat, and your heart stuttered. He saw it. Saw the way you swallowed. Saw how close to coming undone you were without even being touched down there. Your skin flushed from collar to cheekbone. And God, the glint in his eyes—measured, clinical, knowing—nearly made your thighs squeeze together.

“So eager to perform,” Zayne murmured, the edge of his voice that dangerous silk that always left you breathless. His eyes traveled down the line of your dress, slow and assessing, as though you were a case to be studied—corrected, “yet you aren’t even suited properly.”

You blinked, dumb with arousal, “huh?”

It took you a second—too long—to realize what he meant. The dress. You still had your dress on. You barely had time to respond before he was already turning you in place, his palm firm on your shoulder as he gently maneuvered you to face away from him. His breath ghosted against your back as he crooned down, his fingers finally found the zipper that had taunted him earlier. And yet, he didn’t yank it down in a rush. No, this was Zayne. Even drunk, his hands were surgical. Careful. Skilled. The teeth of the zipper unfurled down your back with a slow, whispering sound, parting inch by inch until the bodice gave way, the weight of the fabric surrendering to gravity. He kept an eye on you. Always one eye on you. His cock, so hard it pulsed, hung just out of your reach—because he knew you. Knew your bratty instinct to strike when he was distracted. Knew you’d try to take control the second he gave you an opening. He gave you none. Then he straightened.

“Expose your breasts,” he said—flat, clinical. A verbal scalpel. Clean and precise.

Your toes curled in the plush carpet. Your whole body buzzed. He was being raunchy. Deliciously, decadently raunchy. But in the most professionally delivered way possible. As if this was all part of a lesson. As if you were nothing more than a wayward student needing instruction. Like he wasn’t currently leaking precum through the head of his cock, his breathing growing more shallow with every tick of silence between you.

You obeyed. You eased the straps from your arms with trembling fingers, the fabric falling slowly, reluctantly, before you drew it down your bussom and bared yourself to him. The cool air kissed your skin instantly, drawing tight peaks to your nipples, your breasts rising and falling visibly with every breath you took.

And Zayne watched. His gaze locked on the sight of you—on the dusky flush spreading across your breasts, the way you offered them without hesitation, the way your arousal hung on every part of you, from your parted lips to your clenched thighs. You caught it—the moment his control slipped. His hand, wrapping around the base of his cock, squeezed. Not hard. Not impatient. But as if his palm needed the pressure. As if the weight of him demanded something to push against. His cock twitched. A droplet trailed down from the tip—glistening, obscene, gleaming against the flushed skin like a pearl, and his jaw clenched.

Zayne was a mess. A beautiful, controlled, drunk mess trying to hold on just long enough to ensure you didn’t take the lead. Not yet. Not tonight. He would lose it—but not by your hand. Not until he’d dragged the pleasure out of you. Not until he had reminded you, in no uncertain terms, who was in charge.

“Better,” he murmured, sweeping your hair back once more—deliberate, reverent, like you were a sculpture he was preparing to display.

His fingers slid through the strands behind your ears, baring your flushed face to him as if he wanted to watch every flicker of response, every tremble.

“Come here…” He coaxed, his voice thick with restrained heat, “I want you to only examine with your hands first…”

You shifted closer on your knees, breath held, thighs pressed tight as another ripple of heat coiled inside you. Your fingers lifted—tentative at first—then curled confidently around the thick weight of him. Zayne’s hand released him to you without resistance, his gaze sharpening as you took control with all the tenderness you had. He was soaked at the tip, hot in your palm. Every throb of his cock pulsed up through your hand like the tick of a living thing, eager, needy—his entire body reduced to this. You swallowed instinctively, your mouth watering with the overwhelming want to taste him, but you obeyed. Just your hands. For now.

Your other palm joined him, tracing the bulging ridges of veins that curled around his shaft like sinuous roots. His skin was warm satin, pulled tight over steel. You felt every twitch, every subtle jerk of need his body couldn’t hide from you. Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t look away—not from his cock, not from the pulse under your fingertips, not from the faint tremble that moved through his abs every time your fingers drifted too close to the head.

“Report your findings…” Came his voice—low, breathy, dangerous in its softness. His cock twitched hard in your grip at the instruction. You knew he wasn’t even pretending anymore. His body couldn’t lie—not when you touched him like that, “what condition is your patient in?”

Oh, God. The more he committed to the role, the wetter you became. You felt it between your thighs—slick and hot with every small shift of your hips.

“…Hard as all hell,” you whispered, the heat of your breath fanning over the flushed tip of his cock as you gave him a long, deliberate stroke.

His breath faltered. His fingers slid back into your hair like instinct, lovingly combing through it—his last anchor to composure. You pinched your fingers lightly around the crown, watching the way it made his abs tense, the twitch of reaction you drew from him with just the softest touch. You stroked upward, letting your fingers feather over the tip—light, so light—until your thumb dragged a small smear of precum across the head in slow, reverent circles.

“Healthy pulse,” you added under your breath.

A sigh escaped him. His cock throbbed in your hands. You glanced up at him then—at Zayne’s face, tight with restraint, green eyes darkened into something raw and glassy with need. You bit your lip, watching his jaw flex as he barely kept from thrusting forward into your fist.

“My patient is…” You whispered, breathless, lips curling into a small smile of satisfaction, “…Completely immune to alcohol when it comes to erectile function.”

That—that made him twitch.

“Keep talking,” he ordered—shaky now, wrecked beneath the clinical sheen of his words. A command wrapped in plea.

Your heart was pounding—loud, bright, pulsing like a drum in your chest—as you watched him: Zayne, breathless, lips parted, his chest rising and falling in quiet tremors, his cock hot and twitching in your hands. You were slowly wrecking him. Again.

“Patient is…” You murmured, slipping one hand down to cup his balls with aching tenderness, your fingers curling under the weight of them. They were heavy. Full. So full they ached in your palm.

Your other hand moved in a slow, precise twist around the shaft, lifting his cock to attention, exposing him fully, spreading him open like a page in a textbook you were about to study with your mouth. Zayne’s jaw clenched. His knuckles tightened in your hair. You leaned forward—closer—your lips hovering just over the flushed, leaking tip of his cock as you exhaled purposefully, letting your breath sweep across the sensitive skin.

“So, so full,” you whispered, and you felt it—his sharp intake of breath, the slight flex in his thighs, the pulse that surged in your grip, “feels like he’s full of life…But dying for relief.”

Zayne swallowed audibly.

You grinned, sweet and wicked all at once, “I think he needs mouth-to-mouth CPR…”

“Agreed,” he breathed. It wasn’t even a command—just permission. A quiet surrender. Then his voice hitched, “you can administer—s–shit…!”

The second your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, the control shattered. He cursed. The sound of it tore through his throat like it was wrenched from the deepest part of him. His hands locked tight in your hair as your cheeks hollowed around him, lips stretching wide to take the thickness of him in. You moaned softly at the taste, at the feel of his weight on your tongue, at the low, tortured noise he made as he fought to keep his knees steady beneath your worship.

It was so satisfying. Not just the feel of him—though it was everything: hot, heavy, perfect—but the look on his face. Zayne, beautiful and undone, blinking down at you with that flushed, half-wrecked expression, his mouth parted in disbelief. He held that breath—held your gaze—as if he could survive on nothing but the sight of you down on your knees for him. And then he exhaled. A moan left him—raw and unrestrained. His hips jerked ever so slightly, instinctively, against your mouth.

“CPR requires…” He began, voice shaky as he gently began to guide your rhythm, hand tightening into a firm ponytail at the base of your skull, “…A hundred to a hundred and twenty…” He swallowed again, trying to hold on as you followed his pace, more eager now, lips gliding, tongue flattening, pressure perfect, “…Beats per minute,” he finished, a rasp as his jaw fell slack again.

You moaned around him—helpless, needy—and the vibration traveled straight up his cock, pulling another choked sound from his throat. His thighs tensed. His hips began to move—not thrusting, not yet—but swaying in time with the rhythm he set, controlled but unraveling. And in your hands, in your mouth, he throbbed. Helpless to you.

You were dizzy. Utterly, deliciously lost—in the rhythm, in the heat, in the taste of him. Zayne’s cock filled your mouth so completely that it almost numbed thought. Your jaw ached from how wide you had to stretch to take him, and still you wanted more. Your hand gripped the base where your lips couldn’t reach, wet and glistening from your drool and the slick sheen of his arousal as you stroked him with messy devotion.

Your cheeks were hollowed around him, your head bobbing steadily in time with the pace he guided, his fist firm in your hair. The thick length of him pressed to the back of your throat again and again, teasing your gag reflex, testing it—not cruelly, not harshly, but with the kind of greedy reverence only Zayne could possess. And you let him. You wanted it. Your eyes blurred from the effort, from the ache, from the sheer size of him. Mascara-stained tears welled at the corners of your lashes, but still you looked up at him—had to see him. His face. His reaction. That slack-jawed, trembling expression of being wrecked by you. He gasped—sharp and breathless. A moan, bitten off and dragged from his throat like it cost him.

“You’re so good,” he panted, hips bucking into your mouth involuntarily, his voice dissolving into air, “you’re so…S-so good for me, baby…Oh my—Oh, God…”

You moaned around him—no shame, no hesitation. The sound vibrated through your throat, and his cock twitched in your mouth, so thick, so hot, so fucking perfect. You sucked harder. You licked more desperately. You couldn’t stop. You were falling apart with him—drenched and pulsing. His free hand came down shakily, searching your bossom, and when he found your breast above the fallen fabric of your dress, he groaned—low and deep. His fingers pinched your nipple, tugging and rolling it until sparks of raw sensation arced down your spine and straight between your legs. You arched toward him. You moaned again, breath catching wetly over his cock as you bobbed in long, needy strokes—noisy, messy, reckless. Then suddenly, he grabbed your free hand—snatched it right off his thigh, his grip commanding.

“Touch yourself,” he breathed, “between your legs…”

Your breath hitched. You obeyed instantly. Your hand slipped beneath the bunched hem of your dress, fumbling it higher with trembling urgency, revealing skin still flushed with heat. You reached beneath your panties, fingers brushing against the soaked lace—sticky and humid. He watched.

His voice roughened, eyes momentarily squeezing shut as he fought to hold onto what little restraint he had left, “tell me…” He rasped, “…how wet your panties are right now.”

You whimpered around his cock, pulled off just long enough to gasp a reply.

“I’m soaked for you,” you said, panting, eyes wild and lips slick with spit and precum as you jerked him in your fist, “I’m wet everywhere down there, it’s a mess…”

His cock twitched violently at that. His hand in your hair tightened.

“Show me,” he said, the command ragged and sharp, “on your fingers…”

And you knew what he meant. Your fingers slipped with a gasp you couldn’t contain, your moan muffled around the thick weight of him in your mouth. The moment your fingertips rubbed your heat—wet, pulsing, devastated with want—you nearly fell apart. That first swipe past your clit was firm and slick and too much. Your whole body shuddered around the sensation as you exhaled over his cock. Two fingers plunged into your soaked cunt, and you whimpered. You clenched down around yourself, already fluttering with the need for release, and it took everything you had not to start fucking your hand like a woman possessed.

But not yet. Not yet. With slow, deliberate care, you pulled your hand free from between your thighs. The soft squelch of your arousal coated the air like the sweetest sin. Your fingers glistened in the low, warm light—sticky, gleaming with your nectar—and you raised them to him. He seized your wrist before your offering could even reach his face. Zayne’s grip was immediate—firm, possessive—and he stretched your arm toward him, his green eyes locked on your slicked fingers like a man hypnotized. There was something almost reverent in the silence that followed, something sacred in the hunger behind his gaze.

Oh, that sensual, worshipful freak. You watched, hypnotized, as he leaned down and moaned—moaned—just from the sight before taking your soaked fingers into his mouth. His lips parted, wet heat enveloping you. You felt his tongue—felt the intentional swirl of it around every knuckle, every line, every crevice of you. He licked and sucked like a man tasting the divine—slow, focused, savoring it with closed eyes and an expression of such wrecked reverence it made your knees buckle.

And then, something in him snapped. Like tasting you ignited something deeper. Something that could no longer be softened by the veneer of control. He kissed your palm, then your wrist. Each kiss a little more urgent, a little more breathless, until he was pulling you up off the floor—gathering your body to his like he was afraid you’d vanish. You stumbled to your feet, lightheaded and flushed, catching your balance on his broad shoulders. His hands found your hips and yanked you against him. His cock pressed thick and throbbing against the slouched edge of your dress, leaving a wet heat between you as his mouth crashed to yours.

The kiss was a mess. Open. Greedy. Tongues sliding, tasting each other—your slick still faint on his tongue, his precum on your lips. He tasted like you. You tasted like him. It was maddening. Raw. You gripped his jaw, then his chest, and you felt him groan into your mouth as he kissed you harder. Zayne’s hands found the edge of your dress with urgent tenderness, his fingertips curling into the fabric at your waist as he dragged it down your body in one slow, reverent motion. His lips never left your skin—skimming along your jaw with molten softness, then grazing lower, down the curve of your throat, the dip above your collarbone, lingering with parted, fevered kisses that trembled against your fluttering pulse.

And then he dropped to his knees again. The world tilted with the grace of it. Your breath caught. There was something so powerfully wrong about a man like him kneeling—and something even more devastatingly right. Zayne, strong and sovereign, down at your feet like you were his altar, as if the only way to worship you properly was with his whole body lowered, his whole soul laid bare.

You stood trembling above him, your fingers threaded instinctively into his hair—dark, thick, soft against your palms—as he steadied you by your thighs, easing the last of your dress down your hips. Your panties followed, delicate lace dragged along your ankles with care. You stepped out of everything, bare and vulnerable and burning under his gaze.

He kissed your thigh. High up. Just beneath the place that ached for him the most. You gasped, a sound like prayer escaping your lips as he kissed again, higher still, his breath searing heat over your inner leg. His hands slid behind your hips, firm and possessive as they pulled you closer. And then—There it was. The place he’d always craved more than anything. More than your mouth on his cock. More than the slick warmth of your hands. That was what Zayne lived for. Your sex. Your scent. The soft, slick folds of you, flushed and soaked and trembling with need.

He buried his face between your legs with a groan of reverence, as if he were breathing for the first time in hours. He inhaled you. Deep. Slow. Filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal like it was oxygen. His nose pressed into you, just beside the cleft of your center, and his lips brushed your skin—kisses that barely touched your clit, maddeningly close, deliberate in their restraint.

You moaned—unsteady, weak in the knees—and he nudged your thighs wider to make space. He wanted more. Always more. His tongue licked a long, languid stripe up your slit, tasting every drop of you that clung to your folds. Your thighs shuddered around his face. You could feel his moan against your core. Could feel the way he needed this—needed you. The way his tongue swirled, slow and greedy, not rushing to devour but to savor.

“This is mine,” he murmured into your cunt, lips wet, voice thick with devotion. It was more breath than sound—more feeling than words—as he pressed a kiss to your clit so gentle it made your hips jolt.

He was already guiding you backward—his scarred hands strong as you stumbled drunkenly, the back of your knees finding the edge of the bed, folding beneath you until you collapsed into the softness of it. The plush bedding caught your fall, but nothing could catch the way his words set you ablaze.

“Every inch of you…” He rasped, spoken like a vow—no, like a branding—each syllable seared into the air, “…Is mine.”

The moment shattered any thought you had left. You were already spreading for him before he even touched you, legs rising and parting in offering, in need, in surrender. It was primal. Inevitable. He took your hips in his hands with a force so reverent it made you ache, and dragged you—firmly, unrelentingly—to the edge of the bed until your heat was flush with his face, until you could feel his breath ghost over you in fevered waves.

Then—A sigh. A sigh—like he’d just tasted divinity, and you were the altar. Zayne’s mouth latched to you like he’d been dying for it, like kissing your pussy was air and he’d been holding his breath all night. Your spine left the bed in a shocked arc, neck taut, eyes rolling into some white-flecked heaven as he pulled you into his mouth like a man lost in worship. The first suck was sweet. Deep. Almost tender. The second—not.

He licked you like he couldn’t get enough. Because he couldn’t. The rhythm of it was obscene and intoxicating, sloppy and passionate, fast and utterly devout. His tongue pressed, flattened, flicked—worshiped. Every motion bespoke hunger, but it was his love—his unbearable, messy, possessive love for you—that made it devastating. His hands wandered, warm and wanting, skimming up the silk of your tummy like he needed to memorize you. His hair spilled above your mound, soft black strands tickling over sensitive skin, beautiful and maddening. Then those hands—those hands—found your breasts and the world tilted again.

“Th-that’s all yours,” you whimpered, trembling as your sex lifted into his mouth on instinct, searching for pressure, for friction, for him.

And he gave it. Oh, he gave it. A thick, wet smear of tongue swept over your clit—greedy and filthy and perfect. Your hips jerked and your voice broke, caught between gasp and moan and prayer. He felt it. All of it. The quiver in your thighs. The way your nipples hardened like he’d breathed desire straight into them. The way you were already rolling your hips, grinding shamelessly into the rhythm he gave you like you needed to fuse to his face. Your body begged for more with every twitch, and Zayne—fully drunk, wholly in love—devoured that desperation. He didn’t just lick you. He drank you in. He swore, mouth full of you, silently promising more, deeper, always. And he hadn’t even started yet.

“Say it again for me,” Zayne murmured, his breath wet and sin-warmed against your most sensitive skin, each syllable puffing over your clit like a promise. His tongue swept up in another devastating flick, thick and unhurried, savoring the taste of you as if your pleasure was the only thing anchoring him to the world, “God, say it again, Y/n…”

The way he spoke—pleaded—against your folds made you clench, made your thighs twitch, made heat curl in your belly like smoke and lightning tangled into one. It was too much. It was not enough. His voice, low and desperate, didn’t match the sacred filth of what he was doing between your legs—didn’t match the brutal reverence with which he consumed you like you were a miracle he had to pray for with his mouth. Your head lifted from the bed—somehow, barely, you pulled yourself upward, compelled by the magnetic need to see him, hands trembling as you kept your knees hooked apart.

And there he was. Zayne’s face nestled between your thighs, mouth glistening with your arousal, dark lashes spiked from sweat, his emerald eyes fixed right on you the second you moved. His gaze struck you down like a divine weapon—hot, unblinking, starving—and yet loving in a way that made your chest ache. Your hand reached for him without thinking, threading into his black hair, brushing it away from those beautiful, insatiable eyes. And in that very moment, as you swept his hair from his face, he dragged his tongue slow and heavy up the length of your clit in a motion so precise it felt like a signature, just for you to watch, for him to see. You jolted. Your stomach lurched. Fire carved its way up your spine, tearing a gasp from your lungs.

“Th-that’s your pussy, Zayne,” you cried—no control, no shame, just the raw, filthy truth tumbling from your lips like confession.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened—not with shock at what you said, but at how you said it. The way the words cracked, soaked in heat and honesty and so much need it nearly undid him. And then—then—his eyes changed. Darkened. Deepened. He looked like he’d just tasted the kind of truth you couldn’t unlearn.

“My God,” he exhaled, like he was chastising you but couldn’t stop devouring your sweet fruit in sinful greed, “you’re absolutely obscene…”

The words sounded like worship. And somehow, being scolded—dirty little praise stitched in silk and sin—only ignited you more. Your entire body buzzed, vision going soft around the edges as Zayne’s scarred hands traveled lower, as though your words had made him even more reverent, more determined to trace every piece of you like scripture. He mapped your body with fingers full of adoration and possession—ribs, waist, hips, thighs—every inch touched like it mattered, like it belonged to him. Then he dipped in again, mouth parted, lips swollen, and when he sucked your clit back into his mouth with a filthy, noisy pop, your whole body convulsed. It was loud. Shameless. The kind of sound that should’ve embarrassed you, but instead sent a pulse of desperate pleasure through you like a lightning strike. And Zayne moaned into you. Moaned like you were the one pleasuring him.

“The only thing that’s—unf!—obscene,” you choked out, every syllable breaking under the strain of your unraveling control, your breath hitching as pleasure coiled low and molten in your belly, “is how good you look licking my clit back and fo—”

“—Shhhh,” Zayne hushed you, his voice frayed with restraint, rough and husky with something dangerously close to a groan. He sealed his mouth back to you with a noise that made you see stars, dragging his tongue with a sharp, almost punishing shake of his head, as if to rattle the filthy words right out of you. Your entire body jumped—a gasp cracked out of you, stunned and breathless.

“You don’t know what you’re saying right now…” He murmured into you, voice nearly breaking, as if your words were doing things to him he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Y-yes I do,” you shot back on instinct, breathless, defiant, burning for him.

But then—he was moving. Suddenly, he rose up from his knees with a grace so fluid and fast it made your stomach clench. His hands found your hips, and in a flash he was on the bed grabbing you, spinning your trembling body around until you lay fully, thighs still parted and held up. And then he was there again—mouth reuniting with your clit like he missed it, like he’d been deprived of it for years, not seconds. And you were sensitive now, unbearably so. The break had made you dizzy, your nerves exposed, raw, ready to break.

Your fingers dove into his hair again, tangling tight as if anchoring yourself to the world, or maybe just to him, “God, baby, you’re so good!”

The words slipped out on their own—honest and helpless—and the moment they did, the heat in your belly turned volcanic. He moaned into you, grinding his tongue in tighter circles, faster, deeper, lapping like he was dying to drink every last drop of your pleasure. And oh, he did. Again and again and again. Over and over, he lapped at you. And lapped. And lapped. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could do was feel. Pleasure rose in waves, crashing up your spine, shaking through your limbs. You panted hard, hips grinding into his face, into his mouth, chasing the rhythm, chasing that rapture that was no longer approaching—it was already here.

“Yes!” You cried, voice ragged, breaking, your body nothing but heat and nerve and hunger, “Zayne, I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum! Baby, yes!”

Your spine arched in a perfect, helpless curve, head thrown back into the plush, cloud-soft blankets as if they alone could ground you—but nothing could. Not with Zayne’s mouth working you like that, lips sealing you into the center of your own euphoria, tongue painting stars behind your fluttering eyelids. Fireworks went off everywhere—in your vision, your limbs, your core. You twitched beneath him, spasming sweet and raw, nerve endings flaring as he didn’t stop.

And then—oh, God—you felt it. Two long fingers, slick and precise, slide inside you with an ease born of deep knowledge and unrelenting hunger. He worked you even as you came, even as you trembled and clenched around him, your walls fluttering around the intrusion, milking his knuckles like you couldn’t bear to let him go. You sobbed his name, a broken cry of joy and heat and something so much deeper—something wild and sacred. Fingers in his hair, you clutched him to you, hips rising, your whole body offering, smothering, begging as he lapped and moaned and curled. Lord—his fingertips curled toward the ceiling with exacting force, hitting that spot that made the whole world melt into white-hot sensation.

“You want to talk about obscene?” He gasped for air, lifting his head at last, voice wrecked, soaked in your taste, your moan.

You whimpered, already overstimulated, but your body said yes even as your mind struggled to keep up. Zayne sat back on his calves, eyes dark, possessive. He pushed your legs up again with one smooth motion, commanding. He leaned over one thigh, hooking your calf over his shoulder like it belonged there, folding you open like a page only he knew how to read. You gasped—sharp, high, vulnerable—as his fingers suddenly slammed back inside you. Fast. Deep. A brutal, beautiful rhythm that punched up into that spot again and again, leaving your lip trembling, your breath stuttering. Each thrust sent another shot of molten lightning through your veins, the kind of heat that didn’t just warm—it scorched.

And then—his face. God, his face. That look. The pure, undeniable possessiveness in the way he stared down at you—green eyes locked, unblinking, unapologetic. He looked at you like he owned every twitch of your body, every breath, every moan. Like no matter how bratty, how bold, how tempting you ever were—you’d never win. Because you never wanted to. Because you’d already surrendered. And under that gaze? You melted. You opened. You couldn’t help yourself. Your other leg slipped wide, spread away from you like muscle memory, like submission carved into your bones. Welcoming him. Welcoming everything he had.

“I’ll show you obscene,” Zayne growled, his voice velvet and gravel wrapped around molten want. And then—he did.

His wrist blurred with speed, every piston of his fingers punching deep inside you with merciless precision, the heel of his palm smacking rhythmically against your soaked skin. The motion wasn’t just fast—it was furious. Like his body couldn’t contain what he felt for you and had to show it with force, with heat, with everything he had. You shook with each thrust, breasts rippling, your body rocked helplessly over the mattress like a ragdoll of pleasure.

“Tell me again, my love…” He demanded, voice low, breathy from restraint and desire and command, “who’s pussy is this?”

And that. That was it. That broke you. The dam inside you shattered with a fury you couldn’t have prepared for, and the orgasm came not as a wave, but a flood—violent, divine, explosive. It ripped through you, molten and white-hot, the kind of release that seized your body and didn’t let go. You gushed—gushed—hot and wild over his arm, soaking his scarred skin, watching in raw, stunned awe as your own body betrayed its devotion.

You shouted—no, you wailed, your voice trembling from the rawness of it, cracked and vibrating with the pitch of something too big for words. It was filthy. It was gorgeous. It was ruinous. The squelch of your sex under his fingers was obscene music in the air, lewd and slick and wet beyond reason, echoing off the walls and your own ears. And all you could do—all your broken, ecstatic mind could manage—was watch. Watch him own you.

“Yours!” You cried out, throat raw, words breaking apart as you dug your nails into the blanket and your calf as you raised it high, clutching tight to hold something, to feel anything but the overwhelming pleasure, “it’s Zayne’s pussy!”

And it was. It always had been. Your juices sprayed again, shooting over his forearm, coating your thighs, soaking the blankets in a wild, beautiful mess. It was primal. It was his. And Zayne—relentless, in control, unyielding—did not stop. He knew your body, knew you deeper than any man ever could. With every precise thrust, he hit that perfect spot inside you—again. Again. Again. Until your vision blurred into white and your body gave up resisting, all nerves overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the sensation.

Then his free hand slid down from your leg over his shoulder, broad and warm and grounding, and pressed against your lower belly—right where the pressure burned hottest. And that—That made your body snap. You cried out, a broken, wordless sound, split open under the weight of pleasure too vast, too consuming to hold. You were no longer speaking. No longer thinking. Just feeling.

“Filthy girl,” Zayne breathed, reverent and wrecked, the words dripping from his lips like sacred sin, dark adoration pooling in every syllable. His fingers still moved within you—unrelenting, devastating—as your body convulsed beneath him, muscles spasming around his hand in erratic, desperate pulses. You couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t stop coming. You were beyond the point of return, nerves frayed to ribbons, skin slick and glowing from the sheer exhaustion of pleasure.

“Filthy, beautiful girl…” He murmured again, half in awe, half in heat, “you’re so lovely, even when you’re this obscene…”

You couldn’t reply. You were too busy pouring—waves of wetness gushing from your center, soaking the bed beneath you, soaking him. You’d stop for a moment—just long enough to breathe—and then the next orgasm would crash down again, shattering you anew. Zayne worked you like a man starved and you were his feast, writhing, crying out, scrambling for purchase, for relief—for anything.

Your hand clawed across the blankets in blind desperation until you found it—his tie. His favorite. Left discarded, draped across the bed. You seized it, shoved the silk into your mouth and bit down, muffling the scream building in your throat. Your face burned, flushed and soaked, your hair a halo of sweat and wildness. You screamed into the fabric as your body seized up with another orgasm, unrelenting, dizzying, uncountable.

“Gorgeous little minx,” he praised, voice like rough velvet, the sound of it painting ecstasy straight onto your skin, “you love pleasure, don’t you?”

The words were almost a growl, spoken as your slick sprayed over his chest, over his stomach, one hot stream even catching across the base of his hard cock, heavy and untouched and aching. His jaw clenched, his fingers working like your arousal only made him hungrier. You couldn’t reply. Could barely breathe. Couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but him, him, him. And then—finally—he slowed.

Zayne withdrew his wrinkled fingers with agonizing slowness, savoring the sight of them soaked and dripping, your sex still twitching, your thighs trying to snap closed but shaking too hard to even move. He rose over you slowly, reverently, his soaked hand trailing down your thigh while his other reached up, fingers combing gently through your damp hair. He leaned down close. Close enough to taste your breath. To breathe your desperation like perfume.

“Answer me, angel,” he whispered, tender now, his voice featherlight and coaxing. His lips found your jaw—warm, soft kisses between each word, “do you love the way I love you?”

You were limp beneath him. Broken open. Fucked soft and delirious, your head lolling slightly as you clutched the damp tie in one trembling hand. You could barely nod—but you did. The motion was small, half-thought, devoted. Zayne smiled, brushing your hair from your flushed, tear-wet cheek. You let go of the tie as he gently tugged it free from your teeth, the silk slick with your bite, with your need.

“I love…” You whispered, voice ragged and thready as your eyes fluttered open, “l-love…Yes, honey…”

His clean hand found yours like instinct, as if your bodies were still mid-conversation even though your lips had fallen silent from the sheer intensity of what had passed between you. His fingers laced through yours, long and warm, and then his mouth was on your cheek. A kiss that wasn’t hurried or ravenous, but slow. Deep. A devotion pressed into skin. You could feel his breath as much as his lips, feel the softness of him, the affection—and yet, beneath all of it, the pulse of him hard and insistent, throbbing against your thigh like a secret he was barely keeping.

You smiled. Dizzy. Drunk on love. On him. Your whole body humming in the aftermath of ruin. And still, the need returned. Fierce. Immediate. Unrelenting. Zayne lifted you like something sacred, one arm slipping beneath your hips to tuck a pillow there just right, the other adjusting your legs, guiding them open. You bent your knees, hooked your arms beneath your calves to hold yourself open—bare, offered, desperate. Every motion was slow and exact, his hands gentle as they swept your hair from your face, caressing you like you were fragile only because he adored you too much not to be careful. He leaned down, kissing the tender hollow of your collarbone as if to seal you.

“Can you fall apart…” He whispered against your skin, the words melting into the flush of your neck, “just one more time, for me?”

How could a man sound like that? That voice—rasped with need, soaked in love, touched with trembling restraint—it ruined you. You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, vision soft, nerves wrecked, your body craving the only thing that would soothe the ache now: him. The weight of him. The thick, slow stretch of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenched at nothing in anticipation, fluttering open, leaking, waiting.

Zayne straightened, sitting back on his calves, cock heavy and slick in his hand. Your eyes met—green fire to the daze of your blown pupils—and in that moment, you both knew: you were past the point of tenderness. It wasn’t about buildup. It wasn’t about patience. It was about consumption. He swiped the head of his cock against your drenched folds, coating himself in the slickness of your ruin, your need, the taste of everything he had pulled from you. And then—He plunged. And you both shattered.

Your mouths fell open, no sound, no words—just a twin gasp, one single breath of shock. Of pleasure. Of finally. Your brows furrowed at the same time, faces twisting in that indescribable expression of two people being drawn into something primal, something holy. Inch by inch, your body took him, your inner walls fluttering around the invasion, desperately sucking him deeper, stretching, yielding, clinging.

He groaned—a sound from the chest, heavy and reverent—as he bottomed out inside you, groin pressed flush to your soaked lips. His hands wrapped around the tops of your thighs, grounding himself in the feel of you. Of this. And then—together—you moaned. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was love. It was alcohol. It was you and Zayne, undone and lost in the kind of intimacy that blurred the line between self and soul. The room smelled like sex and sweetness, the musky perfume of something too sacred to name.

You could feel every inch of him. The weight. The width. The stretch that made your vision pulse with white around the edges. And you needed it. Oh, God—you needed it hard. No teasing. No slow push and pull. You needed him to fuck you like he was breaking something in you open—breaking it so he could live inside it. You wanted to be pounded. Brutal. Deep. Relentless. You didn’t need foreplay anymore. You needed to belong.

Your vision blurred and trembled with each press of his hips, your eyes trying—desperately trying—to focus through the dizziness. You needed to see him. Needed to ground yourself in something before you splintered entirely. And there he was. Wrecked. Zayne’s beautiful face was slack with raw feeling, his composure utterly gone. The strong lines of his frame were bowed slightly forward over you like even being inside you broke something in him, stole his breath, his mind, his sense of self. His head hung low, black hair damp and sticking to his flushed forehead, jaw loose with panting effort. You loved seeing him like that—so wrecked, so overwhelmed by you.

“Zayne—” you breathed, voice barely air, a plea, a prayer, a confession.

“—I know,” he cut in softly, like he’d been waiting to say it. His hand squeezed your thigh, grounding you in the gentlest reassurance, fingers stroking tenderly into your skin—an I’ve got you in the form of touch. His eyes flicked up, emerald and feral with need, locking to yours with a flicker of aching love amid the heat. And then—he lost it. There was no slow build, no sweet whisper trailing down your neck this time.

Zayne drove into you. Ruthless. Relentless. A sharp, devastating rhythm that had you lurching with every impact. His groin smacked wetly into your open folds, again. And again. And again, the room full of the obscene music of skin, slickness, and desire. His cock slammed into your cunt at that perfect upward angle—God, that angle—brushing and then punching into that sensitive, swollen spot inside you that made your spine snap back like you were being shocked with pleasure. You arched before him, nails digging under your calves, neck pulled taut as your pressed back, lips parted and trembling. Your voice broke over his name—Zayne—again and again, the sound of it completely uncontrolled, completely worshipful. His name was your mantra. And his thrusts were your ruin. He groaned, each sound a ragged piece of his soul breaking loose and pouring into you. The wet slap of his cock driving into your fluttering heat was constant, rhythmic, obscene—a symphony of sex, your moans the melody, his gasping devotion the harmony.

“I want to give you every ounce of pleasure you can possibly take,” he sighed, and his voice—God, that voice—shook with restraint and reverence, as if even he didn’t know how much more he could stand. He pistoned harder, deeper—helplessly, like his own body had abandoned reason and now moved only to serve the heat of your sex, the worship of your need. And then his hand—wide, strong, reverent—slid to your lower belly, pressing down just enough to make you feel him even more, “f-fill you to the brim with pleasure…”

Zayne pressed down, his fingers spreading possessively across your stomach, grounding you beneath the sheer force of his body as his thumb found your clit—soft, flushed, aching. He didn’t rub. He didn’t circle. He just rested there. Let the slick, rhythmic pounding of his thrusts do the work. The pressure of his thumb was perfect, perfectly placed, using the momentum of every slam of his cock into your heat to drag your clit against him in desperate friction. You cried out—high, broken—because it was too much. Too precise. He was hitting every part of you. Every nerve. Every inch. Zayne was a weapon of pleasure. A divinely-sent man made to destroy you with gentleness wrapped around brute need.

“I want, w-want everything you have if—!” Your voice slurred into moans, the words falling apart as your head lolled, the pleasure splintering your ability to think, “i-if it feels this amazing!”

You couldn’t see straight. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was the way his cock dragged through your core, heavy and so thick, the friction spreading you open on every stroke. Your inner walls spasmed with every hit, clinging to him like your body knew this was it—this was the only place you ever wanted to be again. Zayne wasn’t just fucking you. He was worshipping you with his cock. With his need. His gaze was torn between your face and your sex—wrecked, drenched, your slick dripping and coating his thighs, his abs, the loud, wet squelch of every thrust driving him closer to madness. He groaned—again and again—eyes flicking between the mess you were making for him and the desperate contortions of your face. He looked possessed. He looked owned.

“Then take it,” he breathed out, the words husky as he leaned over you more, voice full of reverent surrender, “take everything I have, my love…!”

He looked gorgeous. His face flushed crimson with heat and effort, hair sticking to his temple, jaw clenched in an expression of pure, unbearable restraint. His strong, beautiful frame trembled, every hard-earned muscle twitching with the effort of holding himself back from release just yet. Sweat gleamed across his chest and dripped down onto your stomach as he pushed himself harder, deeper, faster—like he was racing the edge of his own control and losing. You could hear it in his breath—those ragged, desperate exhalations. The concentration on his face as he stared down at you like you were both his salvation and his undoing. His eyes kept flickering—between your clit, your fluttering hole, your mouth as it hung open around choked moans—and every time he looked, he got closer.

“Zayne,” you gasped, your voice a ragged moan, barely enough air behind it, but full of need, full of command. Your limbs were trembling, strung out, your head swimming in ecstasy, and still—you fought to keep your eyes open. Fought to see him, “look at me!”

And he did. Even with his cock slamming into you like a man who had no right to be that deep, that thick, that perfect—he still lifted his gaze again. His breath was wrecked. His body slick and shaking. But when you called to him like that, Zayne looked. Your eyes met, and it hit you both like an aftershock—how wrecked you both were, how far gone. And still you pushed. You were greedy for him. Greedy to burn.

“You love fucking me senseless, don’t you?” You panted, your voice pitched low, sultry, cracked from strain, but sharp with sinful joy, “don’t you, baby?”

This time there was no hesitation. No stunned pause. Just a full-body groan that ripped out of him like you’d torn it straight from his soul. His face twisted in pleasure, jaw clenched like your words lit something in him on fire.

“I love fucking you…” He panted, hips hammering into your drenched sex with force and purpose, his thumb grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips, “love every s-second of…F-fucking you senseless!”

Your walls twitched. The sound of him talking like that—Zayne, who was usually all quiet devotion and tender hands—now panting, cursing, pounding into you with a need so raw it made your spine seize. Your thighs jerked. Your insides clamped. Every single thrust was like an earthquake, knocking you farther into a place beyond thought. Your belly burned. That pressure in your core? It was unbearable now. Unstoppable. The combination of the angle from the pillow beneath you, the grinding weight of his hand pressing down on your lower stomach, his cock hammering your sweet spot, and his thumb grazing your clit like he knew you were about to explode—it was all too much.

“You’re gonna make me cum so hard,” you sobbed, your voice no longer words but pleading sound, raw from the back of your throat, “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna—ahh! Ahhh!”

“Cum for me,” Zayne pleaded—commanded—his hands tightening on your thigh and lower belly as he rammed into you like a man utterly consumed. His control had long since vanished, all restraint shattered under the heat of you. The wild slap of skin meeting skin filled the room, and his emerald eyes—God, those eyes—were glazed, feral, drowned in lust, “God, cum for me! One more time! Yes! Yes!”

And you did. You came on command. Like your body was wired to his voice, to his hands, to his cock, to his love. The heat inside you detonated—violently, beautifully—into a blinding inferno that seized you in full-body convulsions. Your walls clenched down hard around him, squeezing the thick length of his cock with a relentless, fluttering grip that refused to let go. You gushed—poured—liquid heat coating both of you, splattering between your thighs with every powerful shove of his hips.

You screamed—his name, broken, bliss-drunk, holy—as your spine arched clear off the bed, head tossed back, mouth open in surrender. Light burst behind your eyelids like fireworks, your climax crashing through you in endless, punishing waves. And then—he followed. Zayne groaned from the depths of his chest and collapsed forward, catching himself with one trembling arm as the other clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream while his cock shoved deep and stayed. He twitched inside you. Twitched again. And then spilled. You could feel it—thick, hot, endless—bursting from deep inside him and flooding into you in white-hot pulses. Ropes. Ropes of him flooding you, painting your walls white while he pressed his hips down hard, burying himself to the hilt to keep every drop locked inside your fluttering warmth.

“Just like this…” He panted against your ear, wrecked, lips brushing your skin with each broken word, “I love making you cum, sweet girl…”

His voice was shaking, soft, warm, aching, every syllable dripping with adoration and exhaustion. His weight settled over you like a promise—like safety. Zayne’s hips rolled slow, lazy, still twitching as the last spurts spilled from him, his breath hot at your throat, his cock still throbbing in your overwhelmed core. He clung to you—chest to chest, heart to heart—never pulling away.

“I’ll do anything…” He whispered, lips ghosting along your cheek, your jaw, a trembling kiss on your sweat-damp temple, “say anything…If it makes you feel good…”

His voice cracked again, breath catching on the weight of how much he loved you, how utterly you had him.

“As long as you scream my name the way you do…” He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, melting against your mouth, “I’m completely fulfilled.”

You lay there in the breathless quiet, your bodies still humming from the aftershocks of the high you had just shared—violent, sacred, unforgettable. The room was painted in the thick perfume of sex and sweat, the low hum of the air conditioning finally cooling your skin as it clung to his. Your legs shook as they settled back onto the mattress, muscles soft and helpless.

Zayne didn’t say anything as you reached up to wipe the damp strands of hair from his forehead, his lashes fluttering at the gentle touch like you were soothing something raw and vulnerable deep inside him. Then he pulled out with a hiss, a wince twisting his face—not in regret, but in that particular ache that only came from giving and receiving everything. He was spent. Body sore, cock spent, every inch of him used up in the beautiful act of loving you. With a groan, he flopped onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes for a second, the other tangled with your trembling fingers. You felt him squeeze gently, grounding both of you in the silence that followed—the kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything, that just held.

“…Are you alright?” He asked after a moment, voice slurring softly, his head turning to catch the dew of your flushed face.

You nodded, your tired smile lighting up your eyes, “oh, I’m amazing, Zaynie…”

That name—slurred so sweetly, so intimately—made him laugh, and you joined him, your giggles tangling into the hoarseness of his breathless chuckles as he extended an arm to gather you into his chest. You curled into him like muscle memory, like you belonged there—because you did.

“You really are,” he murmured against your hair, kissing the crown of your head. His lips lingered there, his breath catching slightly as he whispered, “I love you so much…Enough to be alright with how mortified I know I’ll be in the morning when I remember all the obscenities I uttered tonight…And when I get a barrage of voicemails with noise complaints from the hotel staff…”

You laughed into his chest, your body still trembling as you tucked yourself tighter against him, “your obscenities were my favorite…I loved it.”

And you meant it. Every moan, every filthy praise, every desperate cry—it wasn’t just sex. It was Zayne. Yours.

“Don’t be mortified,” you whispered with a sleepy smile, “we’ll be brave about it together tomorrow.”

Zayne nodded into your hair, holding you a little closer, as if the weight of your words stirred something ancient in him. He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence sit, deep and warm, pulsing between your bodies like a second heartbeat. But inside him, something cracked open—softly, quietly.

He remembered that night. The fireworks blooming in the sky above you, lighting up your smile in bursts of color and wonder. You’d been curled into his side, nervous about how much you were starting to love him, how terrifying it felt to fall so hard. And he, in his quiet, steady way, had promised you: “The girl I love will never have to be brave on her own.”

And now—you remembered. You remembered and gave it back to him, tucked into a giggle, sweet and sleepy, like it had always lived inside you. It pierced him. Right through the chest. Zayne pressed a long kiss into your crown and shut his eyes. And then another memory came. The wish. He hadn’t told you about it—not once, not even when you’d teased him for being so secretive about it since. But on that same night, beneath those blooming stars, he’d made a wish. Silly, stubborn, sacred. One he wouldn’t speak aloud until the moment it came true. That you’d say yes when he asked you to marry him. That you’d look at him with those same star-bright eyes and say yes to forever.

He bought a ring and had been keeping it ever since. Tucked into the lining of his travel case, always with him, like a secret promise only he could feel burning through the silk. Sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d touch the spot just to reassure himself it was still there. Still possible. And maybe it was almost time. Maybe soon. Maybe tomorrow, even. Maybe next week. But you—silly, lovely girl—hadn’t figured it out. Hadn’t guessed that the thing he’d wished for all this time was you, with your legs in his lap, your laughter in his ears, your hand slipping into his like it had always belonged there.

After a lazy, half-drunken cleanup—just enough to climb into dry sheets and bury yourselves under a nest of tangled blankets—you both collapsed into bed. You, curled into his side. Zayne, still a little dazed, still pulsing with everything you’d just shared. His hand never left your waist. And as sleep took him, heavy and slow, he smiled to himself. Because even with his body sore and the air still thick with the echo of your names, his last waking thought was that ring. And how beautiful you’d look when he’d finally ask you to marry him.

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loaksky · 7 months ago

Text

— come a little closer

hockey jock!vi x tutor!reader, fluff / humor / angst / kinda slowburn / smut (18+ mdni!), wc: 16k+ [buckle your seatbelts bc i could not shut the fuck up about vi if i wanted to !]

synopsis: you’re many things; an exemplary student, quiet and well-mannered, loved immensely by those who bother to get to know you, but most importantly, the newfound object of superstar athlete vi’s every affection. or, in other words, hockey jock!vi is lowkey a loser, atrociously down bad, and will stop at nothing to make you hers.

content warnings: language (duh), brief mentions of familial issues, latent insecurity, miscommunication & lack of communication, kissing, groping, SEX! mdni, seriously, i’ll THROW UP!, more specifically fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), spitting, makeup sex idk, just good old fashioned lesbian BANGING! also! jazz cabbage, lets pretend for the sake of this au that student athlete’s don’t get tested bc i NEED hockey jock!vi to hotbox reader PLS.

fic soundtrack: i could imagine —alina baraz /snooze — sza /tonight — summer walker / pressure — james vickery + sg lewis / wish that i could — umi

author’s note: of course it’d be arcane s2 that resurrects me from my almost yearlong hiatus...pls enjoy this fic even though i’m pretty rusty; she’s been cooking in the drafts for weeks T-T i’ll be answering some (very long overdue) asks and chatting with you guys <3 and finally, this shit is barely proofread bc my brain is fried lol

main masterlist | arcane masterlist

VI HAS A HUGE PROBLEM.

One that supersedes every issue she’d ever given weight to in all of her four (and a half) years of university. Is way larger than twice-a-day practices on and off the ice that go hand-in-hand with studying so hard to make sure that her grades don’t slip a fraction. Probably way bigger than the fact that her little sister’s graduating high school soon and she’s trying her absolute best to be as great a role model as she can despite wanting to crack under the pressure. And most definitely bigger than her favorite on-again-off-again fling, Cait Kiramann, who’s rare to come by these days.

Vi has a huge problem, and quite frankly, it’s you.

In hindsight, she’s been relatively good at overlooking you, not that it’d been intentional to begin with, but Vi knows a lot of people. Too many, she feels sometimes. So it's easy for you to slip through the cracks when everyone’s vying for even a shred of her attention.

Perhaps it’s what piques her interest when your orbits finally do collide. Because, admittedly, you know all about Vi. Know that she’s probably one of the most valuable players on the uni’s hockey team (she’s an absolute beast on the ice). Also know that she’s a biomedical physics major and actually incredibly smart. But most of all, you know that not only is Violet a flirt, she’s a player.

Not necessarily that you’ve ever really been on the receiving end, but mostly because her reputation precedes her and you’ve seen it all from a distance. Can't not when the decorated hockey star is such a charmer whether she intends to be or not. Vi has girls both certain and questioning stumbling for a single glance.

You often think it’s pitiful, but it’s not like it’s really your problem.

Until it is.

It all starts at The Afterparty.

Hours after a big victory in the first game of three that solidifies whether the university hockey team participates in the championships, Violet is the star of tonight’s celebration.

She’d sunk the winning shot, and for that she’s being poured shot after celebratory shot. By eleven she’s practically hammered and it’s when her teammate, Ellie, and the captain, Abby, finally show up.

The three of them together, drunk, is like a minefield of obnoxious laughter, dirty innuendos, and rowdy behavior.

And for a while it’s funny, has Vi feeling like she’s on cloud nine, but eventually, the drunken high begins to evaporate and she starts to feel a little overwhelmed.

The spotlight shifts and even though Vi typically preens under the attention, she’s grateful to finally breathe.

With a plastic cup full of water, she’s sliding the back door open and stepping out onto the back patio to take in the cool air for a breather.

She makes a move towards the stairs, but nearly jumps out of her skin when she registers the silhouette at the base of the steps.

“Jesus, fuck,” Vi hisses to herself. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You don’t even spare her a glance over your shoulder, just take a sip from your drink.

“Sorry,” you hum passively.

She catches her breath, doesn’t even bother to ask permission as she drops all of her weight next to you.

The step creaks under pure muscle.

Her strong legs stretch out, elbows settling back against the step up as she waits. And waits. And waits.

The amount of silence that lapses is unusual, uncharacteristic for Vi, especially so because people are typically babbling enough to fill the void when it comes to her.

But you just sit there, nursing your beer and staring up at the stars. The moon hangs half in the sky, softly illuminating the planes of your features.

It’s her first good look at your face and Vi’s definitely drunk, but the immediate thought that comes to her mind is pretty, pretty, pretty. Undeniably and painfully pretty. And not Caitlyn pretty, the only girl she’s ever really used as a benchmark, but intimidatingly so in your own right. Makes her swallow hard, throat bobbing as she watches you unapologetically.

“It’s rude to stare, Violet,” you say simply, eyes finally flitting to meet hers.

Her breath catches in her throat, earthy flecks dancing in your moonlit irises. God, your eyes. Framed by thick lashes and round as you look up at her.

“You know who I am?” she asks stupidly as if point fives of her face aren’t blown up into memes and plastered all over the house.

“Who doesn’t?” you ask, breathing a puff of humorless laughter as you crush the can in your ringed fingers.

And perhaps you got her there, but Vi’s feeling exceptionally small under your gaze despite usually filling out a room. Something about you makes her shrink.

“I— fuck,” Vi stumbles, cheeks red because you’re looking at her with an indecipherable gleam in your gaze that has her squirming. “What’s your name?”

She cringes at herself, rolls the piercing in her nose once, twice, for comfort.

You laugh again, a little more genuine this time because, from a distance, the athlete’s usually so suave, undeniably gorgeous and composed. Right now, the girl in front of you only ticks one of those boxes.

“________,” you offer.

She weighs the name on her tongue, decides she likes it a lot, and tries to shake off whatever this feeling you’re giving her is.

“And you go to school here?” she asks.

You nod once.

“Neuroscience, fourth year.”

“Huh, we’re in similar fields, but I’ve never seen you around,” Vi observes. Because she’s certain she’d bookmark a face like yours, absolutely no doubt about it.

“We had organic chemistry together sophomore year with Dr. Talis,” you say matter-of-factly, like you’re not blowing her mind right now. “And I’m auditing Medarda’s biometry class this semester.”

Vi’s floored.

“Wait, wait, but...” She’s trying to piece the puzzle together, but her brain’s still a little fuzzy, equal parts from the alcohol, but also because she’s caught a whiff of your perfume and you smell so sweet.

“I pop in every once in a while,” you tell her. “But I tutor in that time slot every Tuesday and Thursday, only really go when I don’t have any appointments.”

“Hold on, this is nuts,” Violet says, body easing to face you. You flinch because she doesn’t realize she’s practically yelling. “There’s no way, I definitely would’ve remembered you if that was the case.”

You hum, corners of your lips quirking as you shrug your shoulders.

“Doubt it,” you counter. “I’m nothing particularly spectacular.”

“Nothing particularly spectacular,” Vi repeats under her breath.

And under normal circumstances, she’d be flirting up a storm right now, trying to charm her way into getting you to bite, but this is one of the first semblances of normalcy she’s experienced in a while. No ulterior motives, no exaggerated kindness, no outright asking her to fuck.

Suddenly your phone lights up in your lap and you’re turning your attention to the device.

“DD duties call,” is all you say as you make a move to stand up.

No, this can’t be all she gets from you tonight. Not when she’s been narrowly missing someone like you for the past four years and you’re just now coming to light.

The dormant liquid courage bubbles and Vi’s gently grabbing your wrist to pull you to a stop.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” she asks, steely eyes liquid as she stares up at you.

You eye the scar on her lip, gaze lingering there before flitting to meet hers.

“Maybe.”

Vi decides that she needs to see you again.

You’d left her with crumbs this past Friday night and she’d spent the better part of the weekend trying (and failing) to cross paths with you again.

“Jesus, you’re down bad,” Ellie chuffs Monday morning on their walk to the campus coffee shop.

“You don’t understand,” Vi defends. “She’s so...so...”

“So?”

“Different, I dunno,” Vi sighs, fiddling with the strap of her backpack as they walk. “We didn’t even talk about much, but that was the most normal I’ve felt around someone in a while.”

Her teammate snorts.

“Probably the gayest thing I’ve heard you say,” Ellie deadpans. “She isn’t immediately trying to munch and you’re already in love. Pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Vi scoffs as they approach the coffee shop, inside packed full with half-functioning college students so early in the morning. “Trust me, if you met her, you’d—”

The words die in her throat because halle-fucking-lujah, the universe or god, or whatever has answered her every prayer this past weekend as she clocks you a few paces ahead in line.

Ellie follows her friend’s line of vision to find exactly what she’s staring at and she lets out a low whistle when her gaze finds your frame.

From a completely aesthetic standpoint, she can see why Vi’s immediately hooked.

“Hah,” she makes a noise in her throat. “Okay, so maybe it makes sense.”

Vi can’t help but stare because, if it were possible, you were far prettier under the warm lighting of the cafe’s ambiance. The curls of your hair frame your face beautifully and it’s so fucking cute how focused you are on your phone.

“Hate to break it to you, though. That girl’s way out of your league,” Ellie says like it’s common knowledge.

“Wow, way to boost my ego,” Vi mutters drily.

“Just being realistic,” Ellie argues. “If you bag her, she’s easily the hottest girl you’ve been with.”

And Vi can’t really contest that, not when the proof’s in the fucking pudding.

Her body’s moving of its own accord and before she can register her own actions, she’s mumbling quiet s’cuse me’s under her breath as she squeezes between patrons to close a bruised hand over your shoulder.

You nearly jump out of your skin, fumbling with your phone as an earbud falls out.

“Shit, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Vi says quickly.

Your gaze snaps to her, brows furrowing almost imperceptibly before your expression settles.

“Violet,” you acknowledge.

And she realizes that she didn’t really have a game plan coming up to you so abruptly. Had been so focused on actually just seeing you again, that she hadn’t thought through the rest of it.

The way you stare up at her is thoroughly disarming because she doesn’t have the shield of night or alcoholic courage to carry her through it.

“Can I help you?” you ask, but not unkindly.

“Oh, uh, I...” She chances a glance over her shoulder to find that Ellie is watching her from a few customers away, eyebrow cocked and smirk testing. She word vomits before she can think of a coherent thought. “You mentioned tutoring...the last time we talked.”

You don’t even bat an eye.

“I did.”

“You’re also auditing Medarda’s biometry class.”

“I am.”

“I’m...I’m not really doing too hot in Medarda’s right now,” Vi says, brain nearly short-circuiting and freezing up because, lie! She’s doing phenomenally in Medarda’s session and, truthfully, she’s just downright scared to ask you to hang out.

Especially when you look up at her like that.

You shift and she’s swallowing down around nothing.

“Hmm, can’t have that, can we?” you hum.

Vi could melt.

“No,” she breathes out a laugh. “Can’t.”

“You can sign up for a slot through the library’s website,” you say after you weigh the thought.

Vi’s pausing, staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“So I can get paid?” you fill in.

“Oh, right,” Vi chokes. “Right.”

You give her a soft smile before plugging your earbud back in, leaving Vi to rejoin her obviously amused friend.

“You’re fucking joking!”

The librarian gives you and your incredulous roommate a look from the circulation desk and you return it with a sheepish smile from where you’re tucked by a wall of looming floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Maddie,” you whisper.

“You’re telling me that The Violet asked you personally to tutor her?” Maddie asks you, leaned over the tabletop with wide eyes.

“Yeah, cornered me at Brew House this morning and asked me to tutor her in Medarda’s class.”

“Just that?” she asks. “Nothing else?”

You look around in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah?” you scoff. “What else would she want?”

“What else would she— are you serious?” Maddie leans back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she gives you a plain look. “You know all about Vi, you’re actually gonna play stupid?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes. “You’ve seen the girls Violet’s fucked, right? Kiramann? The blonde from the tennis team? She’s got a type and you know it.”

It’s Maddie’s turn to roll her eyes and you see the exasperated groan she’s staving off.

“None of that self-deprecating bullshit—”

“It’s not self-deprecating!” you argue. “Not everyone wants to fuck Violet, Maddie. Put me in the number one spot.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t start.”

“All I’m saying is that anyone with eyes can see that Vi’s hot as fuck. That being said, you’re also hot as fuck. Not only that, but rumor has it, she gives the most toe-curling—”

You’re rolling your eyes again, gaze fluttering out the window momentarily only to find that, speak of the devil, Violet’s approaching the library with a skip in her step.

Maddie stops her spiel to trace your gaze and nearly falls out of her seat when she finds the object of your conversation is advancing, fast.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself, pulling up your tutoring log on your tablet to find that, yup, Violet has most-definitely taken your advice and signed up for a tutoring slot.

If the time reads correctly, you’ve got three minutes before she’s due to be taking Maddie’s seat.

Your friend is grinning at you mischievously, stuffing her backpack quickly to vacate the space across from you.

“Un-fucking-believable,” you scoff, slumping back in your seat.

“Tell me how it goes,” she giggles, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stands.

“Maddie,” you warn.

“Love you, see you at home!”

Violet’s strolling into the library just as Maddie leaves through the other doors and try as you might make yourself small in the open air near the research center, her gaze falls on you as soon as she enters.

“Hey,” she breathes once breaches your vicinity.

“Hi.”

A moment lapses before you’re nodding towards the seat before you.

“We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

Right. Right! Vi’s mentally cringing, pulling the chair out with a squeak and dropping onto the worn cushion.

Her eyes are locked, watching as you pull the biometry textbook from your little messenger bag.

“Any particular areas you’re struggling in?” you ask, flipping to a clean sheet of paper in your notepad and clicking open your pen.

Vi combs her brain, tries to think of anything she’s not really grasping in Medarda’s class, but she’s been acing all the exams with flying colors, so she spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Logistic regression, probably,” she answers.

“In relation to...?” You tilt your head and Vi’s breath is hitching.

“The Confusion Matrix,” she answers, even though she knows all about it.

It’s only when you start breaking it down from the bare bones that she realizes that she could listen to you talk for-probably-ever.

You obviously have a great understanding of the subject if the way you deconstruct the relationship between sensitivity and specificity (or whatever the fuck) is anything to go by, and she doesn’t realize that she hasn’t even blinked until you’re glancing up at her.

“Am I making any sense?” you ask softly, taking in the almost confused look on Violet’s face.

“Huh?”

Vi snaps out of it, cheeks coloring pink when she notes the way you straighten in your seat.

“Am I going too fast?”

“No, no!’ Vi practically shouts before chancing an embarrassed gaze around the library to find a few wandering eyes. She clears her throat and tries to relax. “No, you’re doing great. I get it.”

You don’t seem convinced, but the faster you get through the material, the faster Violet can leave and you can finally catch your breath.

Because maybe Maddie’s a little right. That while you know, one hundred percent, without-a-doubt, that you and Violet are cut from two different cloths and that you ultimately won’t mesh, there’s still a sliver of want that settles somewhere confined in the pit of your gut.

You don’t know how long you continue before you notice that sun has begun to set in the horizon, but Vi’s effort is unwavering. She’s probably on her tenth practice problem by now and so far, she’s only flubbed once.

You decide to fold your cards first.

“O-kay,” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as you roll your shoulders and squeeze your hands shut so tight your knuckles crack. “This is a good stopping point, don’t you think?”

No, Vi could keep going forever if it meant hearing you talk all night, but the little G-shock wristwatch winks the time and she realizes that the two of you have been going at it for going on two hours and you’re probably exhausted.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” Vi says sheepishly. “Thanks a lot for your help, I...”

You look up from where you’re shuffling your papers together, pausing when she hesitates.

“I really appreciate you. I know you probably help dozens of people every week and—”

She stops talking when she sees you crack what seems to be the first genuine smile she could get out of you since Friday.

“It’s my job, Violet,” you tell her. “I’m happy to help.”

And she’d done well enough during the tutoring session, had a successful run with the practice problems. You were confident it was just a one and done. Perhaps served as a review for the upcoming exam Medarda had posted on the class page.

But then you see her name in the final time slot on Thursday, don’t really think much of it until you’re tabbing to next week’s schedule for shits and giggles. Tuesday and Thursday are booked through again, her name highlighted in yellow.

You minimize the calendar and pull up the aggregate schedule only to find that every 4 o’clock slot every Tuesday and Thursday’s been booked until the end of the semester.

You refresh for good measure.

“Oh, you’re so shitting me.”

You don’t know what kind of joke this is, if Violet thinks that this is funny, but you’re not amused.

Especially when you’re stalking all the way to the athletic hall, ignoring the wolfish stares from shameless student athletes to whip into the women’s hockey team’s reserved conditioning space.

You find her benching near the center of the room, Abigail Anderson spotting her while the rest of the team engages in various workouts and exercises.

A hush ripples over the weight room as you approach the hockey star, standing at the end of the bench where her knees are bent. One of Abigail Anderson’s eyebrows quirk up as you stand there with your hands on your hips and you hope the chill that runs down your spine as she checks you out doesn’t visibly vibrate your body.

When the barbell nearly crushes Vi’s chest on her last rep, Abby’s quick to help her re-rack and takes the biggest step back as Vi sits up.

Her expression falls and her face pales when she locks eyes with you, your features severe and gaze stony.

“Oh, hey,” she squeaks.

Truthfully, she hadn’t really pinned you as the type to be confrontational. Thought she’d have enough time to build a strong enough story as to why she booked out all of your tutoring sessions when in actuality she panicked when Ellie started grilling the fuck out of her about being a fucking pussy and begging her to just ask you out.

“You have some explaining to do, Violet.”

And she should definitely be embarrassed, not at all turned on, but she can’t help it as she gulps. Because when you stand before her like this, she can easily admit that she’d die for a private version of the view.

The silence in the weight room is palpable and you want to back down, but if this is some running joke and Vi’s going to make a show of humiliating you in front of her teammates, then you’d give her a show.

“Violet.”

Someone in the back snickers, another whistles, and Vi’s cheeks go red.

She’s standing, sweaty hands closing around your biceps as she spins you around and quickly guides you out of the conditioning room and out of her teammates’ line of ogling sight.

“V—”

“I’m sorry,” Violet splutters. “I’m just not really confident in Medarda’s class right now and I don’t trust myself to study alone, plus you’re a really good tutor and—”

“You do realize that those tutoring sessions are added to your tuition, right?” you ask incredulously. “It’s fifteen dollars an hour.”

Vi’s smile is crooked.

“That’s what my scholarship’s for,” she grins.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?” you try again. “I feel that before an exam for a little refresh is fair, but this would be like relearning the material after every class, all over again.”

“If it’s taught by you, I’ll take it,” Vi says quickly, and you pause because what does she mean by that?

You don’t really have much rebuttal left even though you’d marched up here with a fire under your ass. Vi’s looking down at you with a softened edge in her gaze and she’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and sweat-soaked grey tank that reveals swathes of ink that curls up her arms and disappears under the fabric of her shirt.

She breathes out a small laugh when she notices the way your eyes dance.

“Anymore concerns, cupcake?”

Your gaze snaps to hers and her grin widens when she sees you fidget, little pet name obviously eliciting a semblance of a reaction from you.

“N-No,” you stammer.

“Great, see you tomorrow?“

You swallow.

“Okay,” you agree. “See you tomorrow.”

Violet pops into the library at four on the dot.

Her hair’s wet from an obvious shower and you smell her, warm like honey and cedar as she takes the seat across from you.

“Afternoon, cupcake,” she greets, slinging her backpack into the seat next to her.

You give her a warning look, but she just flashes you a toothy smile and nods towards the opened biometry textbook before you.

“What’s the lesson today, Teach?”

And this feels an awful lot like mocking, but you can’t be sure, not when Vi’s been somewhat respectful, sweet even.

“What do you know about the the sigmoid function?” you probe.

“Jack shit,” she laughs.

And maybe you’d find it endearing if the entirety of the situation wasn’t still absolutely mindfucking you at moment.

“Can I ask you something, Violet?” you ask, leaning back in your seat as you cross your arms to level her with as an intimidating look as you can.

“Sure, anything.”

“Are you messing with me?” you ask. “Is this some joke you and your friends are playing? Because I can’t really think of an outcome that would be funny.”

And you’d like to say that the look of horror on Violet’s face is consolation enough, but you know how being loved and being popular can make people act sometimes.

Vi contemplates telling you the truth, that she’s too chickenshit to ask you out, that getting close to you in any other way scares the fuck out of her. That maybe getting you to tutor her will segue into some form of friendship that’ll allow her to ease her way in. And maybe she’s going about it the hard way, but maybe Vi also likes a challenge.

“No jokes, just bad at statistics,” she says weakly.

You’re silent for way longer than comfort allows before you turn your attention to the textbook and Vi’s letting out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.

“Fine,” you give in. “Let’s talk about sigmoid function and practice some applications...”

Vi’s happy to listen, goes through your preselected practice problems with ease (and maybe fucks up a value or two here and there to really sell her need for you). But the sun’s going down again, and it’s nearing six when Vi folds her hand this time around.

It comes in the form of her stomach grumbling in the emptying library and she looks up at you in embarrassment as you crack the first smile of the evening.

“Hungry?” you ask.

“Starving,” she replies dramatically, leaning so far back in her seat, her knees bump yours under the table.

Your toes curl at the contact, heart skipping when she doesn’t make a move to reposition herself.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks, eyes looking everywhere but yours.

“Not since breakfast,” you admit.

“You like pizza?”

“Only the good kind,” you challenge.

“Beautiful,” Vi hums, shuffling her papers into her textbook and chucking it back into her bookbag. “I know the best place.”

Valentino’s is a hole-in-the-wall right outside of campus, a short walk from the library that Violet leverages as a way to get to know you outside of being lectured about statistical curves and correlation.

“Did you grow up around here?” Vi asks once the waiter sets two glasses of water down between the two of you.

You shake your head.

“No, grew up on the east coast and decided I needed a break from my life there,” you admit easily.

It’s almost as if the facade of professionalism fades away, melting to reveal you.

Vi’s desperate for more.

“As in?”

You look at her for a moment, wonder if you should divulge because you’re not really sure if Vi would get it, but she watches you like she’s hanging onto every single word you say, so you’re spilling.

“My dad died when I was little, left me and three other siblings with my Mom,” you offer. “And I love my siblings. Love my mom. She’s been a great parent, better than great actually, but most of our family disowned me when I came out and it was easier to run away than to deal with it.”

Violet’s expression falls, a furrow settling deep between her brows.

“Wow, I’m, uh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says, and she sounds sincere. A long moment lapses before she’s adding, “for what it’s worth, I think that’s very brave of you.”

And you seem a little surprised at the sentiment.

“Thanks.” You smile. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

Vi could turn to goo in this dimly lit booth, stained-glass wall sconce casting a warm glow over your pretty face.

“You—” She sniffs, changes the subject because she doesn’t know if she can do this on an empty stomach. “You like pineapple on your pizza?”

“Oh yeah,” you confirm proudly. “It’s a hill I’ll die on, I’m not sorry.”

“God, marry me now.”

She doesn’t realize she says it out loud until you’re bursting into a fit of laughter on your side of the booth.

“So this is something we can agree on?” you ask, head tilting in the way that makes Vi want to grab your face and taste you.

“Oh yeah,” she parrots instead. “One hundred percent.”

Valentino’s becomes routine just as much as Vi seeing you at four every Tuesday and Thursday becomes routine. It’s always after the Thursday session (because they have a three dollar slice from 6 to close) that you and Vi cram yourselves in the same booth near the kitchen and giggle over half a Hawaiian pizza.

“...And my little sister blew up her science project in the fourth grade—”

You choke on your bite, eyes wide as Violet recalls Powder’s little mishap that sent the entire gymnasium evacuating despite the tiniest fire.

“Now she’s about graduate and start school for chemical engineering,” she says, obviously proud.

“She seems like a smart girl,” you observe, if the countless stories Violet shares with you is anything to go by.

You figure being related to someone as great as the new friend you’ve made also speaks for itself.

“The smartest,” she agrees. “I’m proud of her.”

“I’m sure she’s proud of you too,” you assure her. “You’re a good big sister.”

And it’s in these moments that Vi realizes that she’s in far, far deeper than she initially gave stock. Because these past few weeks, she realizes that there’s a lot more to your big brain and your pretty face. You’re an attentive listener, way funnier than she could have anticipated, and just a lot more laid back than you let on.

That much she finds out after the two of you graduate from emailing with silly sign-offs to exchanging phone numbers and texting. It starts off rather irregular, a coffee order here and there, maybe a TikTok that Vi swears is funny, you just have to watch it all the way through! But then she starts texting you when she’s bored, when she’s in class, before practice, after. Even pops the question that’s been niggling at her since she met you: on a scale from 1 - 10 how down are you to smoke?

Like cigarettes?

no, weed, dummy.

Oh. Hmm. 7. 10 if I’m drunk.

She could not wipe the smile from her face even if she tried.

And then she gets the invite.

Ellie swears it’s her in.

“Jesus Christ if you even consider me a friend, you’ll bang,” Ellie calls from the couch.

“It’s just tutoring,“ Vi argues.

“Yeah, at her place,” she scoffs. “At least test the waters, maybe cop a feel.”

“You’re a pig,” Vi snorts, making sure her laptop and all of the worksheets Medarda’s assigned over the course of the week is in her backpack.

“You’ve been wet dreaming over this girl for months.”

“Fuck all the way off.” Vi’s face warms because her best friend isn’t necessarily wrong.

You’re too hot for your own good, but you don’t even know it and Vi thinks she could die sometimes. Especially when you wear your favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hug the swell of your ass just right. Or swipe on that shimmery lipgloss she swears makes your mouth look edible.

If you were willing, Vi would be all over you, but thinking about taking advantage of the fact that you trust her enough to invite her into your space feels a little grimy.

“Whatever, bang, don’t bang,” Ellie says nonchalantly. “Blueball yourself for all I care.”

Vi rolls her eyes, slings her bag over her shoulder before sliding on her shoes and leaving her friend on the couch with a resounding click.

You live off-campus, maybe a ten minute drive, in a cozy little complex near the suburbs. Your roommate, Maddie, a chipper blonde with a bob, is all too eager to leave when Vi arrives.

“Hi, sorry we couldn’t meet anywhere else,” you apologize as you let her into your space. “Even if the library wasn’t closed, the vet said I have to monitor Pip for the next 48 hours.”

Vi raises a brow.

“My cat,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Vi doesn’t know why she suddenly feels like she’s intruding as she hesitantly toes off her shoes and follows you down the hall.

But she does take the opportunity to take you in in all your glory; all cozy and cuddly in an oversized sweatshirt, plaid pajama shorts and mismatched egg socks.

Cute. So fucking cute.

You spare her a glance over your shoulder and she’s clearing her throat.

“We don’t have to have a session tonight," she says, stopping at the threshold of the living room. “I would’ve understood if you had to cancel.”

You shake your head, give her a soft smile that has her knees feel like jelly.

“S’okay,” you assure her. “A promise is a promise.”

And you do start off studying, shoulder to shoulder in front of your coffee table, but then Pip crawls from his little hiding spot under the TV console to curiously nose along Vi’s feet and she’s a goner.

“He’s so sweet,” she practically wails as he paws at her thigh and nudges against her arm so that he can climb into her lap.

You warm at the sight, can’t help but snap a picture, much to Violet’s dismay.

“Stop,” she laughs. “That picture can’t see the light of day.”

“Why?” you whine, making a show of climbing onto your wooden coffee table to get a funny top down photo of the hockey star with your cat. “You and Pip look so cute together.”

She feigns a scowl even though her shoulders shake with laughter.

“I have a bad boy image to uphold, sweetheart.”

You snort, reach into her lap to scratch behind Pip’s ear, and her heart melts, body warm from her ears to her toes.

“Is he sick?” she asks cautiously, petting him softly.

“Just a little,” you say. “Something some rest and medicine won’t fix.”

It’s how the two of you end up on the couch, study materials long forgotten as Animal Planet plays in the background. Pip’s moved to lounge atop the covers draped over your lap and you’re blowing your nose into a tissue as an especially sad segment about baby animals being rejected by their mothers finishes.

Vi knows she shouldn’t laugh, but you’re too fucking cute and she can’t help but coo at you.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” you hiccup.

“What, that you’re a big soft baby?” she teases.

“Vi,” you whimper.

And something in her brain tickles because she can’t recall a time you’d ever called her by her nickname, only ever referred to her as Violet and nothing else.

She resists a smile.

“Okay, okay,” she gives in. “Lets change the subject.”

You make a noise of agreement as you cuddle your sleepy Pip.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” she says, arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers a hairsbreadth from your figure.

Test the waters, cop a feel.

Vi’s not particularly into the idea, but the opportunity’s right there in the way wisps of your hair falls from its hold. Her fingers move of their own device, tucking the strands behind your ear.

She feels you still for the slightest, most imperceptible of moments, but then you’re relaxing, letting her fingers brush from your ear down to your shoulder, then back to where it rests on the back of the couch.

“You doing anything on Saturday?” she asks, really hopes you’ll say no.

“Not that I know of,” you say without second thought.

Not that you really need to. Your tight circle of friends are all alike, tethered to their hobbies and their homes.

“I have a game on Saturday,” Vi starts, fiddling with a little hole in the cushion. “If you wanted to come.”

You don’t agree or disagree immediately, and Vi’s scrambling to soothe over any potential discomfort.

“You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, of course,” she says quickly. “I just— I thought you might be interested in going and I’d really like to see you there and—”

A small little laugh puffs from your lips.

“Of course I’ll go,” you agree easily.

Vi deflates in relief.

“Great,” she sighs. “Awesome.”

Vi doesn’t know why she invites you. More so, she doesn’t know why she tells her teammates that she’s invited you because now they’re whooping and hollering in the locker room, towel-whipping her and sing-songing that their star player’s gonna get laid.

Doesn’t know why she invites you because as soon as she glides on the ice, she’s searching the stands high and low for your familiar figure. When she clocks you nestled in the middle with your roommate and another friend she vaguely recognizes, her heart’s soaring and her stomach’s twisting in knots.

Vi’s never nervous, but somehow you bring out the worst of it.

It only takes a few moments, though. The blare of the horn snaps her back into her zone and she leaves all the noise off-rink. In this moment, all she knows is cutting ice, dodging the other team’s most aggressive players and sinking shot after shot.

It’s nearing the end of the second period when she finally glances at the score.

5—4.

The opposing team’s giving them a run for their money and this is probably one of the tightest matches they’ve played all season. She takes a moment to find you in the stands again, and you’re right where she left you, eyes already glued to her as you hover over the edge of your seat.

She hadn’t realized it before, but you’ve got her number painted on her face and another surge of warmth layers over the exertion.

You give her a thumbs up and she feels like lightning.

They reset and she’s off, like a streak of light in the night sky, she’s shuffling the puck towards the goal.

Then you see the navy uniform barreling towards her, voice caught in your throat as Vi gives the puck one last shot before that damned Jersey Number Six shoves her so hard, she’s flinging into the rink’s wall.

The horn chugs, signaling the end of the second period and the stands erupt in a ceremonious cheer as the playback reveals that Vi had sunk the puck before time.

“Fuck yeah!” you cry out, shooting to your feet to clap your hands.

Vi ignores the instigating chants to fight, only really pays attention to your little dance of excitement as she shakes off the other player and rejoins her team for intermission.

“Fuck, Vi, you got it bad, huh?” Abigail Anderson’s spearheading the teasing once they all return to the locker room at the end of the game.

Vi’s body heats at the thought, isn’t really in the business of denying it anymore, because, you know what? Yeah. Vi’s got it so fucking bad for you, she doesn’t even know what to do with herself. You’re her first thought, her final prayer, and everything in between.

So all she does he shrug, can’t help the grin that splits her lips as she rubs her towel through her sweat-damp hair.

She’s the first one out of the locker room, dressed in some sweats and a pullover, towel slung around her neck as she steps into the tunnel. Your contact’s pulled up, and she’s ready to fire off a text asking where you want her to meet you, but she stops short to see you already leaned outside of the change room’s doors.

“Hey, cupcake,” she murmurs, smiling hard when she finds the smudged number 5 still chalked on your face.

“Hi, Violet,” you return shyly, hands clasped behind your back.

She hears the telltale whoosh of the locker room doors, the chattering of her teammates as they poke their heads out into the hall to be nosy, but she’s guiding you along, throwing a wink over her shoulder as the two of you fall into step.

“Thank you for coming,” Vi says after a moment. “You being here really meant a lot to me.”

You don’t know if Vi’s always been this sentimental, but just never given the opportunity to showcase it, or if she’s just buttering you up, but you can’t help but beam at her with pearly teeth and dimpled cheeks.

“God, Violet, you were so good!” you say excitedly, a little skip in your step. “You were in the rink, skating circles around them, like this, and like this.”

She bursts into laughter as you start speeding down the tunnel, dodging garbage bins and jumping up into the air to click your heels.

Something falls out of your little fannypack when you land, and Vi’s crouching down to pick up the tulle baggie to find a little beaded bracelet with a gold clasp that reads puck off.

“What’s this?” Vi asks, and you stop your shenanigans to turn your attention to her.

When your expression falters and you’re running back to her at full speed, she’s holding the baggie up just a little too out of reach for you, grin smug.

“Is this for me, sweetheart?” she asks presumptuously, even though her heart’s thrumming hard in her ribcage.

You’re on your tiptoes, chest pressed against hers, and god, please! is all Vi can think when your head tilts up, a little defeated knit between your eyebrows.

She milks the fuck out of whatever this is, arm banding around your waist as she returns the baggie to you.

“Maybe,” you whisper finally.

“Maybe what?” Vi teases.

“Maybe it’s for you,” you respond, free hand coming to rest on her chest.

“And what do I have to do to get it?” she asks, voice low.

It makes your body jolt hard as a shiver slinks down your spine because there she is, the insufferable flirt who knows exactly what to say to have your brain turn to mush.

You seem like you’re contemplating for a moment and Vi’s breath is hitching in her throat, wondering if you’re willing to play this cat and mouse game with her.

You smile, something glinting in your warm eyes.

“Puck off.”

Your giggle is maniacal as you slip away, leaving her temporarily stunned before she chases you down the tunnel. And she should expect your speed, especially because you’ve got legs, but it takes her a moment to catch up with you when her practice bag’s thumping on her back like that. Her calloused fingers are closing around the flesh of your hips in no time and she’s pulling you back into her arms.

“Cough it up, sweetheart,” she huffs.

You whine.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you counter.

“Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

And you give in because Violet’s made you weak. She’s holding out her wrist as you free the multi-colored bracelet.

You barely clasp the closure in the ring before Violet’s stumbling into you, a big burly girl from the other team shoulder checking the fuck out of her.

“Nice job standing in the middle of the walk way,” she bites.

Violet only snorts a laugh.

“Whatever, good game,” she calls.

Whoever she is, stops, levels Vi with a deadly look before her gaze flits to the bracelet you’ve just fixed around her wrist to you who stands frozen into place as the tension crackles between them.

“Cute,” she observes and your skin prickles. “Let me take her for a spin?”

“Violet,” you warn when her shoulders square and she takes a step forward.

She looks torn between walking away and beating the shit out of whoever this instigator is, but one of her teammates is shoving her along.

“Leave it.”

Whatever that was shatters the moment between the two of you and Vi’s taking in a deep breath as Abby trails behind the two of you.

The girl whistles for good measure and you throw a dirty look over your shoulder.

She winks.

You’ve still yet to find out who hosts these parties, but this time around gives you a weird sense of deja vu as you climb the steps with Maddie in tow.

You and Vi had parted ways at the rink, not before extending you an invite to the celebration later in the evening.

You should come, I can pick you up.

But per usual, DD duties call, and you’d smiled up at her despite the lingering pressure from the prior confrontation and promised her that yes, you’d absolutely be there.

Maddie squeals from the step below as you climb the front porch, breaths coming out in puffs of steam.

“You look so hot,” she says excitedly.

You giggle nervously, sure hope you do because you’re freezing your ass off!

“Yeah?”

Maddie gives you an incredulous look, eyelids powdered with glitter and gaze lined charcoal. She’s looking extra cute tonight too and you know that the two of you could fall into an endless cycle of teasing because a certain someone’s probably inside tonight.

“If she doesn’t fuck you before the night ends, I will,” Maddie teases, and you’re warming unceremoniously at the thought.

Because maybe you’ve been thinking about it a lot more recently despite only going into this trying to get through these tutoring sessions and dipping. Especially as of late now that Vi’s made it a habit to FaceTime you after practice, on your walk to the library, dripping sweat and chest heaving.

You’d always seen the appeal, but now you feel it.

You smooth down your asymmetrical skirt and Maddie steps up to adjust your tits in your lowcut lace blouse just as the door swings open to reveal none other than Violet.

“Oh—” Her voice catches as she takes you in.

Maddie gives your ass a little swat and Vi’s gaze is following the movement as your roommate pushes past her to slip inside.

“I was— I was just about to step out. To, uh, to call you,” she stammers.

You breath out a little laugh.

“Here I am.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Here you are.”

Jesus, fuck Vi could burst into flames right now. Your boots hug your thighs and Violet’s not gonna lie, she really wishes it were her head squeezed between—

“You look...” Hot, so fucking edible, downright fuck— “...really nice.”

You smile, but you can’t help the way your teeth chatters.

“Fuck, shit, you’re probably cold,” she curses, warm hands closing around your shoulders to pull you inside. “Why didn’t you wear a jacket? You’re gonna get sick.”

I wanted you to want me.

“Guess I just forgot,” you say quietly.

She looks like she wants to scold you, but instead, she’s pulling down her coat, a big black work jacket, hanging from the banister of the stairs around your shoulders and you’re relishing the residual warmth that lingers there and her familiar scent.

“Can I get you a cider?” she asks. “It’s still warm.”

It hits you as her fingers curl through yours, that Vi’s truly nothing like what you initially thought. She’s sweet, and she’s respectful, and she’s everything you could ever hope for.

You freeze at the thought, and Vi’s glancing at you when she’s tugged to a stop.

“You okay?” she hums.

Your eyes search her face, gliding over the scar on her lip and the one slit through her eyebrow. The gold hoop pierced through her nose glints under the lowlight and her thick lashes flutter as she looks down at you.

You give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes because wow, you’re in deep.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, give her fingers a squeeze for good measure.

When she finally secures you a mug of steaming cider, she’s guiding you to her group of friends that occupy the living room.

You only recognize Ellie, her best friend and her roommate, and Abby, the captain. Everyone else is a jumbled mix of names and faces and you stick close to Vi as she settles into the left corner of the couch.

You make a move to sit on the armrest, legs crossed and hands folded around your mug, but Vi’s spreading her legs and pulling you into her lap before you can effectively protest.

Her warmth immediately engulfs you and it takes every ounce of self control not to curl up into a ball in front of all her friends and classmates.

As they recap the game and catch up with each other, you remain hushed, eyes flitting from person to person as they speak. Toes curling whenever Violet’s voice vibrates in her chest as she talks big about sports and the hot teams this season.

You’re caught off caught when Ellie’s directing a question towards you and you barely register.

“What do you like to do?” she asks you.

All eyes audibly shift to where you’re cozied up in Vi’s lap, cider empty and abandoned on the side table.

“Uh.”

Your words are lodged in your throat because you’re so used to talking Vi’s ear off about your interests (namely, Animal Planet and your son Pip), showing her your little craft projects you like to do in front of the television on a weekend evening (you’d taken a break from the scarf / hat combo you were knitting to finish the bracelet you designed for Vi), and yapping about some obscure film you’d watched while finishing said projects.

But here, now, you don’t know what to say. Not when this isn’t your typical crowd and you don’t know what to expect from her friends.

Vi must feel your hesitation because her digits are slipping into her jacket, fingertips ghosting the small of your back as she presses a palm against your spine to smooth the tension there.

It’s okay, is a silent insinuation.

You give her a look from the corner of your eye before you turn your attention back to Ellie.

“I don’t do much,” you offer honestly. “Just starting my old cat lady duties early, I suppose.”

Ellie laughs benevolently.

“You have a cat?”

“Yes, his name’s Pip, and he’s basically my kid.”

“Cute,” Ellie coos. “You got any pictures?”

And you seem to light up, spare Vi one more glance as you dig in her coat pocket to produce your cellphone, charms jangling as you power it back on to show Ellie the lockscreen.

“I contemplated naming him Toothless from—”

“—How To Train Your Dragon!” Abby fills in from across the couch. “That’s such a good ass movie.”

It warms Vi to the bone, seeing you and her friends nerd out. Seeing them put in the effort because they know she likes you and seeing you reciprocate because, well, you’re you, and you just need a little warming up.

She doesn’t know how long you and her friends chat for until you’re shifting a little and turning your attention back to her.

“Can you show me the bathroom, please?”

Her gaze flits to her circle, and they’re smirking, obviously under the impression that this must be some sort of code the two of you concocted.

She ignores them, and most importantly she ignores the way her pulse jumps when you stand from your seat and perch between her legs, offering both of your neatly manicured hands to her.

This is getting fucking ridiculous.

The bathroom is tucked under the stairs near the front of the house and she stands post outside the door as you finish up.

It’s only when you’re poking your head outside the door sheepishly that she stands up straight.

“Can you help me with my zipper?” you ask timidly.

She puffs a laugh, slips in through the space you crack for her to find you holding the two sides of your skirt together.

And she knows she shouldn’t look, but the space allows her to see the pink lace of your panties. She’s shoving her tongue in her cheek, focusing on lining up the seams and pulling up your zipper as you hold the fabric taut.

“Thanks,” you whisper, looking up to see that Vi’s impossibly close to you in this cramped little powder room.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she croaks, leaning against the counter as you wash your hands.

She thumbs the hem of your skirt absently.

“I like this,” she admits, gaze trailing up to meet yours. “You look pretty.”

Your ears burn, unable to meet the smolder of her steely eyes. You’d probably find that her pupils are blown wide if you did. Instead, you’re watching her mouth, lips stained cherry and tongue coming out to wet the dry patch.

You hold your breath as you reach across her for the hand towel, but her hands find your hips, teetering into dangerous territory as she moves almost close enough to slip her hands under your skirt.

“You’re not gonna say thank you?” she asks, watching you through hooded eyes.

A nervous giggle bubbles.

“Thanks, Violet,” you murmur.

“‘Course,” she agrees easily. “You gonna wear it again?”

You bite.

“If you ask nicely.”

She licks her lips again, body flexed as you allow her to press you closer. One of your hands splays on the counter behind her, the other brushing over the blooming bruise on her jaw.

“Can I?” she husks.

You don’t need to ask for clarification, not when her nose is nudging yours and your breaths are mingling.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Pl—”

The door rattles with the ferocity of whoever’s knocking on the other side.

“Hurry up in there, I gotta piss!”

To your dismay, the two of you don’t talk about Saturday night. And things’s aren’t particularly bad, but something’s definitely shifted and it’s driving you nuts.

Vi’s on the ice practicing the following morning and after classes on Monday, so you wait for your session with bated breath on Tuesday. You try extra hard despite every voice of reason telling you that you’re reading into it too much.

Vi smiles at you easily as she drops into the seat across from you, pulling out her biometry textbook without so much as a peep about the fact that the two of you almost kissed in whoever the fuck’s bathroom that was over the weekend.

You’re staring, hard.

Because that familiar feeling’s coming back. The seedling of doubt that had rooted in the beginning about Vi’s intentions with you. She’d done a good job of weeding it out over the weeks, of dismantling whatever image you’d built of her in your head, but it plants itself again.

She’s squeezing your hand across the table and your gaze flits down to her rough fingers. That’s when you notice it, the bracelet, still fastened where you clasped it on game night.

You relax a fraction.

“Everything okay?”

You smile, something small.

“Yeah, good,” you assure her.

The rest of your tutoring session is uneventful, goes off without a hitch. And you’re shameless in admitting that you hate to see her go as she walks you to your car in the student lot near the library.

You’re grasping at straws, clearing your throat before she closes your door for you.

“Uh,” you squeak. “Do you want to come over?”

Vi’s pausing, hand still on the edge of your door as her lips twitch.

“Like right now?”

You nod because you’ve already pulled the trigger.

“Like right now,” you confirm.

She checks her wristwatch, sighs heavily because fuck yes, she’d love to come over right now, but Anderson and Williams are expecting her for a strategy meeting with the coach and—

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to, I know we only really—”

She pinches your cheek before tucking some of your hair behind your ear.

“I can’t tonight, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says. “But tell you what, if you’re willing to free up your Friday night, I’d really like to plan something.”

Your heartbeat skips.

“All yours,” you say without missing a beat.

Vi’s grinning wide.

“Perfect, drive safe,” she bids. “See you tomorrow.”

And you don’t know why you’re so fucking high strung, not when Vi hasn’t done anything to make you doubt that this isn’t all in your head, but it only gets worse as the days go by.

It doesn’t come to a head until Thursday, when your tutoring slots are miraculously empty until Vi’s and you receive an email from Medarda to meet in her office after her string of lectures.

“Afternoon,” the older woman greets, smiling warmly at you as she lets you into her office. “Just wanted to check in with your audit and request any feedback you have.”

You think for a moment before shaking your head.

“Nothing in particular that I can think of,” you say easily, then add with a laugh, “feel like I’ll be a professional by the end of the semester.”

“Why do you say that?” Medarda chuckles as she logs into her computer.

“I have a student sitting every Tuesday and Thursday for tutoring in your class,” you reveal.

She gives you look crossed between surprise and amusement.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You giggle at the distant memory of Vi’s expression in the weight room. “She seems to be picking it up well enough, though.”

“Huh, every Tuesday and Thursday?” she asks, fingers flying over her keyboard. “I must be doing something wrong.”

“I’d hardly say that,” you say. “When Violet booked all my sessions, I thought it was a joke, but I think she’s just really dedicated to doing well.”

“Violet?” Medarda repeats, hands stilling over her mouse.

“Yeah, Violet, on the women’s hockey team?”

Your professor’s eyebrows twitch.

“Why would you— huh. Weird,” she comments.

“I admit it was a little strange, but—”

“Violet’s a consistent top scorer on the exams,” Medarda shares. “She’s been top of the class since the beginning of the semester.”

And it’s like the world stills as she reveals that information, fragile pieces shattering as the gears start turning in your brain and you try to put the puzzle together.

You glance at the clock, find that you’re due to meet Violet in half an hour.

“Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” you say politely, try to ignore the concerned expression etched on your professor’s face at your sudden departure. “It was nice chatting with you. If I think of anything feedback-wise, I’ll be sure to email you.”

And you’re running.

Vi’s in the locker room after practice, toweling off after an extra long shower because she’s been looking a little extra forward to seeing you today, but perhaps that’s everyday as of late.

She’s hooking the bracelet you gave her back on when her phone vibrates and she’s practically diving into her locker when your text tone bleats.

sweetheart: I have to cancel your session this afternoon. I’m sorry.

Her expression screws up.

everything ok? can i do anything for you?

sweetheart: Personal things to take care of. I’ll see you next week.

I’ll see you next week.

But what about tomorrow? She’d been working so fucking hard on tomorrow, on finally pulling her head far enough out of her ass to ask you to give the two of you a shot.

She sets her phone down, slumps down on the bench as she turns her wrist and takes in the smooth glass beads of the bracelet.

She sighs. Hard.

You hole up all weekend long, put your phone on do not disturb, and try your best to get whatever this is out of your system. But you’re a slave to your emotions and you can’t help but check your messages every time you know Vi’s free.

It’s a single text on a Saturday night, one that surprises you because you know she has practice now that the big game’s fast approaching.

violet <3: hey sweetheart, just checking in. i know you said you had a few personal things going on, but i’m here if you feel like you need someone <3

You’re texting back before your better judgement can stop you.

Just been a little stressed. You wanna come over?

Then you add, We can smoke.

Vi’s sending you three running emojis and you crack a smile at your screen before realizing that you need to shower.

You lay out some clothes beforehand, ultimately settling on last Saturday’s skirt.

Vi’s giggling as you fumble with the wrapper, rolling it with clumsy fingers because, truthfully, you don’t do this often, but she shuts right up when you don’t break eye contact as the tip of your tongue slides across the seam to seal the joint.

She’d picked you up with a Sprite and a slice to split from Valentino’s, throat drying as you bounded down the stairs in the same fucking skirt that had her touching herself after she’d gotten home from the party, guilty and wound tight. Now the two of you are tucked away behind some abandoned strip.

“Ready?” Her voice rasps as you pop the end between your lips and she brings the lighter to ignite the end for you.

It burns as you inhale and Vi’s thighs squeeze together involuntarily. She’d smoked with you twice before, both times on the roof of your apartment building and at a reasonable distance. But now, she knows what your body feels like, almost knows what your lips taste like.

You take a few more puffs before offering it to her and the smoke begins to plume to fill the space of her little coupe. It’s moments like these, tucked away from prying eyes, that it’s just you and Vi.

Not Vi, the supposed womanizing hockey star, or you, the nerdy homebody tutor. Just the two of you, two souls trying to get through university and carve your paths.

“I aced Medarda’s exam this week,” Vi says softly, jay pinched between her fingers as she watches you with lowering eyes.

“Oh, yeah? I wonder why,” you quip in return, face impossibly close to hers despite the console between you.

“I have a smartypants tutor that does an especially good job when she’s motivated,” she answers.

Your cheeks flame, but you don’t back down. Vi’s been extra good at pushing your buttons and flirting hard as of late, and maybe you’re a little more than willing to receive and reciprocate, but the two of you have been toeing the line, yet neither of you have taken the leap.

This moment, however, feels like it could be it. Like you’re going to find out what the fuck all of this even is.

“I have to meet this tutor of yours,” you play along. “She sounds like a miracle worker.”

“Among other things,” Vi teases, sucking in the smoke and blowing it through her nostrils.

“Like?”

“She’s also funny as fuck,” she hums. “A big baby when we watch Animal Planet.”

You narrow your eyes at her and Vi lets out a little laugh that makes your toes curl.

“Uh-huh?”

“She’s really fucking pretty too,” she says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms. “Kind of pretty that makes you wanna do bad, bad things.”

You smile falters as a shiver rips down your spine and before you know it, Vi’s putting out the joint before climbing in the cramped backseat of her car to spread her legs.

Doesn’t even give you a moment to process before she’s pulling you on top of her and allowing you to settle comfortably in her lap. Her hands run up your thighs and disappear under your skirt to grab the fat of your ass.

You breathe out a little giggle as your slender fingers come up to cup her jaw.

“Think my tutor’ll be mad at me?” Vi murmurs, nose brushing yours. “‘Cuz I really, really wanna kiss this pretty girl in my lap right now.”

You let out a broken little sigh when her hips buck.

“Maybe she’ll forgive you,” you whisper. “I know I would.”

And that’s all the affirmation Vi needs from you before she’s taking the plunge and slotting her lips with yours; kissing you with so much fervor, you’d think she needs you to breathe. She tastes like mint and weed and you can’t get enough.

Vi’s all-consuming, her kiss a delicious mix of teeth and tongue. And, god, her hands. Rough and calloused, but gentle in the way she explores your body. It isn’t until she’s snapping the band of your thong and her fingertips ghost the seam of your sticky heat that you’re hyper-focusing.

“Mmmph, Violet, Vi—” Your voice cracks as she breaks from your lips to map a series of kisses from your jaw, to the juncture behind your ear, down the column of your neck. “Wait.”

She stops, hands pulling from under your skirt like you’ve burned her. And perhaps you have, branded nearly every part of her because she can’t really think of a sound moment if you’re not there.

“Sorry, sorry,” she shudders as the arousal ebbs through her tightened body. “I—”

I’m caught up. I’m losing it, and it’s all your fault, and—

“Violet,” you swallow, fingers toying with the collar of her varsity sweatshirt. “I have something to say.”

Her throat bobs and her grey eyes gleam like ash in the lowlight of the backseat of her car. The windows are smoked out and it’s exceptionally warm, equal parts sexual tension and another thing Vi can’t quite pinpoint.

“Yeah, anything,” she assures you, hands resting on your waist instead. “You can tell me anything.”

One of your palms settles over her chest, right where her heart is and you suck in a sharp breath.

“I— uh, I really like you, Violet,” you admit quietly. “A lot more than I think I’ve ever liked someone in a long, long time.”

Oh.

Oh. Here it comes, the big fat rejection. The coming to your senses.

“But?”

The look on your face is devastating and Vi’s scared.

“I have to know that if I give you a chance, you won’t abuse it,” you hiccup, and wow, that’s definitely not what she expects you to say, but fuck does it leave a sour taste in her mouth.

“Abuse it?” she repeats, face crumpling.

“Violet,” you sigh.

“Abuse what?” she husks.

“I know you—”

“Do you?” she scoffs, a wave of irritation washing over her as she looks you with disappointment. “What gave you the idea that I would ever even dream of taking advantage of you giving me a chance?”

“You don’t necessarily have a spotless record, Violet,” you say, voice edged. “And I know that I’m not your usual—”

“Not my usual what?” The venom in Vi’s tone is uncharacteristic, but this is not at all how she expected tonight to go and she’s frustrated. “Not my usual type? You internalized all this shit that people say about me even though I’ve been trying to get you to see me for months.”

Emotion clogs your throat because a small part of you knows that Vi’s right. She’s never given you an outright reason to doubt her interest in you, but it all just seems too good to be true.

“Sue me for wanting to protect myself,” you choke, climbing out of her lap and back into the front seat. “Especially because I know that you don’t actually need help in Medarda’s class.”

And that catches Vi off guard. You see as much in the rearview mirror when she pales.

She clambers back into the driver’s seat.

“Who told you that?” she asks, not even bothering to deny the fact.

“I mentioned that I was tutoring you in passing when Medarda asked for feedback on her class,” you respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “She asked why I’d be doing that when you’re top of all her sections.”

Violet’s voice is stuck in her chest.

“And then your past hook ups parade around campus like a reminder that—,” you cut yourself off, obviously hurt after bottling this all up. “And it isn’t any of my business, nor are we anything enough for me to plausibly upset—”

“Yes, I lied,” Vi admits quietly. “But only about one thing.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re right, I don’t need help in Medarda’s class. I lied about being clueless and I signed up for tutoring even though I didn’t need it,” she says.

“Why?”

“You know why,” Vi huffs. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”

It’s a glaring insinuation that makes you crack.

“No one ever says it out loud, but I know what everyone thinks,” you choke. “Violet’s fucking that loser?”

“You really believe that?”

“God, Violet, I don’t know what to fucking believe,” you cry out. “My life’s fucking fine and dandy and then you show up and make me fucking question everything I—”

Vi lets out a humorless laugh, can’t even look at you and it could make you sick.

“You’re so fucking loved by everyone, even those who won’t admit it,” you croak. “And you’re incredible at everything you do, turn everything you touch to gold, and I’m just...”

Vi’s brows furrow.

“You’re what?”

“I’m me,” you whisper meekly. “I’m just me and you’re you, and I just don’t see what makes me so different.”

And Vi realizes that she’d read it all wrong.

“Look at me,” she says softly, fingers tracing your jaw.

You knuckle your tears away, make a petulant noise in your throat.

“You wanna know why I booked all your stupid tutoring sessions?” she huffs. “Because I really fucking like you, ________. And it’s beyond wanting to fuck you even though god knows I’d fucking die if you let me. It’s so much more than having you physically. Because I’ll take being just friends with you if it means having you around. I don’t give a shit about anything else but you.”

It’s the most sound declaration you hear from the girl in the semester you’ve known her and it makes you cry.

“You make me feel so fucking normal and you remind me that I don’t need to be anything else but me,” she breathes. “And I get where you’re coming from, I hear you. I just really hope you hear me too.”

“I do,” you whisper. “I’m just—”

Vi squeezes your thigh, takes your hand in hers and brings your knuckles to her lips.

“Let’s get you home, okay?” she offers gently.

Vi only has one more game before the championships and she won’t lie and say that this limbo with you has her feeling like she’s going to be ill.

You’d cancelled her tutoring sessions this week, told her that maybe the two of you needed to spend some time apart and that she was clearly doing a number on you. So she agrees, tries to give you space to work through what’s weighing on you.

sweetheart: Good luck at your game tonight, Violet. I’m rooting for you.

She really wishes you’d be there, but she knows you need the time alone.

thanks, sweetheart. i appreciate you.

“Alright Vi, we have fifteen til puck drop,” Ellie says carefully, has been front row to everything transpiring between you and her best friend.

Vi tucks her phone away in her backpack, unhooks your bracelet from around her wrist and fastens it to the handle of her bag, and grabs her stick from the rack before she lets her teammates jostle her into the tunnel.

And she wishes she could lock in, clear her head and get into the game, but all she can think about is you.

It’s a narrow victory once the game ends, but she can’t find it in herself to celebrate, especially not at the kickback afterwards because fucking Sev and her assholes are there.

“Where’s your little dime piece?” she taunts.

“Fuck off,” Vi warns, obviously not in the mood.

“Shame,” she whistles. “She looks like a fucking weirdo, but she sure does have a fat ass—”

Ellie’s fist cracks so hard across her jaw.

“She told you to fuck off,” she hisses.

Sev spits the blood in her mouth on the toe of Ellie’s shoe, fists bunching the collar of her sweater.

“Keep that fucking energy on the ice because I’m gonna wipe the floor with your fucking pissbaby team.”

You wake up on Monday morning to a text from Vi and a handful of notifications from Instagram.

violet <3: can i see you this week?

You open Instagram.

sev.94 has requested to follow you! sev.94 has sent you a message request!

Your brows furrow, opening the message request hesitantly. There’s a few DMs and a video from this Sev person.

sev.94 hey pretty, sorry to text you like this. sev.94 just thought you should know the kind of person your little girlfriend is sev.94 sent a video. sev.94 i don’t really do relationships, but i’d take your mind off of it if you let me.

You’re playing the video, quality grainy and audio blasted. You don’t know what you’re looking at at first, it’s dark, and there’s so many voices. But you see skin, see the outline of a girl’s naked back, delicate and arched in pleasure.

You think this Sev person’s just fucking with you, playing some stupid joke with a shitty punchline as someone’s hands snake around to palm the flesh of the unnamed girl’s ass, but then you see it.

The bracelet.

Vi going to lose her shit for two reasons.

(1) Because you haven’t responded to her message despite your read receipts being on, and (2) she can’t fucking find the bracelet you’d gifted to her.

She’s barging into Ellie’s room, shirtless and hair dripping.

“Jesus, fuck, do you knock?” Ellie hisses, buds she was in the midst of grinding scattering across the floor.

“I can’t find the bracelet she gave me,” Vi says quickly.

Ellie’s face scrunches.

“Huh?”

“The bracelet ________ gave to me,” Vi says. “I hooked it on my backpack before practice on Saturday but it’s not there anymore.”

Ellie’s expression morphs, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Maybe you misplaced it,” Ellie offers. “Regardless, we practice tonight, I’ll help you look for it.”

Vi’s chest is tight, doesn’t want to admit that the stupid little bracelet means way more to her than she lets on. She only ever takes it off when she’s on the ice, won’t risk losing it when she’s got a target on her back and everyone plays rough.

It turns out to be futile when they enter the rink and she retraces her steps only to come up empty-handed.

This, she realizes, is the start of a very long week.

You should’ve seen it coming, really. Don’t know why you tried to psyche yourself into thinking that Vi could ever really want something with you when the world’s her fucking oyster and she can have anything she wants.

And you want to feel bad when she texts you intermittently through the days, checking in, offering to meet you, anything. But part of you is angry, unforgiving, tired.

You could’ve gone the rest of the school year unscathed if she’d just left you the fuck alone, but she pried and she tugged and she settled, and she made a home inside of you and you hate that you let her.

xxxx: i really miss you.

You block her number, block her social media, and even though finals are imminent, you now know that Vi’s been playing you for a fool this whole time and you cancel every last one of the sessions she’s booked.

You hope she’d get the message, figure that you’d caught onto her little game and aren’t willing to play anymore, but she doesn’t, that much is clear when you’re finishing up your two thirty session and find her stalking into the library just as the student leaves your table.

“Are we going to talk like adults or are you going to keep acting like—”

You don’t entertain a response, just pack your bag and sling the strap over your shoulder because the tears are bubbling and you don’t trust yourself not to break.

“Seriously?” Vi bites, hot on your heels as you throw all of your weight against the library doors and suck in the icy air.

“Leave me alone, Violet,” you warn.

“No, fuck that,” Vi spits, hand closing around your bicep. “You don’t— You don’t get to make me fall for you and then try to leave with no explanation.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Fuck you, Violet,” you hiccup, yanking your arm from her grasp and putting as much distance as you can between the two of you. “I hope you and your friends got a good laugh out of it.”

Her face is screwing up and if she wasn’t confused before, she’s definitely confused now.

“Listen, I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Vi argues. “I’m so fucking lost right now.”

You hate how believable she is. How the thought of hurting you seems so inconceivable to her. But that grainy video was clear enough.

“I hate you,” you murmur. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Your name comes out broken, like you’ve wounded her. But you’ve officially folded your hand, won’t dare look her in her eyes because the both of you know it’s not true.

The championships roll in fast like a tide and neither your or Violet are ready for it.

You hear they’re live streaming the game, it’s the most anticipated one in the season. Piltover Stallions against the Zaun City Tigers. A part of you wishes you could support them, but then you’re starkly reminded that you’re a laughingstock amongst them.

The library on a Friday night is as quiet as can be, the hum of the fluorescents background to the voices in your head that are loud. You’re so engrossed in the study material that you don’t realize someone’s making a beeline for you until they’re knocking on the tabletop.

Ellie Williams stands before you in all her lean glory, hands sunk in her pockets as she stares down at you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” Your tone is clipped, disinterested because you believed that you and Ellie could be friends once upon a time.

“Coach sat me out because I socked one of those dickhead Zaun City Tigers in the mouth last weekend.”

You humph.

“Listen, we don’t have much time left, so I’m going to make this short and sweet,” she says. “Whatever happened between you and Vi is obviously personal and that typically would have nothing to do with me, but she can’t get her shit together because all she can think of is you.”

“And that’s my problem because...?”

“I know that Vi comes off a certain way, but she’s my best friend, like my best friend in this entire shithole of a world, and she’s—”

“No offense, Ellie,” you cut her off. “But if Vi sent you here to plead her case, I think that’s pathetic and—”

“Okay, well maybe if you shut up for three seconds and let me get to my point—”

You close your textbook and shove it in your backpack before standing to signal the end of the conversation.

“Whatever, I don’t have time for this.”

Ellie watches you walk away, takes in a deep breath because wow, you’re a bitch when you’re mad, but she absolutely gets why Vi is whipped.

“Violet’s in love with you.”

And that statement makes you freeze. Tears cloud your vision as your fists tighten around the strap of your bag.

“If you fuck someone else while you’re in love, I want nothing to do with it,” you bite.

Ellie’s brows shoot up.

“Whoa, what?”

“Violet fucked someone else as soon as things got tough, and if that’s the kind of person she is in love, I’d rather be alone,” you say stiffly.

“Respectfully, there’s no way Vi’s interested in getting pussy from anywhere else with how down bad that bitch is for you, but even if she was, I spend over seventy percent of my day with her and know that all she’s been doing the past two weeks is moping over the fact that you handed her ass to her on a silver platter.”

“There’s a video.”

Ellie’s brows must be mingling with her hairline right about now.

She reaches a palm out.

Show me.

You open the DM from sev.94, watching as Ellie’s expression morphs from morbid curiosity to disbelief, to a quiet rage.

She’s handing your phone back to you and grabbing you by your forearm.

“She’s fucking dead.”

When you enter the rink, the ice is tense.

It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 3—3.

Your eyes comb the playing area, can’t find Vi’s jersey number in the mix, but finally settle on her on the bench, shoulders terse and obviously on edge.

She doesn’t clock you yet, had given up on the idea of patching things up with you after your last conversation.

“Vi’s been missing her bracelet since practice on Saturday,” Ellie’d told you on the way there, then pulled out her phone to show you the photo she’d taken of Vi passed out in nothing but her boxers on the couch the night of the last game, fucked up and sad. “We went out for like an hour after the game, but that was it. Vi was too fucking in her head.”

The girl from the tunnel, the one who’d been taunting the two of you, you piece together, has been the one behind it all, stirring the pot.

Throughout the end of the second period and all through intermission, Vi doesn’t notice you, too busy trying to get off the fucking bench to survey the crowd.

It’s only during final puck drop in the third period that their coach finally gives in, smacks the back of her helmet and tells her to make him proud that she lifts her head up.

And there, front and center of the student section is you.

Her eyes are wide, body frozen in place as she tries to figure if you’re just a figment of her imagination, but then the horn’s blaring and she’s having to zone back in.

At this point in time, she doesn’t give a fuck if they win or lose, she just needs to get to you.

“Your little bitch looks cute tonight,” Sevika comments wolfishly. “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”

Vi easily intercepts her pass, cuts between two players as she shuffles it along with practiced precision. She sends the rubber flying and the goalie narrowly misses block.

“Maybe if you played as good as you ran your mouth, you’d wipe the floor with my pissbaby team you big bitch,” Vi calls, resetting in their corner.

And perhaps you’re her good luck charm, the only thing she needed to see to get back into it, because Vi reignites. The adrenaline pumping through her veins fuels every shot, and soon the timer’s buzzing.

7—5.

The roar is deafening, but you’re all she sees in the ocean of cowbells and pompoms.

She barely inches forward before something arcs through the sky and lands before her feet.

Her bracelet.

You watch from the sidelines, the final confirmation as Vi picks up the loop and launches herself at Sevika.

The crowd cheers.

Fight, fight fight!

You don’t know how many swings Vi gets in, just know that she’s flashing you a bloody smile before she skates off the ice.

Ellie emerges from the locker room and you’re perking up.

Most, if not all, of Vi’s teammates had come and gone and you’d been waiting patiently, anxiously, for her to emerge since the end of the game nearly an hour ago.

“She’s the last one in there,” is all Ellie says before strolling off.

“What if...what if she doesn’t want to see me?” you ask hesitantly.

Ellie chuffs a little laugh, doesn’t bother turning as she calls from halfway down the hall, “Find out for yourself, sweetheart.”

Vi’s pulling a tank top over her head as soon as you enter and your cheeks bloom when you catch a split-second of her tits.

She glances up at you, nose bruising and lip busted.

“Hey,” she spares you, stuffing her uniform and skates into her gym bag.

“Hi,” you squeak.

A pregnant pause as you take her in, hesitant to close the distance between the two of you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” she observes.

And you don’t really have a bullshit response, know that you had every intention of staying as far away as humanly possible, so you settle on humming your agreement.

“Ellie told me,” she starts. “Why you lashed out on me.”

You swallow.

“And part of me gets it, I really do,” she continues, “but I also thought you had more faith in me than that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Fuck, Violet, I’m so sorry.”

“I told you to free up Friday night a few weeks ago,” she says, shuts her locker door and slumps down on the bench behind her. “I was going to tell you everything, officially ask you out, but then all that shit happened and it caught up to me.”

You take a step forward, and then another, and another until you’re standing in front of her.

“You have to know that I would never do something like to anyone, but especially not to you,” she says softly, taking your hands in hers.

“I know.”

She brushes her lips against your knuckles, pulls you in closer so that you’re standing between her legs.

“You’re right,” she continues, voice hoarse. “I don’t have a spotless track record, but I meant it when I said that I don’t give a shit about anyone else but you. I would give you anything I can if you let me.”

Your hands rest on her shoulders, her chin resting against the plush of your belly as you look down at her, speechless.

“That night, in the car, you said that you didn’t see what made you so different.”

“I don’t,” you admit.

Vi stands, caging you between strong arms as she drops her face into the hollow of your neck. You shiver when you feel her lips press to the skin there.

“We could start off with the obvious.”

One of her hands rests on the small of your back, pulls you flush so that the only things that separate you are the flimsy fabrics of your clothes. The other grabs a handful of your ass.

“I meant it when I said that you’re the kind of pretty that makes me wanna do bad things.”

You gulp, thighs squeezing as her lips part and she bites.

“Vi.”

“You got a giant brain,” she laughs breathily, fingers coming around the fiddle with your belt.

She kisses you, mouth hot and breath warm. It’s better the second time around, no doubt obscuring you from truly indulging.

“Pl—ease.”

“You’re kind and you’re selfless, and you’re my sweet, sweet little crybaby.”

“Violet,” you sigh breathlessly. “Listen to me.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Fuck me,” you pant. “Please.”

Violet nearly runs two red lights and whips into your neighborhood on two wheels.

The two of you are stumbling up the stairs and she’s spanking your ass on the last step as you fiddle with your keys and try to find the right one under the dim light of the complex hall.

Violet’s already unbuckling her belt as you turn the key, nearly taking you down as she shoves you inside and up against the front door.

“Maddie home?” she breathes.

“Out of town,” you answer quickly, kicking off your sneakers and pulling your sweater over your head. “Visiting her family upstate.”

“Perfect,” Vi hums. “I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you on your couch.”

“Oh–”

One of her rough hands comes to cup your tit over your bra, her tongue laving over the other while her free hand makes work of the clasp.

You walk her back to the couch, stand between her knees as she flops back into the seat. Her arms spread over the back as she settles in, legs widening to give you ample room to strip.

Her eyes never leave yours as you easily unclasp your bra and shimmy out of your jeans, leaving you in nothing but a tight pair of little lace panties and pink socks that has Vi wet.

“C’mere,” she rasps, pulling you to straddle her lap.

Her lips immediately latch onto one of your pebbled nipples, tongue hot as her hands wander.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me what you want,” she husks, biting down on the swell of your breast.

And having Violet this close, her touch excruciatingly featherlight and tempting, you wind tight.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper, fingers fixing around her throat. “Please.”

“Yeah?” she eggs you on, lips brushing yours as her palms settle on your ass. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nod eagerly, hips rolling in her lap as her breath pitches.

“Vi.”

Her nickname puffing from your lips makes her crack. You’re wound in her arms, face in her neck as she peels your thong taut, away from your waiting cunt, and runs her fingertips from your slit down to your clit.

“F...F—uck,” you sigh.

“Holy shit,” she marvels, licking her lips when she easily glides through your folds. “You’re really fucking wet.”

You grind down against her, clothed clit catching against her belt buckle. The cool metal sends a jolt through your pussy and you’re moaning loud in her ear.

And Violet really wants to take her time with you, wants to milk the first time she ever gets to fuck you for as long as she humanly can, but she’s still fully dressed and you’re practically naked, perfect tits pressed to her chest and fat ass in the palm of her hand.

She shifts you further into her, so that she can peek over the arch of your back as she sinks her middle and ring finger three knuckles deep into your needy heat.

“Ah, fuck, Violet.” Your voice breaks as she starts pumping into you, your arousal coating her fingers and the sound of her easily slipping through your pussy reverberating through the living room. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

She kisses your jaw, litters them until she’s catching your lips and licking crudely into your mouth.

You cry out when her fingers slip out.

She’s leaning the both of you forward, easing you from her lap and onto the couch as she takes a moment to shuck her shirt off and pull her belt through the loops in one tug.

You watch her through it all, the way the trim muscles of her biceps and shoulders flex as she leans over you, takes you by the ankles and yanks you until your ass is half-hanging from the edge of the couch.

She kneels before you, strips you out of your thong.

You don’t miss the way she shoves the soiled fabric in her jeans pocket.

“Jesus,” she breathes, gaze fluttering between your eyes and your pussy. “You’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart.”

Your toes curl at the praise, fingers closing around where Vi’s holding your legs apart.

“You know how bad I’ve been wanting to taste your pussy?” she rasps, gathering the lewdest amount of spit to dribble onto your clit. When you don’t answer, she’s freeing a hand to slap your slit.

“Nnngh, fuck!”

“Think I’ve always wanted to have you,” she admits. “But it was that stupid party fucking party and that stupid fucking skirt. God, I would’ve fucked you in that skirt if you let me.”

“Yeah?” you whine breathlessly. “Tell me.”

She’s stuffing you again without warning, curling her fingers in a way that has your back arching off the couch.

“Would’ve bent you over that sink and made you watch yourself while I ate you out,” she says easily.

And it’s so fucking delicious, the nasty shit Vi’s saying to you while she pounds your aching heat; the way she finally gives in and tastes you, sucking on your clit like she’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sate her hunger.

Your fingers curl through her hair as you teeter dangerously over the edge, nails grazing her scalp and tugging when she hits the spot deep inside of you that has you keening for more.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” you choke. “Holy fuck.”

You feel Vi grin against your pussy, watch her with a slack jaw and half-lidded eyes because the sight of her between your legs in your moonlit living room has your insides twisting hard.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she encourages you. “Cum all over my fingers. Wanna see you gush.”

“Hah, h—” Your thighs tighten around her head, fingers curled so hard in her hair, she moans in a mix of pleasure and pain. “Don’t stop, Vi, please.”

She moans into your cunt, savoring the heady taste of you as you practically ride her face.

The sound that fills the room is downright filthy, the sight that Vi beholds when she peeks from where she’s devouring you equally so. It’s picturesque, the way she has you writhing. A sheen of perspiration glistens over your flesh as she eats you out and it’s a perfect mix of her tongue and her fingers that send you soaring over the edge.

It’s a pitched whine that echos, the staccato of your shaky breathing that sings like music in her ears as you cum. And hard.

Her lashes flutter against the skin of your inner thighs as she peppers kisses there, her lips slick with spit and arousal.

“Fuck, babe,” she whispers. “That was...”

She can’t really choose a specific word, is just mind blown at the fact that she’d just made you cum so hard and so fast. It makes her tense and tingle, a smug wave of pride washing over her as she starts mouthing a trail from your belly, between the valley of your tits, up your throat, to finally press a chaste one on your lips.

You taste yourself first and foremost, but then you taste everything she’s ever wanted to say to you, all the unspoken words and the things she’d been too scared to share. Feel it in the way her hands are roaming, squeezing, caressing.

You breathe a disbelieving laugh, peck her lips again when she pulls away to brush your hair from your face.

“Vi—” Your breath hitches and your eyes glaze.

“I know, I know.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, legs hooking around the narrow of her waist as she bears your weight and picks up your boneless figure.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

The sun is warm against your skin when you wake up the following morning, your bedroom bathed in an orange glow.

You feel bone tired, body sore and muscles tight as your arm sweeps the other side of the bed in search of balmy skin, but instead you’re met with cool sheets and swelling dread.

You sit up quickly, find that you’re still naked, and take a moment to asses your bedroom. The bathroom door’s cracked, light off, and everything else is exactly where you left it.

Everything except Vi.

Oh, you think to yourself.

Almost don’t want to leave your room because your empty apartment will be confirmation enough that Vi really did get the last laugh in the end.

But you force yourself out of bed, shrug on an oversized t-shirt before finding the living room just as still as it had been before the two of you had barreled in the night before and she’d left her mark on you.

The only sign that the entire thing wasn’t just a figment of your imagination was Vi’s belt strewn haphazardly on the coffee table.

You feel hollow, almost numb, and even if a persistent part of your brain was consistently telling you that you should’ve known better, the tears well in your eyes because you’d really hoped Violet was different.

You knuckle the tears away angrily, mind racing far too fast to register the door quietly unlocking and the soft footfalls coming down the hall.

“Babe?”

Your gaze snaps up.

Like a vision, Vi’s standing in the doorway, a handful of plastic bags in tow. She’s wearing her clothes from last night and the puffs under her eyes make her a little worse for wear.

She sets the bags down on the eat-in, rounds the couch to take you by the shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” she worries. “What’s going on?”

You hiccup, crumpling in her arms because you were so fucking scared.

“Thought you left,” you croak.

Vi breathes a sigh of relief, blowing out a hollow laugh because her girl’s such a baby.

“You have jack shit in your fridge,” she teases lightly. “How am I supposed to make you a five star breakfast with greek yogurt and carrot sticks?”

You whine.

“Don’t care about breakfast,” your muffled voice sounds from where your face is pressed in her chest. “Just wanted to wake up to you.”

Violet groans.

“You’re so cute,” she laughs, kissing the top of your head.

“I wanna go back to bed,” you mutter petulantly, emotional whiplash making your eyes droop.

“You’re not gonna let me make you breakfast?” Vi picks, smoothing the hair from your face.

Your eyes catch the bracelet refastened around her wrist and you grin softly, taking her fingers to press a kiss to her palm.

She could combust, gaze gooey as she watches you watch her.

Yeah, Vi has a huge problem.

One that’s particular, and overarching; one she doesn’t think she can go without.

And frankly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

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